Conversations with Goethe/Conversations

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I arrived here some days since, but did not see Goethe till to-day. He received me with great cordiality; and the impression he made on me during our interview was such, that I consider this day as the happiest of my life.

Yesterday, when I called to inquire, he said he should be glad to see me to-day, at twelve o'clock. I went at the appointed time, and found a servant waiting to conduct me to him.

The interior of the house impressed me very pleasantly; it was not showy, but simple and noble in its arrangements; the casts from antique statues, placed upon the stairs, indicated Goethe's partiality for the plastic art, and for Grecian antiquity. I saw several women busily engaged in the lower part of the house, and one of Ottilia's beautiful boys, who came frankly up to me, and looked fixedly in my face.

After I had cast a glance around, I ascended with the talkative servant to the first floor. He opened a room, one whose threshold the motto Salve bid me anticipate a friendly welcome. He led me through this apartment into another, somewhat more spacious, ​where he requested me to wait, while he went to announce my arrival to his master. The air was cool and refreshing; on the floor was spread a carpet; the room was prettily furnished with a crimson sofa and ottomans; on one side stood a piano; and the walls were adorned with many pictures and drawings, of various sorts and sizes.

Through the open door, I saw yet another room, also hung with pictures, through which the servant had gone to announce me.

Goethe soon came in, dressed in a blue coat, and with shoes. His appearance was full of dignity, and made a surprising impression on me. But he soon put me at ease by the kindliest words. We sat down on the sofa. I felt so happy, and yet so overcome, by his look and his presence, that I could say little or nothing.

He began by speaking of my manuscripts. "I have," said he, "been reading them all the morning; they need no recommendation—they recommend themselves." He praised the clearness of the statements, the flow of the thought, the solid basis on which the whole rested, and the thorough manner in which the whole subject had been thought out. "I am in haste to promote the affair," said he; "to-day I shall write to Cotts by post, and send him the parcel by the coach to-morrow." I thanked him with words and looks.

We then talked of my proposed excursion. I told him that my design was to go into the Rhineland, and stay where I could find a suitable place for writing. Meanwhile, I would go to Jena, and await Cotta's answer.

​Goethe asked whether I had friends in Jena. I replied that I hoped for the acquaintance of Herr von Knebel; on which he promised me a letter which should insure me a favorable reception from that gentleman. "And, indeed," said he, "while you are in Jena, we shall be near neighbors, and can see or write to one another as often as we please."

We sat a long while together, in tranquil, affectionate harmony. I was close to him; I forgot to speak for looking at him, and yet could not look enough. His face is so powerful and brown, full of wrinkles, and each wrinkle full of expression, and every where such nobleness and firmness, such repose and greatness! He speaks in a slow, composed manner, such as you would expect from an aged monarch. You perceive by his air that he leans upon himself, and is elevated far above both praise and blame. I was extremely happy near him. I felt the blissful tranquility of one who, after many toils and tedious expectations, finally sees his dearest wishes gratified.

He spoke, too, of my letter, and remarked that I was perfectly right in thinking, that, to manage any one affair with decision and ability, one should be fitted to act in various other departments.

"No one can tell how things may draw and turn," said he; "I have many good friends in Berlin, and thought of you in that connection." Then he smiled pleasantly at some thought which he did not express. He pointed out to me what was best worth seeing in Weimar, and said he would desire secretary Kräuter to be my cicerone. Above all, I must not fail to visit the theatre. He asked where I lodged, saying that he ​should like to see me once more, and would send for me at a suitable time.

We bid an affectionate farewell. I, on my side, was supremely happy; for every word of his spoke kindness, and I felt that he had a favorable opinion of me.

This morning I received a note from Goethe, written by his own hand, desiring me to come to him. I went and staid an hour. He seemed quite a different man from that of yesterday, and had the impetuous and decided manner of a youth.

He entered, bringing two thick books. "It is not well," said he, "that you should pass from us so soon; let us become better acquainted. I wish more ample opportunity to see and talk with you. But, as the field of generalities is so wide, I have thought of something in particular, which may serve as a ground-work for intercourse. These two volumes contain the Frankfort literary notices of the years 1772 and 1773, among which are almost all my little pieces of criticism, written at that time. These are not marked; but, as you are familiar with my style and tone of thought, you will easily discriminate them from the others. I would have you examine with care these youthful productions, and tell me what you think of them. I wish to know whether they deserve a place in a future edition of my works. They stand so far from my present self, that I am not competent to judge them. But you, younger people, can tell whether they are to you of any value, and whether they suit our present literary point of view. I have had copies taken of ​them already, which you can have by and by to compare with the originals. We will also take a careful survey, and ascertain whether here and there something might not be left out, or something added, with advantage, and without injuring the genuine character of the whole."

I replied that I would gladly make the attempt, and that nothing could gratify me more than adequately to fulfil his design.

"You will find yourself perfectly competent," said he, "when you have once entered on the employment; it will be very easy to you."

He then told me that he should probably set off for Marienbad in a few days, and that he should be glad if I could remain at Weimar up to that time, that we might see one another at our ease, and become better acquainted.

"I wish, too," said he, "that you should not merely pass a few days or weeks in Jena, but live there till I return from Marienbad in the autumn. Already I have written to bespeak for you a proper home, and other things necessary to make your stay convenient and pleasant.

"You will find there, in the greatest variety, means and materials for higher attainments, and a very cultivated social circle; besides, the country presents such various aspects, that you may have fifty walks, each different from the others, each pleasant, and almost all suited for undisturbed indulgence in meditation. You will find there plenty of leisure and opportunity, not only to accomplish my designs, but to write many new things for yourself."

​I could make no objections to such proposals, and consented joyfully to them all. He took a very affectionate farewell of me, and fixed an hour when we might meet again, to-morrow.

I have now had repeated interviews with Goethe. To-day we talked principally of business. I declared my opinion also of his Frankfort criticisms, naming them echoes of his academic years, which expression seemed to please him, as marking, with some precision, the point of view from which these youthful productions should be regarded.

He gave me the first sheets of Kunst und Alterthum, that I might take them with me to Jena, and begin upon them as soon as I should have finished my present task.

"It is my wish," said he, "that you should study carefully these papers, and not only make a summary of their contents, but also take written notes on those subjects which do not seem to you to be satisfactorily discussed, that I may by this means see more clearly what thread I had best take up again and spin upon yet a while longer. I shall thus be greatly assisted, and you also; since, in this practical way, you will far more sharply consider, and fully receive, the import of each particular treatise, than by any common perusal, regulated solely by inclination."

I was well pleased by these remarks, and willingly undertook this labor also.

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I was to have gone to Jena to-day; but Goethe yesterday requested earnestly that I would stay till Sunday, and then go with the post. He gave me yesterday the promised letters of recommendation, and also one for the family of Frommann. "You will enjoy their circle," said he; "I have passed many delightful evenings there. Jean Paul, Tieck, the Schlegels, and all the other distinguished men of Germany, have visited them, and always with delight; and now you will meet there many learned men, artists, and other persons of note. In a few weeks, write to me at Marienbad, that I may know how you are going on, and how you are pleased with Jena. I have requested my son to visit you there during my absence."

I felt very grateful for so much care from Goethe, and very happy that he regarded me, and wished others should regard me, as appertaining to himself.

Saturday, 21st June, then, I bid farewell to Goethe, and set off for Jena, where I established myself in a rural dwelling, with very good, respectable people. In the family of von Knebel and Frommann, I found, on Goethe's recommendation, a very cordial reception, and instructive society. I proceeded very successfully with my work, and had, besides, the joy to receive a letter from Cotta, in which he not only declared himself ready to publish my manuscript which had been sent him, but assured me of a handsome pecuniary compensation. So was I now honorably provided with the means of subsistence for at least a year, and I felt the liveliest desire to produce something new, on ​which to found my future prosperity as an author. I hoped that I had already, in my Beyträge zur Poesie, taken my critical and theoretical ground. I had there endeavored to bring out my opinions upon the principles of art, and my whole inner nature now urged me to test them in practice. I had plans for innumerable poems, both long and short, also for dramas of various sorts; and I thought I had now only to choose among them with judgment, and peacefully to finish one after the other.

I was not long content in Jena; my life there was too quiet and uniform. I longed for a great city, not only because I should there enjoy the advantages of a good theatre, but because I might there observe social life on a great scale, and thence draw the elements of a more complete culture. In such a town, too, I could live quite undisturbed, and be free to isolate myself when ready to produce any thing.

Meanwhile, I had drawn up the table which Goethe wished for the first four volumes of Kunst und Alterthum, and sent it to Marienbad with a letter, in which I told my plans and wishes. I received in answer the following lines:—

"The table arrived at the time when I most wanted it, and corresponds precisely with my wishes and intentions. Let me find the Frankfort papers equally well arranged, and receive beforehand my best thanks. Meanwhile, be assured, I shall faithfully remember and consider your situation, thoughts, wishes, aims, and plans, that, on my return, I may be ready to give my best advice as to your future conduct. To-day I will ​say no more. My departure from Marienbad gives much to think of, and to do, while my stay, all too brief, with such interesting beings, must occasion painful feelings.

"May I find you in that state of tranquil activity, from which, after all, the most comprehensive views of the world, and the most valuable experiences, are evolved. Farewell. You must give me the pleasure of a prolonged and more intimate acquaintance.

"Marienbad, 19th August, 1823."

By these lines of Goethe's, on the reception of which I felt very happy, I felt tranquillized as to the future. I determined to take no step for myself, but be wholly resigned to his will and counsel. Meanwhile, I wrote some little poems, finished arranging the Frankfort papers, and expressed my opinion of them in a short treatise, intended for the eye of Goethe. I looked forward with eagerness to his return from Marienbad; for my book was almost through the press, and I felt a strong desire to refresh myself this autumn, by passing a few weeks on the banks of the Rhine.

Goethe is, at last, returned from Marienbad, but, as his country-house in this place is not convenient for him just now, he only staid here a few days. He is well and active, so that he can take very long walks, and it is truly delightful to see him now.

After an interchange of joyful greetings, Goethe began to speak thus:—

​"I may as well say it at once;—it is my wish that you should pass this winter with me in Weimar. In poetry and criticism, I find you quite to my mind. You have, from nature, an excellent foundation. You should make of them your profession, and I doubt not you will soon derive from it a suitable income. But yet there is much, not strictly appertaining to this department, which you ought to learn, and that with all convenient speed. This you may do with us this winter in Weimar, to such advantage, that you will wonder, next Easter, to see what progress you have made. It is in my power to give you the very best means, in every way. Thus shall you lay a firm foundation for your future life, and have the pleasure of feeling yourself, in some measure, prepared for any situation."

I was much pleased by this proposal, and replied, that I would regulate myself by his wishes in all things. "Then," said Goethe, "I will provide you with a home in my neighborhood, and venture to predict that you shall pass no unprofitable moment during the winter. Many good things are collected in Weimar, and you will gradually find out, in the higher circles, society not surpassed in any of the great cities. And many men of great worth are connected with me, whom you also will know, and whose conversation you will find in the highest degree useful and instructive."

Goethe then mentioned many distinguished men, indicating in a few words the peculiar merit of each.

"You would look in vain elsewhere," said he, "for ​so much good in so narrow space. We also possess an excellent library, and a theatre which yields to none in Germany, in what is most important. Therefore,—let me repeat it,—stay with us, and not only this winter, but make Weimar your home. From thence proceed avenues to all quarters of the globe. In summer you can travel, and see, by degrees, whatever is worth seeing. I have lived here fifty years; and where else have I not been? But I was always glad to return to Weimar."

I was very happy in being again with Goethe, and hearing him talk, and I felt that my whole soul turned towards him. If I can only have thee, thought I, all else will go well. So I repeated to him the assurance that I was ready to do whatever he, after duly weighing the circumstances of my situation, should think best.

Yesterday, before Goethe's return to Weimar, I had the happiness of another interview with him. What he said at that time seemed to me of infinite value, and will have a beneficent influence on all my after life. All the young poets of Germany should hear those words.

He began by asking me whether I had written no poem this summer. I replied that I had indeed written a few, but had done nothing which satisfied me. "Beware," said he, "of attempting too large a work. That is what injures most our best minds, and prevents fine talents and earnest efforts from accomplishing adequate results. I have suffered from this cause, and ​know how pernicious it is. What valuables I have let fall into the well! If I had written all that I well might, a hundred volumes would not contain it.

"The Present will have its rights; and the thoughts and feelings which daily press upon the poet should find a voice. But, if you have a great work in your head, nothing else prospers near it, all other thoughts must be repelled, and the pleasantness of life is quite lost, till it is accomplished. What concentration of thought is required to plan and round it off as a whole within the mind, what powers, and what a tranquil, undisturbed situation, to make it flow out as it should! If you have erred in your plan, all your toil is lost; and if, in treating so extensive a subject, you are not perfectly master of your materials, the defects in details lay you open to censure; and, after all his toil and sacrifice, the poet meets, instead of praise and pleasure, nothing but dissatisfaction and blame, which palsy his energies. But if he seizes and treats, in freshness of feeling, what the present moment offers him, he makes sure of something good, and if he does not succeed, has at least lost nothing. There is August Hagen, in Königsberg; have you ever read his Olfried and Lisena? There you may find passages which cannot be improved; the situation on the Baltic, and all the particulars of the locality, are painted with the hand of a master. But, as a whole, it pleases nobody. And what labor and strength he has lavished upon it, indeed, has almost exhausted himself. And, since, he has been writing a tragedy." Here Goethe paused, and smiled. I said I believed he had advised ​Hagen (in Kunst und Alterthum) to treat only small subjects. "I did so," he replied; "but nobody conforms to the instructions of us old people. Each thinks he knows best about himself, and thus many lose their way entirely, and many wander long in wrong directions; and, besides, you should not wander now: we of a former day have done it long to find the true path for you; and what was the use of all our seeking and blundering, if you young people will not avail yourselves of the experience we have gained? Our errors were pardoned because no track had been opened for us; but from men of a later day the world asks more: they must not be seeking and blundering, but use the instructions of their predecessors to enter at once on the right path. It is not enough to take steps which may sometimes lead to an aim; each step must be in the right direction, and, at the same time, with each some separate object must be attained.

"Bear these words away with you, and see if you cannot from them draw somewhat for yourself. Not that I feel troubled about you, but I may be able to abridge an unprofitable stage in your progress. Fix your attention on subjects which every day offers you, and on which you can work at once with earnestness and cheerfulness; you will, in all probability, please yourself, and each day will bring its own peculiar joy. You can give what you do to the pocket-books, to the periodicals, but never submit yourself to the judgment of other minds; your own is the only true guide.

"The world is so great and rich, and life so full of variety, that you can never want occasions for poems. But they must all be occasional poems; that ​is to say, reality must give both impulse and material for their production. A particular case becomes universal and poetic when managed by a poet. All my poems are occasional poems, having in real life, by which they were suggested, a firm foundation. I attach no value to poems woven from the air.

"Let no one say that reality wants poetical interest; for in this doth the poet prove his vocation, that he has the art to win from a common subject an interesting side. Reality must give the impulse, the subject, the kernel, as I may say; but to work out a beautiful, animated whole, belongs to the poet. You know Fürnstein, sometimes called the Poet of Nature; he has written the prettiest poem imaginable, on the cultivation of hops. I have now desired him to make songs for the different crafts of working-men, particularly a weaver's song, and I am sure he will do it well, for he has been brought up among such people, and understands the subject so thoroughly, that he will treat it in a masterly manner. You cannot manage a great poem so; no part can be slighted or evaded; all which belongs to it as a whole must be interwoven and represented with precision. Youth has only one-sided views of things. A great work asks many-sidedness, and on that rock the young author splits."

I said that I had contemplated writing a great poem upon the seasons, in which I might interweave the employments and amusements of all classes. "'Tis the very case," replied Goethe; "you may succeed in parts, and fail in others, with which you have had no proper means of becoming acquainted. You, perhaps, would do the fisherman well, and the huntsman ill; and ​if you fail any where, the whole is a failure; and, however good single parts may be, that will not atone for the want of completeness. But paint those parts to which you are competent, give each an independent being, and you make sure of something good.

"More especially, I warn you against great inventions; for there a comprehensive view is demanded, for which youth is seldom ripe. Further, character and views are loosened as sides from the poet's mind, and he has not the fulness desirable for future productions. And, finally, much time is lost in invention, internal arrangement, and combination, for which nobody thanks you, even supposing your design be happily accomplished.

"When materials are ready to the hand, all goes easier and better. Facts and characters being provided, the poet has only the task of animating them into a whole. He preserves his proper fulness, for he needs to part with but little of himself, and there is much less loss of time and strength. Indeed, I would advise the choice of subjects which have been used before. How many Iphigenias have been written! yet they are all different, for each writer manages the subject after his own fashion.

"But, for the present, you had better lay aside all great undertakings. You have striven long enough; it is time that you should enter into the cheerful period of life. Working out small subjects will help you most at present."

During the conversation, we had been walking up and down the room. I could do nothing but assent to what he said, for I felt the truth of each word through ​my whole being. At each step I felt lighter and happier, for I must confess that various grand schemes, of which I had not as yet been able to take a clear view, had been oppressing me. I have now thrown them aside, and shall let them rest till I feel adequate to working out each part in cheerfulness, as by study of the world I become more intimately acquainted with the interests it presents.

I feel, since these words of Goethe's, as if I had gone forward several years in true wisdom, and in the very depths of my soul acknowledge my good fortune in having met with a true master. Its advantages are incalculable.

How much shall I learn from him this winter! how much shall I gain merely from living with him, even in times when he does not speak upon subjects of such importance! His personality, his mere presence, it seems to me, must tend to unfold my powers, even when he speaks not a word.

I came here yesterday from Jena, favored by most agreeable weather. Goethe welcomed me to Weimar, by sending me a season-ticket for the theatre. I passed yesterday in making my domestic arrangements; and the rather, as they were very busy at Goethe's; for the French Ambassador from Frankfort, Count Reinhard, and the Prussian State Counsellor, Schultz, from Berlin, had come to visit him.

This forenoon I went again to Goethe. He was rejoiced to see me, and was every way kind and amiable. As I was about to take my leave, he said ​he wished first to make me acquainted with the State Counsellor, Shultz. He took me into the next room, where I found that gentleman busy in looking at the pictures, introduced me, and then left us together.

"I am very glad," said Shultz, "that you are to stay in Weimar, and assist Goethe in preparing his unpublished works for the press. He has been telling me how much profit he promises himself from your assistance, and that he now hopes to complete many new enterprises."

I replied that I had no other aim in life except to aid the progress of German literature; and that, in the hope of being useful here, I had willingly laid aside, for the present, my own literary designs. I added, that I hoped the constant intercourse, thus induced with Goethe, would have a most favorable effect on my own culture. I hoped, by this means, to ripen much in a few years, and thus, in the end, to adequately perform tasks for which I was at present but imperfectly prepared.

"Certainly," replied Shultz, "the personal influence of so extraordinary a man and master as Goethe, must be invaluable. I have come hither solely to refresh myself once more from his great mind."

He then inquired about the publication about my book; for Goethe had written to him last summer on that subject. I said that I hoped, in a few days, to receive the first copies from Jena, and would not fail to send him one.

We separated with a cordial shake of the hand.

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This evening, I went for the first time to a large tea-party at Goethe's house. I arrived first, and enjoyed the view of the brilliantly lighted suite of apartments, all thrown open to-night. In one of the farthest, I found Goethe, who came to meet me, with a cheerful air. He was dressed in black, and wore his star, which became him well. No guest having yet arrived, we walked together up and down the room, where the picture of the Aldobrandine Marriage, which was hung above the red couch, especially attracted my attention. The green curtains were now drawn aside from the picture; it was in a broad light, and I was delighted to have such a good opportunity for tranquil contemplation of its beauty.

"Yes," said Goethe, "the ancients did not content themselves with great intentions merely; they knew also how to carry them into effect. We moderns have also great intentions, but want the skill and power to bring them out, full and lifelike as we thought them."

Now came Riemer, Meyer, Chancellor von Müller, and many other distinguished gentlemen and ladies of the court, Goethe's son, and Frau von Goethe, with whom I was now, for the first time, made acquainted. The rooms filled gradually, and the scene became very animated. With some pretty youthful foreigners Goethe spoke French.

The society pleased me, all were so free and perfectly at their ease; each sat or stood, laughed, jested, and talked at pleasure. I had a lively conversation with the young Goethe about Houwald's piece, which was given a few days since. We agreed entirely about it, ​and I was greatly pleased by the animation and refinement of his criticisms.

Goethe made himself very agreeable. He went about from one to another, and seemed to prefer listening to talking. Frau von Goethe would often come and lean upon him, or caress him. I had lately said to him that I enjoyed the theatre highly, but that I rather gave myself up to the impression of the piece than reflected upon it. This seemed to him the method best suited to my present state of my mind.

He came to me with Frau von Goethe. "I believe," said he, "you are not yet acquainted with my daughter in law. He is as much a child about the theatre as you, Ottilia!"

We exchanged congratulations upon this taste which we had in common. "My daughter," continued he, "is never absent from the theatre an evening." "That would be my way," said I, "if there were always good pieces; but it is so tiresome to sit out the bad!" "But," said Goethe, "it has a fine effect on you to be constrained to stay and hear what is bad. By this means, you are penetrated with the hatred for the bad, which gives you the clearest insight for the good. In reading, you have not this gain,—you throw aside the book, if it displeases you; but, at the theatre, you are forced to your own profit." I could not refuse my assent, and thought how always the sage finds occasion to say something good.

We now separated. Goethe went to the ladies, and I joined Riemer and Meyer, who had many things to relate of Italy. The assembly became very gay. At length Counsellor Schmidt seated himself at the piano, ​and gave us some of Beethoven's music. These pieces, which were received with deep sympathy, led an intelligent lady to relate many interesting particulars of her acquaintance with the great composer. Ten o'clock came at last, and this, to me, extremely interesting evening ended.

To-day, I dined for the first time with Goethe. No one was present except Frau von Goethe, her sister, Fraulein Ulrica, and little Walter. Goethe appeared now solely as father of the family, offered all dishes, carved the poultry with great dexterity, not forgetting between whiles to fill the glasses. We had much lively chat about the theatre, young English people, and other topics of the day; especially was Fraulein Ulrica very lively and entertaining. Goethe was generally silent, only offering now and then some pertinent remark. He also read the newspapers, communicating to us now and then what he thought most important, especially about the Greek cause.

There was talk about my learning English, and Goethe earnestly advised me to do so, particularly on account of Lord Byron; saying, that such a being had never before appeared, and hardly would be reproduced. After dinner, Goethe showed me some experiments relating to his theory of colors. The whole subject was new to me; I neither understood the experiments, nor what he said about them. I could only hope that I should have leisure and opportunity to inquire further into the matter.

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I went to see Goethe this evening. We talked of his "Pandora." I asked him whether this poem might now be regarded as a whole, or whether we were to look for something farther. He said there was no more in existence, and, indeed, that the first part was on so large a scale, that, at a later period, he could do nothing to match it. And, as what was done might be regarded as a whole, he did not trouble himself.

I said that I could not understand this difficult poem till I had read it so many times as almost to know it by heart. Goethe smiled, and said, "I can well believe that; for all its parts are, as one may say, wedged one within another." I added, that I could not be perfectly satisfied with Schubarth's remarks upon this poem, who found there united all which had been said separately in "Werther," "Wilhelm Meister," and the "Elective Affinities," thus making the interpretation difficult, and almost impossible. "Schubarth," said Goethe, "sometimes goes a little too deep, but is a man of great abilities, and his words are always fraught with deep meaning."

We spoke of Uhland, and Goethe said, "When I see great effects, I am apt to suppose great causes; and I think there must be a reason for popularity so extensive as that of Uhland. I took up his book with the best intentions, but fell immediately on so many weak and gloomy poems that I could not proceed. I then tried his ballads, where I really did find distinguished talent, and could see a basis for his celebrity."

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​He was then led to speak of the ancient German architecture.

"We see in this architecture," he said, "the flower of an extraordinary crisis. Who merely looks on such a flower will feel nothing but astonishment; while he who sees into the secret, inner life of the plant, into the stirring of its powers to unfold the flower, looks with other eyes, for he knows what he sees.

"I will take care that you have means this winter of inquiring into a subject so important, that when you visit the Rhine next summer, you may not see the Minster of Strasburg and the Cathedral of Cologne in vain."

At twilight, I passed half an hour with Goethe. He sat in an elbow-chair before his desk. I found him in a singularly gentle mood, as one who has attained celestial peace, or who is recalling delicious hours, whose sweetness fills his soul as when they first were his. Stadelman gave me a seat near him. We talked of the theatre, which was, indeed, one of the topics uppermost in my mind all this winter. Our subject was a piece of Raupach's, (Erdennacht,) which I had lately seen. I observed that the piece was not brought before us as it existed in the mind of the poet; that the Idea was too much for the Life; that it was rather lyric than dramatic; and that what was spun out through five acts might as well have been said in two or three.

I then spoke of those pieces of Kotzebue's which I had seen. I praised the quick eye for common life, the dexterity at seizing its interesting side, and repre​senting it with force, which I found in these pieces. Goethe agreed with me. "What has kept its place for twenty years in the hearts of the people," said he, "is pretty sure to have substantial merit. When Kotzebue contented himself with his own sphere, he usually did well. 'Twas the same with him as with Chodowiecky, who always struck off admirably the scenes of common citizens' life, and as regularly failed when he attempted to paint Greek or Roman heroes."

He named several good pieces of Kotzebue's praising most highly the two Klingsbergs. "And," said he, "none can deny that Kotzebue has been in many varied scenes of life, and ever kept both eyes open.

"Intellect, and even poetry, cannot be denied to our modern composers of tragedy; but they do not give their subject the hues of life; they strive after something beyond their powers; and for that reason I have been led to think of them as having forced talents;—their growth is not natural." "I doubt," said I, "whether such poets could write a prose work, and am of opinion that this would be the true test of their talents." Goethe agreed with me, adding that versification not only enhanced, but often called out poetic feeling.

We then talked of his "Journey through Frankfort and Stuttgard to Switzerland," which he has lying by him in sheets, and which he will send me, in order that I may examine it, and plan how these fragments shall be rounded into a whole. "You will see," said he, "that it was all written out from the impulse of the ​moment; there was no thought of plan or artistical harmony; it was like pouring water from a bucket."

To-day, early, I was invited to a tea-party and concert, which were to be given at Goethe's house this evening. The servant showed me the list of guests whom he was to invite, from which I saw that the company would be large and brilliant. He said a young Polish lady, who has lately arrived here, would play on the piano. I accepted the invitation gladly.

Afterwards, the bill for the theatre was brought, and I saw that the "Chess-machine" was the piece for the evening. I knew nothing of this piece; but my land-lady was so lavish in praise of it, that I was seized with a great desire to attend. Besides, I was not at my best to-day, and felt more fit to pass my evening at an entertaining comedy than to play a part in good society.

An hour before the theatre opened I went to Goethe. All was in movement throughout the house. I heard them tuning the piano, as preparation for the musical entertainment.

I found Goethe alone in his chamber; he was already dressed. I seemed to him to have arrived at the right moment. "You shall stay with me," he said, "and we will entertain one another till our friends join us." I thought, "Now shall I not be able to get away, and I am sorry; for, though it is very pleasant to be here with Goethe alone, yet, when the many to me unknown gentlemen and ladies come, I shall feel quite out of my element."

​I walked up and down with Goethe. Soon we were led to talk about the theatre, and I again remarked how great a pleasure it gave me; for, having seen scarce any thing in early years, almost every piece made a fresh impression upon me. "Indeed," added I, "I feel so much about it, that I have scarcely to-day been able to resolve to give it up, even for your party."

"Well," said Goethe, stopping short, and looking at me with an expression of mingled kindness and dignity, "do not constrain yourself; if the play this evening suits you best, harmonizes most perfectly with your mood, go there. You would have good music here, and will often again have opportunity to hear it at my house." "Then," said I, "I will go; for I think it may do me good to laugh." "Stay with me, however," said Goethe, "till six o'clock; we shall have time to say a word or two."

Stadelman set two wax-lights on the table, and Goethe desired me to sit down, and he would give me something to read. And what should this be but his newest, dearest poem, his Elegy, from Marienbad!

I must here mention, that, after Goethe's return from Marienbad, the report had been spread, that he had there made the acquaintance of a young lady equally charming in mind and person, and had shown for her an even passionate admiration. When her voice was heard in the Brunnen Allee, he always seized his hat, and hastened to join her. He was constantly in her society, and there passed happy days; he had not bid her farewell without great pain, and had, in this excited state, written a beautiful poem, ​which he looked upon as a consecrated thing, and kept hid from every eye.

I could easily believe all this, seeing, as I did, his youthful activity of body and mind, and the healthy freshness of his heart. I had had the most longing desire to see the poem which was now in my hands, but had never dared to speak to Goethe on the subject.

He had, with his own hand, copied these verses, in Roman characters, on fine vellum paper, and tied them with riband into a red morocco case; so that, from its garb, you might gather how decided was his preference for this poem.

I read it with great delight, and found that every line confirmed the common report. The first verse intimated that the acquaintance was not first made, but only renewed, at this time. The poem revolved constantly on its own axis, and seemed always to return to the point where it began. The close made a deep and singular impression.

As I finished, Goethe came to me again. "Well," said he, "have I not shown you something good? But you shall tell me what you think a few days hence." I was glad to be excused from saying any thing at that moment; for the impression was so new, and had been so hastily received, that I could not have made any appropriate criticism.

He promised to let me see it again in some tranquil hour. The time for the theatre had now arrived, and we separated with an affectionate pressure of the hand.

The "Chess-machine" was, perhaps, a good piece, but I saw it not,—my thoughts were with Goethe.

​As I went home, I passed by his house; it was all lighted up; I heard the music from within, and regretted that I did not stay there.

The next day, I was told that the Polish lady, Madame Szymanowska, in whose honor the party was given, had played on the piano in such a style of excellence as to enchant the whole society. I learned, also, that Goethe became acquainted with her the past summer at Marienbad, and that she had now come hither for the purpose of visiting him.

At noon, Goethe sent me a little manuscript, "Studies from Zauper," in which I found many fine remarks. I sent him the poems I had written at Jena, and of which I had lately spoken to him.

This evening, I went to Goethe just as they were lighting the lamps. I found him in a very animated state of mind: his eyes sparkled in the torch-light; his whole expression was one of cheerfulness, youth, and power.

We walked up and down. He began immediately to speak of the poems which I sent him yesterday.

"I understand now," said he, "why you thought, while at Jena, of writing a poem on the seasons. I now advise you to do so, and begin with Winter. You seem to have distinguished powers of observation for natural objects.

"Only two words would I say about your poems. You stand now at that point where you ought to break through to the really high and difficult part of art, that of seizing on what is individual in objects. You have ​talent, and have got a good way forward: your own will must do the rest. You were to-day at Tiefurt; that would afford a good subject for the attempt. You may perhaps observe Tiefurt for three or four visits, before you will win from it the characteristic side, and understand how to manage it; but spare not your toil; study it throughout, and then represent it. It is a worthy subject, and one which I should have used long since, but I could not; for I have lived through each event with it, and my being is so interwoven with its history, that details press upon me with over-great fulness. But you come as a stranger; let the keeper tell you all the history of that castle, and you will seize only what is prominent and significant at the present moment."

I promised to try, but confessed that this subject seemed to me out of my way, and very difficult.

"I know well," said he, "that it is difficult; but the apprehension and representation of the individual is the very life of art. Besides, while you content yourself in generalities, every one can imitate you; but, in the particular, no man can, because no man has lived exactly your life.

"And you need not fear lest what is peculiar should not meet with sympathy. Each character, however peculiar it may be, and each object which you can represent, from the stone up to man, has generality; for there is repetition every where, and there is no thing to be found only once in the world. On this step of representing what is peculiar or individual beings what we call composition."

This was not at once clear to me, though I refrained ​from questions. "Perhaps," thought I, "he means the fusing of the Ideal with the Real,—the union of that which we must find without, with that which is inborn. But perhaps he means something else." Goethe continued:—

"And be sure you put to each poem the date at which you wrote it." I looked at him inquiringly. "Thus," said he, "you will gain the best of journals. I have done it for many years, and can see its use."

It was now time for the theatre. "So you are going to Finland?" called he, jestingly, after me;—for the piece was Johann von Finland, ("John of Finland,") by Frau von Weissenthurn.

The piece had some effective passages, but was so overloaded with pathos, and design so obvious in every part, that, on the whole, it did not impress me favorably. The last act, however, pleased and reconciled me to the rest.

This piece suggested to me the following thoughts: Characters which have been imperfectly painted by the poet, gain on the stage, because the actor, as a living man, must impart to them some sort of life and of individuality. But the finely painted characters of the great poet, which already exhibit to us a sharply marked individuality, must lose on the stage, because the actor is not throughout adapted to his part, and very few of the tribe can lay aside their own individualities. And if the actor be not the counterpart of the character, and do not possess the power of laying aside his own personality, a mixture ensues, and the character loses its harmony. Therefore, the play of a really great writer appears in its original brightness ​only in points; and, by seeing it merely, you can never be in a situation to do it justice.

I went to Goethe at five o'clock. I heard them, as I came up stairs, laughing and talking in the dining-room. The servant said that the Polish lady dined there to-day, and they had not yet left the table. I was going away, but he said his master had left orders that they should tell him when I came, and would, perhaps, be glad of an interruption, as it was now late. So I went into Goethe's apartment, and he soon came to me in a very pleasant humor. He had wine brought, and filled for me and himself.

"Before I forget it," said he, "let me give you this ticket. Me. Szymanowska gives, to-morrow evening, a public concert at the Stadthaus, and you must not fail to be there." I replied that I certainly should not repeat my late folly. "Does she play remarkably well?" asked I. "Admirably." "As well as Hummel?" "You must remember," said Goethe, "that she is not only a fine performer, but a beautiful woman; and this lends a charm to all she does. But her execution is masterly,—astonishing indeed." "And is there genuine power, as well as dexterity?" said I. "Yes," said he, "genuine power; and that is what is most worthy of note, because you so rarely find it in what women do."

Secretary Kräuter came in to consult about the library. Goethe, when he left us, praised his fidelity and judgment.

We then talked of the papers relating to his journey ​into Switzerland in 1797. I spoke of his and Meyer's reflections upon subjects of plastic art. "Ay," said Goethe, "and what can be more important than the subject, and what is all the science of art, if that is wanting? It is because artists in modern times have no worthy subjects, that modern art so stumbles and blunders. From this cause we all suffer. I myself must pay the penalty of my modern date.

"Very few artists have clear notions on this point, or know the things which are for their peace. For instance, they take my 'Fisherman' as the subject of a picture, and never discover that what constitutes its merit cannot be painted. The ballad expresses the charm which the water in summer has for us when it tempts us to bathe; that is all,—and how can that be painted?"

I mentioned how pleased I was to see how various were the interests called into action by his journey; how he saw every thing; shape and situation of the mountains, their geology and mineralogy; earth, rivers, clouds, air, wind, and storm; then the cities, the history of their origin and growth, architecture, painting, theatre; police of cities, trades, economy, laying out of the streets, human race, manner of living, individual peculiarities; then again, politics, warlike adventures, and a hundred other things.

He answered, "But you find no word upon music, because that is not within my circle. Each traveller should know what he is fit to see, and what properly belongs to him, on his journey."

The Herr Canzler came in for a few moments, and then went to the ladies. When he had left us, Goethe ​praised him, and said, "All these excellent men, with whom you are now placed in so pleasant a relation, make what I call a home,—a home to which one is always willing to return."

I said that "I already perceived the beneficial effects of my present situation; for I found myself able to set aside my ideal and theoretic tendencies, and make use of the present moment more and more."

"It would be pity," said Goethe, "if it were not so. Only persist in your present view, and hold fast by the present. Each situation—nay, each moment—is of infinite worth; for each represents a whole eternity."

After a short pause, I turned the conversation to the best mode of treating the subject he had proposed to me, that of Tiefurt. "This subject," said I, "is complex; and it will be difficult to give it proper form. It seems to me it would be best treated in prose."

"It is not in itself," replied Goethe, "an object of sufficient significance for that. The didactic, descriptive form, would be the one I should choose; but even that is not perfectly appropriate. Perhaps you would do well to write ten or twelve little poems, in rhyme, but in various measures and forms, such as the various sides and views demand, on which light must be thrown to do justice to the subject." This idea struck me favorably. "Why, indeed," continued he, "should you not at once use dramatic means, and perhaps write a conversation with the gardener? In this way you could easily bring out the various sides. A comprehensive, great whole, is so difficult, that he who attempts it, seldom brings any thing to bear."

​

Goethe has been quite unwell for a few days past; he has a very bad cold. His cough seems to be very painful; for he has constantly his hand at his side.

I passed half an hour with him this evening, after the theatre. He sat in an arm-chair, propped up by cushions, and seemed to speak with difficulty.

He gave me a poem intended for insertion in Kunst und Alterthum. I took the light, and sat down to read it, at a little distance from him.

This poem was singular in its character, and, though I did not fully understand it, very much affected me on the first reading. The Paria was its subject, to illustrate which, he had adopted the form of Trilogy. Its tone was that of another world, and the mode of representation such, that I found it very difficult to enter into it. Then I heard Goethe often cough or sigh, and could not forget that he was near me. I read the poem again and again, without being able to get completely engaged in it; but I found that it grew upon me with each new reading, and appeared to me more and more to indicate the highest grade of Art.

At last I spoke to Goethe, and he gave me much new light, both as to subject and treatment.

"Indeed," said he, "the treatment is peculiar, and one who was not in good earnest, could not hope to penetrate the true meaning. It seems to me like a Damascene blade hammered out of steel wire. I have borne this subject about with me for forty years; so that it has had time to get clear of every thing extraneous."

"No doubt," said I, "it will produce an effect on the public."

​"Ah, the public!" sighed Goethe.

"Would it not be well," said I, "to add such an explanation as we do to pictures, when we make the meaning obvious by describing the circumstances which led to the catastrophe?"

"I think not," said he; "that is well for pictures, but, as a poem is already expressed in words, words of interpretation only annihilate its significancy."

I thought Goethe was here very happy in pointing out the rock on which those who try to interpret poems are often wrecked. Still it may be questioned whether it be not possible to avoid this rock, and affix some explanatory words without injuring the delicacy of its inner life.

When I went away, he asked me to take the poem with me, and read it again, and also the "Roses from the East" (Östlichen Rosen) of Rückert, a poet whom he highly valued, and from whom he seemed to expect much.

**********

Some days ago, as I was walking one fine afternoon towards Erfurt, I was joined by an elderly man, whom I supposed, from his appearance, to be some respectable citizen. We had not been together long, before the conversation turned upon Goethe. On my asking whether he knew Goethe,—"Do I know him?" said he, with vivacity; "I was his valet almost twenty years!" I begged to hear something of Goethe's youth, and he gladly consented to gratify me.

"When I first lived with him," said he, "he was very active in his habits, thin and elegant in his person. ​I could easily have carried him in my arms." I asked whether Goethe, in that early part of his life here, was disposed to gayety. "Certainly," replied he; "always gay with the gay, but never when they passed a certain limit; in that case he became grave. Always working and seeking; his mind always bent on art and science; that was the way with my master. The Duke often visited him at evening, and staid so late, conversing on literary topics, that I would get extremely tired, and long to have the Duke go away. Even then he had begun to be interested in Natural Philosophy and History. One time, he rang for me in the middle of the night. When I came up, I found he had rolled his iron trundle-bed to the window, and was lying there, looking out upon the heavens. 'Have you seen nothing remarkable in the heavens?' asked he; and, when I answered in the negative, bid me run and ask the same question of the watchman. He said he had not seen any thing remarkable. When I returned with this answer to my master, I found him in the same position in which I had left him, lying in his bed, and gazing upon the sky. 'Listen,' said he to me; 'this is an important moment; there is now an earthquake, or one is just going to take place;' then he made me sit down on the bed, and showed me by what signs he knew this."

I asked the good old man "what sort of weather it was."

"A cloudy night," he replied; "no air stirring; very still and sultry." I asked if he believed there was an earthquake merely on Goethe's word.

"Yes," said he, "I believed it, for I always found ​things happened as he said they would. Next day, while he was relating his observations at Court, a lady whispered to her neighbor, 'What visions are these of Goethe's?' But the Duke, and all the men present, believed Goethe, and the correctness of his observations was confirmed, in a few weeks, by the news that a part of Messina was on that night ruined by an earthquake."

[Goethe sent for Eckermann this evening. He went, and found him very unwell. After some conversation of no interest to the general reader, they spoke of Schiller.]

"I have," said I, "a peculiar feeling towards Schiller. Some scenes of his great dramas I read with genuine love and admiration; but presently I meet with something which violates the truth of nature, and then I can go no further. I feel this even in reading 'Wallenstein.' I cannot but think that Schiller's turn for philosophy has injured his poetry, because this led him to prefer Ideas to Nature, indeed, almost to annihilate nature. What he could conceive must happen, whether it were in conformity with the law of nature or no."

"It was sorrowful," said Goethe, "to see how so highly gifted a man tormented himself with systems of philosophy which would no way profit him. Humboldt has shown me the letter which Schiller wrote to him in those unblest days of speculation. There we see how he plagued himself with the design of separating perfectly naïve from sentimental poetry. For such poetry ​he could find no proper groundwork, and from the attempt arose unspeakable confusion. As if," continued he, smiling, "sentimental poetry could exist without the naïve ground in which it properly has its root.

"Schiller produced nothing instinctively or unconsciously; he must reflect upon every step; therefore he always wished to talk over his literary plans, and has conversed with me about all his later works, piece by piece, as he was writing them.

"On the other hand, it was contrary to my nature to talk over my poetic plans with any body; even with Schiller. I carried them about with me in silence, and usually said not a word to any one till the whole was completed. When I showed Schiller 'Hermann and Dorothea,' he was astonished because I had said not a syllable of any such plan.

"But I shall be anxious to hear what you will say of 'Wallenstein' to-morrow. You will see noble shapes, and the piece will probably make on you such an impression as you do not now dream of."

In the evening, I for the first time saw "Wallenstein." Goethe had not said too much; the piece made on me an impression which reached the very depths of my nature. The actors, who had almost all been under the personal influence of Schiller and Goethe, gave to the personages an individuality, and to the whole a significance, far beyond what I had found in reading it. I could not get it out of my head the whole night.

​

I went to see Goethe; found him in his elbow-chair, and still very weak. His first question was about "Wallenstein;" and he heard my account of the impression it had made upon me visible satisfaction.

Herr Soret came in and brought from the Duke some gold medals. Looking at these and talking them over entertained Goethe very pleasantly for an hour. Then Herr Soret attended Frau von Goethe to Court, and I was left alone with Goethe.

I reminded him of his promise to show me again his Marienbad Elegy. He brought it, gave me a light, seated himself again, and left me to an undisturbed perusal of the piece.

After I had been reading awhile, I turned to say something to him, but he seemed to be asleep. I therefore used the favorable moment, and read the poem again and again with a rare delight. The youthful glow of love, tempered by the moral elevation of the spirit, seemed its pervading characteristic. Then I thought that emotion was more forcibly expressed that in Goethe's other poems, and imputed this to the influence of Byron—an opinion which Goethe did not reject.

"You see the product of a highly impassioned mood," said he. "While I was in it, I would not for the world be without it, and now nothing would tempt me to be in it again.

"I wrote that poem immediately after leaving Marienbad, while the feeling of all I had experienced there was fresh. At eight in the morning, when we ​stopped first, I wrote down the first stanza; and so I went on composing them in the carriage, and writing them down when we stopped, so that by evening the whole was on paper. Thence it has a certain directness, and being all, as I may say, poured out at once, may have a better air as a whole."

"It has," said I, "a quite peculiar aspect, and recalls no other poem of yours."

"That," said he, "may be because I looked at the present moment as a man does upon a card on which he has staked a considerable sum, and sought to enhance its value as much as I could without exaggeration." These words struck me much; they threw light on his conduct, and seemed to give a clew to the understanding of that many-sidedness which has excited so much wonder.

Stadelmann now came to apply to his side a plaster which the physician had prescribed. I turned to the window, but heard him lamenting to Stadelmann, that his illness was not lessening, but seemed to have assumed a character of permanence. When it was over, I sat down by him again. He observed that he had not slept for some nights, and had no appetite. "The winter," said he, "will go, and I can do nothing, bring nothing to bear; my mind has no force." I tried to soothe him, and represented, that, if he would not think too much of his plans at present, there was reason to hope he would soon be better. "Ah," said he, "I am not impatient; I have lived through too many such situations, not to have learned to endure and to wait."

I now rose to bid him good night. He was in his ​flannel gown, and said he should sit in his chair all night, for he should not sleep if he went to bed. I pressed his dear hand, and took leave.

Down stairs I found Stadelmann much agitated. He said he was much alarmed about his master, for "if he complains, that is a bad sign indeed! And his feet look thin, which have been a little swollen till lately! I shall go to the physician early in the morning, and tell him these bad signs." I could not succeed in calming his fears.

When I entered the theatre this evening, many persons pressed towards me, asking anxiously, "How is Goethe?" I think his illness has been exaggerated in the town, but I felt depressed all the evening.

Yesterday, I was very anxious; for no one out of his family was admitted to see him.

But this evening he received me. He did not seem better in health than on Sunday, yet cheerful.

He talked of Zauper, and the widely differing results which are seen to proceed from the study of ancient literature.

Goethe sent for me. To my great joy, I found him able to walk up and down in his chamber. He gave me a little book, "Gazelles," by Count Platen. "I had intended," said he, "to write a notice of this for Kunst and Alterthum, for the poems deserve it. ​But, as my present state will not permit me, try what you can do, after reading it."

I promised to try.

"'Gazelles,'" continued he, "have this peculiarity, that they demand great fulness of meaning. The constantly recurring similar rhymes must find a suitable provision of similar thoughts ready to meet them. Therefore, not every one succeeds in them; but I think they will please you."

Saturday and Sunday, I studied the poems; this morning, I wrote down my view of them, and sent it to Goethe; for I had heard that the physician wished he should see nobody, and had forbidden him to talk.

However, he sent for me this evening. I found a chair placed for me near him; he gave me his hand, and seemed very affectionate and kind. He began immediately to speak of my little critique. "I was much pleased with it," said he; "you have a fair gift, and I wish now to say to you, that, if proposals for the employment of your talents should be made to you from other quarters, I hope you will refuse them, or at least consult me before deciding upon them; for, since you are now so linked with me, I would not willingly see you enter on other new relations."

I replied that I wished to belong to him alone, and had at present no reason to think of new connections.

We then talked of the "Gazelles." Goethe expressed his delight at the completeness of these poems, and that our present literature produced so much good fruit as it does.

​"I wish," said he, "to recommend rising talent to your observation. I wish you to examine whatever our literature brings forth worthy of note, and to place before me whatever is most meritorious, that I may take due notice of what is good, noble, and well executed, in Kunst and Alterthum. For, if I am ever so desirous, I cannot, at my age, and with my manifold duties, do this without aid from other minds."

I said I would do as he desired, and was very glad to find that our late writers and poets were more interesting to him than I had supposed.

He sent me the latest literary periodicals to assist in the proposed task. I was not sent for, nor did I go to him, for several days, as I heard his friend Zelter had come to make him a visit.

To-day, I was invited to dine with Goethe. I found Zelter with him. Both came to meet me, and gave me their hands. "Here," said Goethe, "we have my friend Zelter. In him you make a valuable acquaintance. If I should send you soon to Berlin, you will see what excellent care he will take of you." "Is Berlin a good place?" said I. "Yes," replied Zelter, with a smile, "for there much may be learned, and much unlearned." We sat down and talked on various subjects. I asked after Schubarth. "He visits me at the least every eight days," said Zelter. "He is married now, but has no appointment, because of what has passed between him and the philologists in Berlin."

Zelter asked if I knew Immermann. I said I had often heard his name, but was not yet acquainted with ​his writings. "I made his acquaintance at Münster," said Zelter; "he is a very hopeful young man, and it is a pity that his appointment leaves him so little time for his art." Goethe also praised his talent. "But we must see," said he, "how he comes out; whether he purifies his taste, and regulates his standard, according to the best models. His original strivings had their merit, but might easily be turned into a wrong direction."

Little Walter now came jumping in, asking a thousand questions, both of Zelter and his grandfather. "When thou comest, uneasy spirit," said Goethe, "all good conversation is spoiled." However, he loves the boy, and was unwearied in satisfying his wishes.

Frau von Goethe, and her sister, Fraulein Ulrica, now came in, and with them, young Goethe, in his uniform and sword, ready for Court. We sat down to table. Fraulein Ulrica and Zelter were very gay, and exchanged many a pleasant jest during dinner. I was much pleased with Zelter's appearance and manner. As a healthy, happy man, he could give himself up wholly to the influence of the moment, and always had the word fit for the occasion. Then he is very lively and kindly, and is so perfectly unconstrained, that he speaks out whatever is in his mind, and many a blunt substantial saying with the rest. He imparts to others his own freedom of spirit, and all narrowing views are set aside by his presence. I silently thought how much I should like to live with him awhile. I am sure it would do me good. Zelter went away soon after dinner, for he was invited to visit the Grand Duchess that evening.

​

This morning, Secretary Kräuter brought me an invitation to dine with Goethe, at the same time intimating to me, by Goethe's desire, that I had better present Zelter with a copy of my book. I carried the copy to him at his hotel. He, on his side, offered me Immermann's poems. "I would give you this copy," said he, "but, as you see, the author has dedicated it to me, and I must therefore keep and value it."

Then, before dinner, I walked with Zelter through the park towards Upper Weimar. Many spots recalled to him anecdotes of former days, and he told me much of Schiller, Wieland, and Herder, with whom he had been on terms of intimacy, and considered this as one of the most valuable circumstances of his life.

He talked much of composition, and recited many of Goethe's songs. "If I am to compose for a poem," said he, "I try to get a clear understanding of all the words, and to bring the situation before me in the colors of life. I then read it aloud till I know it by heart, and afterwards, while I am reciting it, comes the melody of its own accord."

Wind and rain obliged us to return sooner than we wished. I accompanied him to Goethe's house, where he was going to sing before dinner with Frau von Goethe, left him there, and went home.

About two, I went there, and found Goethe and Zelter engaged in looking at engravings of Italian scenery. Frau von Goethe came in, and we sat down to dinner. Young Goethe and Fraulein Ulrica were out to-day.

At table, both Goethe and Zelter entertained us ​with many original anecdotes illustrative of the peculiarities of their common friend, Wolf of Berlin. Then they talked of the Nibelungen, and of Lord Byron, and the visit it was hoped he will make at Weimar, in which Frau von Goethe takes the greatest interest. The Rochus feast at Bingen was also a subject, at which Zelter had been much charmed by two maidens, whose loveliness he greatly extolled. Goethe's song, Kriegsgluck, ("Fortune of War,") was gayly talked over. Zelter was inexhaustible in anecdotes of wounded soldiers and fair women, in proof of the truth of this poem. Goethe said he had not far to go for his facts; he had seen the whole in Weimar. Frau von Goethe amused herself by opposing them, and maintaining that women were not at all such as that naughty poem represented them.

The hours passed very pleasantly in such chat.

When I was left alone with Goethe, he asked me how I liked Zelter. I remarked that his influence was very genial. "He may," said Goethe, "on first acquaintance, seem blunt or even rough; but that is all in externals. I know scarce any one, who is, in reality, so delicate and tender. And then we must not forget that he has lived fifty years in Berlin. And the state of society there is such, that delicacy will not much avail you; and a man is forced to be vehement, and even rough, if he would keep his head above water."

Goethe talked with me about the continuation of his memoirs, with which he is now busy. He observed, that this later period of his life would not be narrated ​with such minuteness as he had used in the Dichtung und Wahrheit.^[1] "I must," said he, "treat this later period more in the fashion of annals, and content myself with detailing my outward actions, rather than depicting my inward life. Truly, the most important part of a man's life is that of development, and mine is contained in the minute disclosures of the Dichtung und Wahrheit. Later begins the conflict with the world, and that is interesting only in its results.

"And then the life of a literary man here in Germany,—what is it? What was really good in mine cannot be communicated, and what can be communicated is not worth the trouble. And where are the hearers whom one could entertain with any satisfaction? When I look around, and see how few of the companions of earlier years are left to me, I think of a summer residence at a bathing-place. When you arrive, you first become acquainted with those who have already been there some weeks, and who leave you in a few days. This separation is painful. Then you turn to the second generation, with which you live a good while, and become really intimate. But this goes also, and leaves us lonely with the third, which comes just as we are going away, and with which we have, properly, nothing to do.

"I have ever been esteemed one of Fortune's chiefest favorites; nor can I complain of the course my life has taken. Yet, truly, there has been nothing but toil and care; and, in my seventy-fifth year, I may say, that I have never had four weeks of genuine ​pleasure. The stone was ever to be rolled up anew. My annals will testify to the truth of what I now say. The claims upon my activity, from within and without, were too numerous.

"What really made me happy was my poetic mind and creative power. And how was this disturbed, limited, and hindered, by the external circumstances of my condition! Had I been able to abstain from mingling in public business, I should have been happier, and, as a poet, should have accomplished much more. But, as it was, my Goetz and Werther verified for me that saying of the sage, 'If you do any thing for the advantage of the world, it will take good care that you shall not do it a second time.'

"A wide-spread celebrity, an elevated position in the world, are good things. But, for all my rank and celebrity, I am still obliged to be silent, lest I come into collision with the opinions of others.^[2] This would be but poor sport, if I did not by this means learn the thoughts of others without their being able to scrutinize mine."

This morning, I found Goethe in excellent spirits. He was much pleased with a visit he had just received from a young Westphalian, named Meyer. "He has," said he, "written poems of great promise. For the age of eighteen, he has made incredible progress. I ​am rejoiced," continued he, smiling, "that I am not eighteen just now. When I was eighteen, Germany was no older, and something could be done; but now-a-days, so much is demanded, that every avenue seems barred.

"Germany has become so distinguished in every department, that we can scarce find time to become acquainted with what she has done; and yet we must be Greeks and Romans, French and English, beside. Not content with this, some must needs explore the East also; and is not such a state of things enough to confuse a young man's head?

"I have shown him my colossal Juno, as a token that he best seek repose among the Greeks. He is a fine young man, and, if he does not dissipate his energies on too many objects, will be sure to do well. However, as I said before, I thank Heaven that I am not young in this time and place. I could not stay here. And I fear I should find too broad daylight in America even, if I should take refuge there."

Dined with Goethe and his son. The latter related some pleasant stories of the time when he was a student at Heidelberg.

After dinner, Goethe showed us some colored drawings of scenery in Northern Italy. We looked most at one representing the Lago Maggiore, with the Swiss mountains. The Borromean Isles were reflected in the water; near the shore were skiffs and fishing-tackle, which led Goethe to remark that this is the lake celebrated in the Wanderjahre. On the north​west, towards Monte Rosa, stood the hills which border the lake in black-blue heavy masses, as we are wont to see them soon after sunset.

I remarked that, to me, who had been born in the plain country, the gloomy sublimity of these masses only gave uneasiness; that I could not feel at home with them, nor did I desire to explore their wild recesses.

"That is natural," said Goethe. "Man can conform perfectly to that situation only, in which, and for which, he was born. He who is not led abroad by a great object is far happier at home. I was at first disturbed and confused by the impression which Switzerland produced on me. Only after repeated visits—only in after years, when I visited those mountains as a mineralogist merely—could I converse with them at my ease."

We looked, afterwards, at many engravings, from pictures by modern French artists. These were so poor and weak in design, that, among forty, we barely found four or five good ones. These were a maiden with a love-letter; a woman in a house to let, which nobody will take; "catching fish;" and musicians before an image of the Madonna. A landscape, in imitation of Poussin, was tolerable; upon looking at which, Goethe said, "Such artists get a general idea of Poussin's landscape, and work upon that. We can neither style their pictures good nor bad: they are not bad, because, through every part, you catch glimpses of their excellent model. But you cannot call them good, because they wholly want what was most individual in Poussin. 'Tis just so among poets. Look, ​for instance, at those who would imitate Shakspeare's grand style."

I went to Goethe at one. He showed me a supplement he had written to my criticism on the "Paria."

"You were quite right," said he, "to try to become acquainted with India, on account of your little critical essay, since, in the end, we retain from our studies only that part which we can practically apply."

I answered that I had found it so in all the instruction I had ever received. I had retained what any natural tendency would lead me to apply, and forgotten all the rest. "I have," said I, "heard Heeren's lectures on ancient and modern history, and know now nothing about the matter. But, if I study a period of history for the sake of writing a drama, what I learn in that way abides with me."

"Every where," said Goethe, "they teach in academies too many things, and many useless things. In former days, the physician learned chemistry and botany, to aid him in his profession, and they were in such a state that he could manage them. Now, each of these departments has become so extensive, that any competent acquaintance with it is the work of a life; yet acquaintance with both is expected from the physician. That cannot be; one must be renounced or neglected for the sake of the other. He who is wise will put aside all claims which may dissipate his attention, and determine to excel in some one branch."

​He then, after showing me a short criticism he had been writing upon Lord Byron's "Cain," added,

"We see how the inadequate dogmas of the church work upon a free mind like Byron's, and how throughout such a piece he struggles to get rid of the doctrine which has been forced upon him. The English clergy will not thank him; but I shall be surprised if he does not take up biblical subjects of similar import, and, among others, that of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah."

He then showed me a carved gem, of which he had expressed his admiration some days before. I was enchanted by the naïveté of the design. It represented a man who has taken a heavy vessel from his shoulder to give a boy drink. But the boy finds it is not bent down sufficiently; the drink will not flow; he has hold of the vessel with both hands, and is looking up into the man's face with an expression which seems to ask that he will lean it a little more towards him.

"Now! how do you like that?" said Goethe. "We moderns," continued he, "can indeed feel the beauty of such a perfectly natural, perfectly naïve design, but we cannot make such; the understanding is always uppermost, and will not permit that unconscious and enchanting grace."

We looked then at a medal by Brandt of Berlin, representing young Theseus taking the arms of his father from under the stone. The attitude had merit, but we found the limbs not sufficiently strained to lift such a burden. It seemed, too, a mistake for the youth to have one hand on the arms, while with the ​other he lifts the stone; for, according to the nature of the thing, he should first roll aside the heavy stone, and then take the arms. "I will show you," said Goethe, "an antique gem, and let you see how the same subject is treated there."

He bid Stadelmann bring a box which contained several hundred copies of antique gems, which he had collected while in Italy. The Greek, indeed, had treated this subject differently. On the antique gem, I found the youth exerting his whole strength to move the stone, and not in vain; the stone is on the point of falling aside. All his bodily powers are directed by the young hero to the removal of this obstacle only; his looks are fixed on the arms which lie beneath.

We rejoiced in the truth and nature of this representation.

"Meyer," continued Goethe, laughing, "used to say, 'If only the thought were not so hard.' And the worst is, that no thinking will bring us such thoughts; we must be made right by nature, and let these fine thoughts come before us like free children of God, and cry, 'Here we are.'"

To-day, Goethe showed me two very remarkable poems, both highly moral in their tendency, but in action so natural and true, so perfectly unreserved, that the world would style them immoral; and he, therefore, does not publish them.

"Could intellect and high cultivation," said he, "indeed become the property of all, the poet would have fair play; he would be true to himself throughout, ​and would not fear to tell his best thoughts. But, as it is, he must always keep on a certain level; must remember that his works will be read by a mixed society; and must take care not to do any thing which by over-great openness may annoy the majority of good men. Then, Time is a tyrant, who has strange whims, and turns a new face to each new century. We cannot, with propriety, say things which were very proper for the ancient Greeks; and the Englishman of 1820 cannot endure what suited the vigorous contemporaries of Shakespeare; so that the present day finds it necessary to have a family Shakspeare."

"Then," said I, "there is much in the form also. One of these two poems, which is composed in the style and metre of the ancients, would be far less offensive than the other. Certainly, parts must displease, but the whole has a tone of grandeur and dignity; so that we seem to hear a strong man of antiquity, and to be carried back to the heroic age of Greece. But the other, being in the style and metre of Messer Ariosto, has a much more suspicious air. It relates an event of our day, and in the language of our day; it wears no sort of veil, and its boldness seems bold indeed."

"You are right," said he; "the mysterious influence of different poetic forms is very great. If the import of my Romish elegies were put into the measure and style of Byron's 'Don Juan,' it would scarcely be endured."

The French newspapers were brought. Goethe was much interested by the campaign of the French in Spain under the Duke D'Angoulême. "The Bour​bons," said he, "deserve praise for this measure; they were not firmly seated on the throne till they had won the army, and that is now accomplished. The soldier returns more loyal; for he has, from his own victory, and the discomfiture of the many-headed Spanish host, learned how much better it is to obey one than many. The army has sustained its former fame, and shown that it is brave in itself, and can fight without Napoleon."

Goethe then turned his thoughts backward into history, and talked of the seven years' war, and the Prussian army, which, accustomed by Frederic the Great to constant victory, grew careless, and thus, in after days, lost many battles. All the minutest details were familiar to him, and I had reason to admire his memory.

"I had the great advantage," said he, "of being born at a time when the world was agitated by great movements, which have continued during my long life; so that I am a living witness of the seven years' war, the separation of America from England, the French Revolution, and the whole Napoleon era, with the downfall of that hero, and the events which followed. Thus I have attained results and insight impossible to those who must learn all these things from books.

"What these coming years will bring I cannot predict; but I fear we cannot expect repose. The world is not so framed that it can keep quiet; the great are not so that they will not permit misuse of power; the masses not so that, in hope of a gradual amelioration, they will keep tranquil in an inferior condition. Could we perfect human nature, ​we might expect perfection every where; but, as it is, there will always be this wavering hither and thither; one part must suffer while the other is at ease. Envy and egotism will be always at work like bad demons, and party conflicts find no end.

"The most reasonable way is to follow one's own vocation—do what you were born or have learned to do, and avoid hindering others from doing the same. Let the shoemaker abide by his last, the peasant by his plough, and the king by his sceptre. For the art of governing also requires an apprenticeship, and no one should meddle with it before having learned it."

Then, returning to the French papers,—"The Liberals," said he, "may speak, and, when they are reasonable, we like to hear them; but the Royalists, who have the power in their hands, should not talk, but act. They may march troops, and head and hang; that is all right;—but to argue in public prints, and try to prove that their measures are right, is not their proper way. They might talk, if they could address a public of kings.

"For myself, I have always been a Royalist. I have let others babble, and have done I saw fit. I understood my course, and knew what my own object was. If you hurt one, you can make it up to him; but, if two or three, you had best let it alone: among many men there are so many minds."

Goethe was very gay to-day. He had just written in the album of Frau von Spiegel, and rejoiced in having fulfilled a promise of long standing. Turning over the leaves of this album, in which I found many distinguished names, I saw a poem by Tiedge, written ​in the very spirit and style of his "Urania." "In a saucy mood," said Goethe, "I was tempted to write some verses beneath those; but I am glad I did not. It would not have been the first time that, by indulging myself in rash liberties, I had repelled good people, and spoiled the effect of my best works.

"However, I have endured not a little from Tiedge; for, at one time, nothing was sung or declaimed but this same 'Urania.' Wherever you went, there lay 'Urania' on the table. 'Urania' and immortality were the topics of every conversation. I could in no wise dispense with the happiness of believing in our future existence, and, indeed, could say, with Lorenzo de Medici, that those are dead for this life even, who have no hope for another. But such incomprehensible subjects lie too far off, and only disturb our thoughts if made the theme of daily meditation. Let him who believes in immortality enjoy his happiness in silence, without giving himself airs thereupon. The occasion of 'Urania' led me to observe that piety has its pretensions to aristocracy, no less than noble blood. I met stupid women, who plumed themselves on believing, with Tiedge, in immortality, and I was forced to bear much catechising on this point. They were vexed by my saying I should be well pleased to be ushered into a future state after the close of this, only I hoped I should there meet none of those who had believed in it here. For, how should I be tormented! The pious would throng around me, and say, 'Were we not right? Did we not foresee it? Has not it happened just as we said?' And so there would be ennui without end.

​"All this fuss about such points is for people of rank, and especially women, who have nothing to do. But an able man, who has something to do here, and must toil and strive day by day to accomplish it, leaves the future world till it comes, and contents himself with being active and useful in this. Thoughts about immortality are also good for those who have small success here below, and I would wager that better fortune would have brought our good Tiedge better thoughts."

I dined with Goethe. After the cloth had been removed, he bade Stadelmann bring in some large portfolios of engravings. Goethe detected some dust on the covers, and, not finding any cloths at hand to wipe it away, he was much displeased, and scolded Stadelmann. "I speak for the last time," said he; "if these cloths, for which I have asked so often, are not forthcoming to-day, I declare that I will go myself to buy them to-morrow, and you shall see that I will keep my word." Stadelmann went for them immediately.

"I used the same means with Becker, the actor," added Goethe to me, in a lively tone, "when he refused to take the part of a trooper in 'Wallenstein.' I gave him warning that, if he would not take the part, I myself would appear in it. That did the business. For they knew me at the theatre well enough to be sure that I was not in jest, and would keep my word in any case."

"And would you really have appeared on the boards?" asked I.

​"Yes," said Goethe. "I would have taken the part, and would have eclipsed Mr. Becker, too, for I understood the matter better than he did."

We then looked at the drawings and engravings. Goethe takes great interest in forming my taste; he shows me only what is complete, and endeavors to make me apprehend the intention of the artist; he would have me think and feel only with the thoughts and feelings of the noblest beings. "This," said he, "is the way to cultivate what we call taste. Taste should be educated by contemplation, not of the tolerably good, but of the truly excellent. I show you the best, and when you have thoroughly apprehended these, you will have a standard, and will know how to value inferior performances, without overrating them. And I show you the best in each sort, that you may perceive no department is to be despised, since each may be elevated, by genius working in it, to a source of improvement and delight. For instance, this piece, by a French artist, has a gentility which you see no where else, and is admirable in its way."

He then showed me some etchings by Roos, the famous painter of animals; they were all of sheep in different postures and situations. The simplicity of their countenances, their fleece, all about them, was represented with wonderful fidelity; it was nature itself. "I am half frightened," said Goethe, "when I look at these beasts. Their state, so limited, dull, gaping, and dreaming, excites in me such sympathy, that I feel as if I might become a sheep, and as if the artist must have been one. How could he enter so into the inmost character of these creatures? for their ​very soul looks through the bodies he has drawn. Here you see what great talent can do when it keeps steady to subjects which are congenial with its nature."

"Has not, then," said I, "this artist painted dogs, cats, and beasts of prey with equal truth, or indeed has he not, by his gift of sympathy, been able to represent human nature also?"

"No,"" said Goethe, "all that lay out of his circle; but the gentle, grass-eating animals, sheep, cows, and the like, he was never weary of repeating; this was the peculiar province of his talent, in which he was content to work. And in this he did well. His sympathy with these animals, his knowledge of their psychology, were born with him, and this gave him so fine an eye for their bodily structure. The nature of other creatures was not so transparent to him, and therefore he felt no desire to paint them."

The remembrance of many analogies awoke within me at these words. So had Goethe said to me, not long since, that knowledge of the world is inborn with the genuine poet, who, therefore, needs not much experience or varied observation to represent it adequately. "I wrote Goetz von Berlichingen," said he, "at two and twenty, and was astonished, ten years after, to observe the fidelity of my own representation. It is obvious that I could have seen and experienced but a small part of that various picture of life, and could only know how to paint it by presentiment.

"I felt unalloyed pleasure in painting my inward world before I became acquainted with the outward. But when I found that the world was really just what I had fancied, I was chagrined, and my pictures gave ​me no more pleasure. Indeed, having represented the world so clearly before I knew it, when I did know it, my representation might well take a tinge of persiflage." "There is in every character," said he, another time, "a certain necessity, a sequence, which obliges secondary features to be formed from leading features. Observation teaches you how to draw your inferences when once you have ascertained certain premises; but some persons possess this knowledge untaught. Whether with me experience and this innate faculty are united, I will not say; but this I know, if I have talked with any man a quarter of an hour, I can make him talk two hours."

Goethe had said of Lord Byron, that the world to him was transparent, and that he could paint by the light of his presentiments; I doubted whether Byron would succeed in painting, for instance, a subordinate animal nature, for his individuality seemed to me to be so dear to him, that he could not give himself up to such a subject. Goethe agreed, and said that even genius had not instinctive knowledge on subjects uncongenial with its nature.

"And if your excellency," said I, "maintain that the world is inborn with the poet, you mean only the world of soul, as it manifests itself in human relations, and not the empiric world of shows and conventions; the latter, surely, even the poet must learn from observation."

"Certainly," replied Goethe; "the poet knows by instinct how to represent the region of love, hate, hope, despair, or by whatever other names you may call the moods and passions of the soul. But he knows not by ​instinct how courts are held, or how a coronation is managed, and, if he meddle with such subjects, must depend either on experience or tradition. Thus, in 'Faust,' I might by presentiment have known how to describe my hero's weariness of life, and the emotions which love excites in the heart of Margaret; but the lines,

require that the writer should have observed nature."

"Yet," said I, "every line of 'Faust' bears marks, not to be mistaken, of most careful study of life and the world. The reader would suppose it the fruit of the amplest experience."

"Perhaps so," replied Goethe; "yet, had I not the world in my soul from the beginning, I must ever have remained blind with my seeing eyes, and all experience and observation would have been dead and unproductive. The light is there, and the colors surround us; but, if we bore nothing corresponding in our own eyes, the outward apparition would not avail us."

"There are," said Goethe, "excellent men, who cannot endure to do any thing impromptu, or superficially, but whose nature demands that they should fix their attention in leisurely tranquillity on any object for which they are to do any thing. Such minds often ​make us impatient, for we can seldom get from them what we want for the moment; but in their way the noblest tasks are accomplished."

I spoke of Ramberg. "He," said Goethe, "is by no means a man of such a stamp, but of most genial talents, and unequalled in his power of impromptu effort. At Dresden, one day, he asked me to give him a subject. I gave him Agamemnon, at the moment when, on his return from Troy, he is descending from his chariot at his own gate, and is seized with a gloomy presentiment as he is about to touch the threshold. You will agree that such a subject would have demanded, in the eyes of most artists, mature deliberation. But the words had scarcely passed my lips, before Ramberg began to draw, and astonished me by his perfect apprehension of his aim."

We talked then of other artists, who had set to work in a very superficial way, and thus degenerated into mannerists.

"The mannerist," said Goethe, "is always longing to get through, and has no true enjoyment of his work. But genius is happy in finishing out the details necessary to express its idea. Roos is unwearied in drawing the hair and wool of his goats and sheep, and you see by his nicety in details that he was truly happy in his work, and had no wish to bring it to an end.

"People of little minds are not happy in art for its own sake; while at work they always have before their eyes what they shall get by what they are doing. Such worldly views and tendencies never yet produced any thing great."

​

I breakfasted with Goethe. I endeavored to persuade him that his "Gods, Heroes, and Wieland," as well as his "Letters of a Pastor," had better be inserted in the new edition of his works.

"I cannot," said Goethe, "at my present period, judge of the merit of those youthful productions. You younger people are the proper judges of them. Yet I am not inclined to find fault with those beginnings; indeed, I was then in the dark, and struggled on without knowing what it was I sought so earnestly; but I had a perception of the right, a divining-rod, that showed me where gold was to be found."

I observed that if this were not the case with strong intellects, they would lose much time in this mixed world.

The horses were now at the door, and we rode towards Jena. The conversation turned on the late news from France. "The constitution of France," said Goethe, "belonging to a people who have within themselves so many elements of corruption, rests upon a very different basis from that of England. Every thing and any thing may be done in France by bribery; indeed the whole course of the French revolution was directed by such means."

He then spoke of the death of Eugene Napoleon, (Duke of Leuchtenberg,) which seemed to grieve him much. "He was one of those great characters," said Goethe, "which are becoming more and more rare; and the world is the poorer for his loss. I knew him personally; we were at Marienbad together last summer. He was a handsome man, about forty-two; he looked ​much older, as you might expect, when you called to mind all he has gone through, and how all his life was crowded with campaigns and great deeds. He talked with me at Marienbad of a plan which he was bent on executing, the union of the Rhine with the Danube, by means of a canal—a stupendous enterprise, when you consider the obstacles offered by the locality. But a man who had served under Napoleon, and with him shaken the world, finds impossibilities nowhere. The Emperor Charles had the same plan, and even began the work, but soon came to a still stand. They could do nothing because of the sand; the banks were always falling together again after the course had been dug out."

This morning I went with Goethe into his garden.

The situation of this garden, on the farther side of the Ilm, near the park, and on the western declivity of a hill, gives it a very inviting aspect. It is protected from the north and east winds, but open to the cheering influences of the south and west, which makes it delightful, especially in spring and autumn.

Towards the north-west lies the town. It is in fact so near, that you can be there in a few minutes, and yet you see not the top of a building, or even a spire, which could remind you of the neighborhood of men; the tall and thickly-planted trees of the park shut out every other object on that side.

Towards the west and south-west you have a free lookout over the wide meadows, through which, at about the distance of a bow-shot, the Ilm winds silently. ​The opposite bank swells into a hill, whose summit and sides are clothed with the ash-trees, alders, poplars, and birches of the far-extended park, and give a beautiful limit to the view on the southern and western sides.

This view of the park over the meadows gives a feeling, especially in summer, as if you were near a wood which extended leagues round about. You look to see dear bounding out upon the meadows. You enjoy the peace of the deepest natural solitude, for the silence is often uninterrupted, except by the notes of some lonely blackbird, or the song of the wood-thrush.

Out of this dream of profound solitude we were now awakened by the striking of the tower clock, the screaming of the peacocks from the park, and the drums and horns of the military in the barracks. And it was not unpleasant to be thus reminded of the neighborhood of the friendly city, from which we seemed distant so many miles.

At certain seasons, these meadows are far enough from being lonely. You see sometimes country people going to, or returning from, the Weimar market; sometimes people walking along the windings of the Ilm towards Upper Weimar, which is much visited at times. Haying-time also animates the scene very agreeably. In the back-ground, you see flocks of sheep, and sometimes the stately Swiss cow, feeding.

To-day, however, there were none of those summer sights and sounds which are so refreshing to the mind. Only on the meadows were visible some streaks of green; the trees as yet could boast nothing but brown twigs and buds; yet the stroke of the finch, with ​occasional notes from the blackbird and truth, announced the approach of spring.

The air was pleasant and summerlike; a mild south-west wind was blowing. Certain appearances in the heavens drew Goethe's thoughts to the barometer; he spoke of its rise and fall, which he called the affirmative and negative of water. He spoke of the eternal laws which regulate the inhaling and exhaling processes throughout the earth; of a possible deluge; that, though each place has its proper atmosphere, there is great uniformity in the state of the barometer throughout Europe; that nature is incommensurable, and her laws often detected with great difficulty.

While he instructed me on such high subjects, we were walking up and down the broad gravel-walk. We came near the garden-house, and he bid the servant unlock it, that he might show me the interior. Without, the whitewashed walls were covered with rose-bushes, trained over it on espaliers. I saw, with pleasure, on these rose-bushes many birds' nests, which had been there since the preceding summer, and, now that the bushes were bare of leaves, were exposed to the eye. There were many nests of the linnet and hedge-sparrow, built high or low, according to the different habits of those birds.

In the lower story, I found only one room. The walls were hung with some charts and engravings, and with a portrait of Goethe, as large as life, taken by Meyer just after the return of both friends from Italy. Goethe here appears in the prime of his powers and his manhood, brown, and rather stout. His ​expression is composed and earnest,—that of a man on whose mind lies the weight of great designs.

Up stairs, I found three rooms, and one little cabinet; but all very small, and not very convenient. Goethe said that, in earlier years, he had passed a great deal of his time, and worked here, in much tranquillity.

The rooms were rather cold, and we returned into the open air.

We talked a little on literary topics; but our attention was soon attracted by the natural objects in our path. The crown-imperials and lilies were sprouting, the mallows already green.

The upper part of the garden, on the declivity of the hills, is covered with grass, and here and there a few fruit-trees. Paths wind up to the summit, and then return to the foot. I wished to ascend. Goethe walked swiftly before me, and I was rejoiced to see how active he is.

On the hedge we saw a peahen, which seemed to have come from the park; and Goethe remarked that he had, in summer time, been wont to allure the peacocks into his garden, by giving them such food as they loved.

Descending on the other side of the hill, I found a stone, surrounded by shrubs, on which was carved this line from the well-known poem—

and I felt as if I were on classic ground.

​Near this was a thicket of half-grown oaks, firs, birches, and beech-trees. Beneath a fir, I found the feather of a bird of prey; and Goethe said he had often seen them in this place. I think it probable that owls resort to these firs.

Passing this thicket, we found ourselves once more on the principal path near the house. In this place, the trees are planted in a semicircle, and overarch a space, in which we sat down on benches, which are placed about a round table. The sun was so powerful, that the shade, even of these leafless trees, was agreeable. "I know," said Goethe, "no pleasanter place, in the heats of summer, than this. I planted the trees forty years ago, with my own hand; have had the pleasure of watching their growth; and have already enjoyed their refreshing shade for some years. The foliage of these oaks and beeches is absolutely impervious to the sun. In hot summer days, I sit here after dinner; and often over the meadows and the park such stillness reigns, that the ancients would say, 'Pan sleeps.'"

We now heard the tower-clock striking two, and returned to the house.

This evening, I was with Goethe. We talked of the French and German drama. Goethe spoke highly of Iffland and Kotzebue. "They have fine talents in their own way," said he, "and have been treated with such severity, only because men are not willing to criticise each production after its kind."

He spoke of Platen's new dramas. "Here," said ​he, "you see the influence of Calderon. They are full of thought, and, in a certain sense, complete; but they want depth, want specific gravity. They will not excite in the mind of the reader a deep and abiding interest; the strings of the soul are touched but lightly and hastily. They are like cork, which makes no impression on the element which so readily sustains it.

"The German asks earnestness, a grandeur of thought, and fulness of sentiment; these are the qualities which have made Schiller so admired by our people. I doubt not the abilities of Platen; and, if he does not manifest the qualities I have mentioned, I think his failure proceeds from mistaken views of art. He shows distinguished culture, intellect, sparkling wit, and much adroitness as an artist; yet these, especially in Germany, are not all that the drama demands.

"Generally, the personal character of the writer influences the public, rather than his talents as an artist. Napoleon said of Corneille, 'If he were living now, I would make him a prince;' yet he never read him. Racine he read, but spoke not so of him. Lafontaine is looked upon with so high a degree of esteem among his countrymen,—not on the score of his poetic merits, but of the dignified character which he manifests in his writings."

We then talked of the "Elective Affinities," (Wahlverwandtschaften.) He spoke of divorces. "The late Reinhard of Dresden," said he, "wondered that I should be so severe on the subject of marriage, ​while I entertain such free opinions on other subjects."

I treasured up this remark of Goethe's, because it showed so clearly what had been his own intention in that much misinterpreted romance. (Die Wahlverwandtschaften.)

The conversation turned upon Tieck, and his personal relation to Goethe.

"I entertain the greatest kindness for Tieck," said Goethe, "and I think he is well disposed towards me; yet is the relation between us not exactly what it should be. This is neither his fault nor mine, but occasioned by circumstances which I will tell you.

"When the Schlegels began to be of note in the world, they found me too important for their views, and looked about for some man of genius, whom they might set up in opposition to me, and thus maintain the balance of power. They pitched upon Tieck; and, wishing to make him a fit rival in the eyes of the public, they exaggerated his pretensions, and placed him in an awkward position with regard to me.

"Tieck is a man of great talents, and nobody can be more sensible than myself to his really extraordinary merit; only, when they tried to raise him above his proper place, and speak of him as my equal, they made a great mistake. I do not hesitate to speak of myself as I am; I did not make myself what I am. But I might, with as much propriety, compare myself with Shakspeare, who also is, as he was made, a being of a higher order than myself, to whom I must look up and pay due reverence."

​Goethe was this evening full of energy and gayety. He read aloud some of his unpublished poems. I enjoyed hearing him exceedingly; for, not only did I feel the original beauty of the poems, but Goethe's manner of reading them opened to me new views. What variety and force in his voice! What life and expression in the noble countenance amid the wrinkles of so many years of thought! And what eyes!

I went to walk with Goethe about one. We discussed the styles of various writers.

"On the whole," said Goethe, "the turn for philosophical speculation is an injury to the Germans, as it tends to make style vague and obscure. The stronger their attachment to certain philosophical schools, the worse do they write. Those among us who deal chiefly with practical affairs write the best. Schiller's style is noble and impressive whenever he leaves off philosophizing. I observe this in his very interesting letters, with which I am now busy.

"There are women in Germany, of genial temperament, who write a really excellent style, and, indeed, in that respect, surpass many of our celebrated writers.

"Englishmen almost always write well; for they are born orators, and the practical tendency of their pursuits is very favorable to the formation of a good style.

"The French, in this respect also, remain true to their general character. They are born for society, and therefore never forget the public in writing or speaking; they strive to be clear, that they may ​convince,—agreeable, that they may attract the reader.

"Indeed, the style of a writer is almost always the faithful representative of his mind; therefore, if any man wish to write a clear style, let him begin by making his thoughts clear; and if any would write in a noble style, let him first possess a noble soul."

Goethe then spoke of his antagonists, as a race which would never become extinct. "Their number," said he, "is Legion; yet they may be classified with some precision. First, there are my stupid antagonists,—those who find fault with me, because they do not understand me. This is a large company, who have wearied me extremely in the course of my life; yet shall they be forgiven, for they know not what they do.

"The second class is composed of those who envy and hate me, because I have attained, through my talents, fame, fortune, and a dignified station. Should I become poor and miserable, they would assail me no more.

"There are many who hate me because they have failed. In this class are men of fine powers, but who cannot forgive me, because I cast them into the shade.

"Fourthly, there are my antagonists who have good reasons. For, as I am a human being, with human faults and weaknesses, it is not to be expected that my writings should be free from them. Yet, as I was constantly bent on my own improvement, and always striving to ennoble myself, I have often, as I advanced in my culture, been blamed for faults ​which I had long since left behind. These critics have injured me least of any, as their darts were aimed at a place from which I was already miles distant. When a work is finished, it becomes uninteresting to me; I think of it no more, but busy myself with some new plan.

"Another large class comprises those who differ from me in their views and modes of thought. It is said, that on the same tree you will scarce find two leaves perfectly alike. Just so you will, among a thousand men, scarce find two, who harmonize entirely in their views and ways of thinking. This being allowed, I find less cause to marvel at my having so many opponents, than at my having so many friends and adherents. My tendencies were wholly opposed to those of my time, which were subjective; so that my objective efforts left me in solitude, and kept me at disadvantage.

"Schiller had, in this respect, great advantage over me. Indeed, a certain well-meaning General once gave me to understand, that I ought to write like Schiller. I replied by analyzing Schiller's merits, which I understood better than he. And I went quietly on in my own way, not troubling myself about outward success, and taking as little notice as possible of my opponents."

We returned, and had a very pleasant time at dinner. Frau von Goethe talked much of Berlin, where she has lately been. She spoke with especial warmth of the Duchess of Cumberland, who had paid her many friendly attentions. Goethe remembered this ​princess, who, when very young, had passed some time with his mother, with particular interest.

In the evening, I partook of a musical entertainment of a high order. At the house of Goethe, some fine singers performed parts of Handel's Messiah, under the superintendence of Eberwein. Also, the Gräfin Caroline von Egloffstein, Fraulein von Froriep, with Frau von Pogwisch and Frau von Goethe, joined the choir of female singers, and thus gratified a wish which Goethe had entertained long since.

Goethe, sitting at some distance, wholly absorbed in hearing, passed a happy evening in admiring a noble work.

The greatest philologist of our time, Friedrich August Wolf, from Berlin, is here, on his way towards the south of France. Goethe gave, to-day, on his account, a dinner-party of his Weimar friends. General Superintendent Röhr, Chancellor von Müller, Oberbau-Director Coudray, Professor Riemer, and Hofrath Rehbein, were the guests, beside Wolf and myself. The conversation was very pleasant. Wolf was full of witty sallies,—Goethe constantly opposing him, but in the pleasantest way. "I cannot," said Goethe to me afterwards, "converse with Wolf at all, without assuming the character of Mephistophiles. Besides, nothing less can induce him to display his hidden treasures."

The bon mots at the table were of too evanescent a nature to bear repetition. Wolf was rich in witty ​sayings and striking remarks; yet, to me, Goethe seemed always to maintain a certain superiority over him.

The hours flew by, and six o'clock came before we were aware. I went with young Goethe to the theatre, where the "Magic Flute" was given that night. Wolf came in the latter part of the evening, with the Grand Duke Karl August.

---

Wolf remained in Weimar till the 25th, when he set out for the south of France. His health was in such a state, that Goethe expressed the greatest anxiety about him.

Goethe reproved me for not having visited a certain family of distinction. "You might," said he, "have passed there, during the winter, many delightful evenings, and made the acquaintance of many interesting strangers; all which you have lost from God knows what whim."

"My disposition," I replied, "is so excitable, my sympathies are so strong and ready, that too great a multiplicity of new impressions is burdensome and hurtful to me. I am neither by education nor habit fitted for general society. My situation in earlier days was such, that I feel as if I had never lived till I came near you. All is new to me. Every evening at the theatre, every conversation with you, makes an era in my existence. Things perfectly indifferent to those who are accustomed to them, make a deep impression on me. I seize on every thing with ​energy, and draw from every thing nourishment. I have had all I desired this winter, from the theatre and your society; other connections and engagements would only have disturbed my mind."

"You are an odd Christian," said Goethe, laughing. "Well, do as you please; I will let you alone for the future."

"And then," continued I, "I carry always my feelings into society; I like or dislike; I feel the need of loving and being beloved; I seek a nature which may harmonize with my own; I wish to give myself up to such a one, and to have nothing to do with the others."

"This tendency of yours," replied Goethe, "is indeed likely to unfit you for society; for what would be the use of culture, if it did not teach us to modify and control our natural tendencies. 'Tis mere folly to hope that other men will harmonize with us; I have never been guided by such motives; I have regarded each man as an independent individual, whom I might study, and whose characteristics I might learn to understand, but from whom I must not expect further sympathy. Only in this way have I been enabled to converse with every man, to obtain the knowledge of various characters, and the dexterity necessary for the conduct of life. For it is by conflict with natures opposed to his own that a man learns to show himself a man. Thus only can the various sides of the character be brought out, till it attains a certain completeness, and the man feels sure of himself in opposition to any and every man. This is what you need. You can do so, if you please; ​and, indeed, there is no evading the great world; you must find your place in it, whether you will or no."

I took due heed of these good words, and shall be guided by them as far as I can.

Towards evening, Goethe invited me to take a drive with him. Our road lay over hills through Upper Weimar, by which we had a view of the park towards the west. The trees were in blossom, the birches already in full leaf. The setting sun cast a broad glow over the wide green meadows. We busied ourselves with seeking out picturesque groups, and could not look enough. We remarked that these trees, full of white blossoms, are not adapted for pictures, as the leafy birches are unfit for the foreground of a picture; because the delicate leaf does not sufficiently contrast with the white trunk;—there were no masses large enough for fine effects of light and shade. "Ruysdael," said Goethe, "never introduced the birch with its foliage into his foregrounds, but only birch trunks broken off at top, without any leaves. Such a trunk is very effective in a foreground, its shape has such natural prominence."

After some slight discussion of other topics, we came upon the mistake of those artists who make religion the object of art, while art itself should be their religion. "Religion," said Goethe, "stands in the same relation to art as any other great interest of life. It is merely to be looked upon as affording material for the artist. Faith is not the faculty by which you are to comprehend a work of art; that is calculated to call into action wholly different faculties. ​And art must address itself to those parts of our being which are intended for the appreciation of her achievements. A religious subject may be a good one for art, but only in so far as it possesses general human interest. The Virgin with the Child is an excellent subject, and one that we may see treated a hundred times, yet not be weary."

Returning homeward, we had the setting sun in full view. Goethe was lost awhile in thought. He then said to me, in the words of one of the ancients,

"At the age of seventy-five," continued he, with animation, "one must, of course, think frequently of death. But this thought never gives me the least uneasiness,—I am so fully convinced that the soul is indestructible, and that its activity will continue through eternity. It is like the sun, which seems to our earthly eyes to set in night, but is in reality gone to diffuse its light elsewhere."

While he said this, the sun had sunk behind the Ettersberge, and the chill of the evening warned us to hasten homeward. Goethe urged me to go in with him for a while, and I did so. He was in an extremely engaging, amiable mood. He talked of his Farbenlehre, and of his obstinate opponents; remarking that he was sure that he had done something for the cause of science.

"That a man should be able to make an epoch in the world's history," said he, "two conditions are ​essential,—that he should have a good head, and a great inheritance. Napoleon inherited the French Revolution; Frederic the Great, the Silesian War; Luther, the errors of the Popes; and I, those of the Newtonian theory. My own time has no conception of what I have accomplished; but posterity will know."

We spoke of notes which I had found among his papers, written at the time when he was training Wolf and Grüner for the stage. I thought these might be so instructive to young actors, that I proposed to put them together, and make from them a sort of theatre catechism. Goethe consented.

We spoke of some distinguished actors, who had been formed in his school; and I asked some questions about Frau von Heigendorf. "I may," said Goethe, "have influenced her, but I cannot speak of her as my pupil. She seemed born for the stage, and was, in all she undertook, as decided, ready, and adroit, as a duck in the water. She needed not instruction, but did what was right instinctively and unconsciously."

We then talked of his superintendence of the theatre; and it was remarked how much time he had lavished there which might have been devoted to literature. "Yes," said he, "I have by this means missed, no doubt, writing many a good thing; yet do I not repent. I have always regarded all I have done solely as symbolical; and, at bottom, it does not signify whether I made pots or dishes."

When I came to Weimar, last summer, I did not intend to remain, but, after having become acquainted ​with Goethe, to visit the Rhine, and live there some time, if I could find a place which suited me.

I had been detained at Weimar by Goethe's kindness, and the various services I had been able to render him, but had never forgotten my original project; and Goethe himself, unwilling that I should carry within me the sting of an unsatisfied desire, advised me to devote some months of this summer to the fulfilment of my project.

It was, however, decidedly his wish, that I should return to Weimar. He observed that it was not well to break ties as soon as they have been made, and that nothing which has not sequence is of any value in life. And he intimated that he wished to join me with Riemer, not only to aid him in preparing a new and complete edition of his works, but to take charge of it in case he should be suddenly called away, as might naturally happen at his age.

He showed me immense packages of letters, laid out in what is called the Chamber of Busts, (Büsten-Zimmer.) "These," said he, "are letters which I have been receiving since 1780, from the most distinguished men of our country. There lies hoarded a rich treasure of thoughts, which it shall some time be your office to impart to the public. A chest is now making, in which I shall put these letters, with the rest of my literary legacies. I wish you, before you leave me, to put all these papers in order, that I may feel tranquil about them, and have a care the less."

He then told me that he should probably visit Marienbad again this summer, and disclosed to me, in confidence, his reasons. He wishes me to return ​from my journey, if possible, before his departure; that he may have an opportunity to converse with me.

---

A few weeks after, I went to see my betrothed at Hanover, and passed June and July in the neighborhood of the Rhine; making, especially at Bonn, Frankfort, and Heidelberg, many valuable acquaintances among the friends of Goethe.

I returned to Weimar about eight days since. Goethe expressed lively joy at seeing me, and I was not less happy to be once more with him, He had so much to tell me, that I scarcely left his side for several days. He has decided not to go to Marienbad, or take any journey, this summer. "And now that you have come," said he, yesterday, "I shall pass a pleasant August here."

---

[Here follow some remarks on the first part of the continuation of Dichtung und Wahrheit, which Goethe communicated to Eckermann at this time. This fragment has since been published among Goethe’s posthumous works, but has never been translated into English, and the remarks would not be intelligible to those who are not acquainted with it.

I have also omitted some detached sayings of Goethe, as not being set down in a form sufficiently precise to do him justice.—Transl.] ​

I passed this evening with Goethe. We talked of Klopstock and Herder. "Without such founders," said Goethe, "our literature could not have become what it now is. In their own day they were beforehand with the age which they were obliged to drag along in their track; but now the age has far outrun them, and they are no longer necessary or influential. A young man would be left in the rear, who should take Klopstock and Herder for his teachers now-a-days."

We talked over the faults and merits both of Klopstock's "Messiah" and of his Odes. We agreed that he had no faculty for observing and painting the external world, or for drawing characters; and that he wanted the qualities most essential to the epic and dramatic poet, or, perhaps it might be said, more generally, to the poet.

"In the ode, for instance," said Goethe, "where he makes the German Muse run a race with the British,—only consider, what a picture!—two maidens running, throwing out their feet, and kicking up a dust! If the good Klopstock had ever been in the habit of really imagining, making pictures to himself of what he wrote, he could not have made such mistakes."

I asked how he had felt towards Klopstock in his youth.

"I venerated him," said Goethe, "with the devotion which was natural to me. I looked upon him as an uncle. I never once thought of criticism, but reverenced whatever he had done. I let his fine qualities work upon me; for the rest, I went my own way."

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