A more offensive dismissal could scarcely have been suggested by malice. In the Duke it was only a spurt of the imperious temper and coarseness which roughened his fine qualities. On Goethe the blow fell heavily. Karl August never understood me,' he exclaimed with a deep sigh. Such an insult to the greatest man of his age, coming from his old friend and brother-in-arms, who had been more friend than monarch to him during two-and-forty years, who had declared that one grave should hold their bodies and all about a dog, behind which was a miserable Greenroom cabal! The thought of leaving Weimar forever, and of accepting the magnificent offers made him. from Vienna, pressed urgently on his mind.

But, to his credit be it said, the Duke quickly became sensible of his unworthy outbreak of temper, and wrote to Goethe in a tone of conciliation. The cloud passed over; but no entreaty could make Goethe resume the direction of the theatre. He could pardon the hasty act and unconsidered word of his friend; but he was prouder than the Duke, and held firmly to his resolution of having nothing to do with a theatre which had once prostituted itself to the exhibition of a clever poodle.

What a sarcasm, and in the sarcasm what a moral lies in this story. Art, which Weimar will not have, gives place to a poodle !

CHAPTER VI.

SCHILLER'S LAST YEARS.

THE current of narrative in the preceding chapter has flowed onwards into years and events from which we must now return. Instead of the year 1817, we must recal the year 1800. Schiller had just come to settle at Weimar, there to end his days in noble work with his great friend. It may interest the reader to have a glimpse of Goethe's daily routine; the more so, as such a glimpse is not to be had from any published works.

He rose at seven, sometimes earlier, after a sound and prolonged sleep; for, like Thorwaldsen, he had a talent for sleeping' only surpassed by his talent for continuous work. Till eleven he worked without interruption. A cup of chocolate was then brought, and he resumed work till one. At two he dined. This meal was the important meal of the day. His appetite was immense. Even on the days when he complained of not being hungry, he ate much more than most men. Puddings, sweets and cakes were always welcome. He sat a long while over his wine, chatting gaily to some friend or other (for he never dined alone), or to one of the actors, whom he often had with him, after dinner, to read over their parts, and to take his instructions. He was fond of wine, and drank daily his two or three bottles.

Lest this statement should convey a false impression, I hasten to recal to the reader's recollection the very different habits of our fathers in respect of drinking. It was no unusual thing to be a three bottle man' in those days in England, when the three bottles were of Port or Burgundy; and Goethe, a Rhinelander, accustomed from boyhood to wine, drank a wine which his English contemporaries would have called water. The amount he drank never did more than exhilarate him; never made him unfit for work or for society.

Over his wine, then, he sat some hours: no such thing as dessert was seen upon his table in those days: not even the customary coffee after dinner. His mode of living was extremely simple; and even when persons of very modest circumstances burned wax, two poor tallow candles were all that could be seen in his rooms. In the evening he went often to the theatre, and there his customary glass of punch was brought at six o'clock. If not at the theatre, he received friends at home. Between eight and nine a frugal supper was laid, but he never took anything except a little salad or preserves. By ten o'clock he was usually in bed.

Many visitors came to him. It was the pleasure and the penalty of his fame, that all persons who came near Weimar made an effort to see him. Sometimes these visitors were persons of great interest; oftener they were fatiguing bores, or men with pretensions more offensive than dulness. To those he liked, he was inexpressibly charming; to the others he was stately, even to stiffness. While, therefore, we hear some speak of him with an enthusiasm such as genius alone can excite; we hear others giving vent to the feelings of disappointment, and even of offence, created by his manners. The stately minister exasperated those who went to see the impassioned poet.

As these visitors were frequently authors, it was natural they should avenge their wounded self-love in criticisms. and epigrams. To cite but one example among many: Bürger, whom Goethe had assisted in a pecuniary way, came to Weimar, and announced himself in this preposterous style: 'You are Goethe-I am Bürger,' evidently believing he was thereby maintaining his own greatness, and offering a brotherly alliance. Goethe received him with the most diplomatic politeness, and the most diplomatic formality; instead of plunging into discussions of poetry, he would be brought to talk of nothing but the condition of the Göttingen University, and the number of its students. Bürger went away furious, and avenged this reception in an epigram, and related to all comers the experience he had had of the proud, cold, diplomatic Geheimrath. Others had the like experience to recount; jand a public, ever greedy of scandal, ever willing to believe a great man is a small man, echoed these voices in swelling chorus. Something of this offence lay in the very nature of Goethe's bearing, which was stiff even to haughtiness. His appearance was so imposing, that Ileine relates, on the occasion of his first interview with him, how an elaborately prepared speech was entirely driven from his memory by the Jupiter-like presence, and he could only stammer forth a remark on the excellence of the plums which grew on the road from Jena to Weimar.' An imposing presence is irritating to mean natures; and Goethe might have gained universal applause, if he had worn no cravat, and let his hair hang loose upon his shoulders, like Jean Paul.

The mention of Jean Paul leads me to quote his impression of Goethe. I went timidly to meet him. Every one had described him as cold to everything upon earth. Frau von Kalb said he no longer admires anything, not

even himself. Every word is ice. Nothing but curiosities warm the fibres of his heart; so I asked Knebel if he could petrify me, or encrust me in some mineral spring that I might present myself as a statue or a fossil.' How one hears the accents of village gossip in these sentences! To Weimarian ignorance Goethe's enthusiasm for statues and natural products seemed monstrous. His house," Jean Paul continues, or rather his palace, pleased me; it is the only one in Weimar in the Italian style; with such a staircase! A Pantheon full of pictures and statues. Fresh anxiety oppressed me. At last the god entered, cold, monosyllabic. The French are drawing towards Paris,' said Knebel. Hm!' said the god. His face is massive and animated; his eye a ball of light! At last, as conversation turned to art, he warmed, and was himself. His conversation is not so rich and flowing as Herder's, but penetrating, acute and calm. Finally, he read, or rather performed, an unpublished poem, in which the flames of his heart burst through the external crust of ice ; so that he greeted my enthusiasm with a pressure of the hand. He did it again as I took leave, and urged me to call. By heaven! we shall love each other! He considers his poetic career closed. There is nothing comparable to his reading. It is like deep-toned thunder, blended with whispering rain-drops.

I

Now let us hear what Jean Paul says of Schiller. went yesterday to see the stony Schiller, from whom all strangers spring back as from a precipice. His form ist wasted, yet severely powerful, and very angular. He is full of acumen, but without love. His conversation is as excellent as his writings.' He never repeated this visit to Schiller, who doubtless quite subscribed to what Goethe wrote. 'I am glad you have seen Richter. His love of truth, and his wish for self-improvement, have prepos