Citizen of Weickersheim, a small town in the Jaxt district, near Mergentheim.

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Goethe's father was a cold, stern, formal, somewhat pedantic, but truth-loving, upright-minded man. He hungered for knowledge, and, although in general of a laconic turn, freely imparted all he learned. In his domestic circle his word was law. Not only imperious, but in some respects capricious, he was nevertheless greatly respected, if little loved, by wife, children, and friends. He is characterized by Krause as ein geradliniger Frankfurter Reichsbürger- a straightforward Frankfurt citizen,' whose habits were as measured as his gait. From him the poet inherited the well-built frame, the erect carriage, and the measured movement which in old age became stiffness, and was construed into diplomacy or haughtiness; from him also came that orderliness and stoicism which have so much distressed those who cannot conceive genius otherwise than as vagabond in its habits. The lust for knowledge, the delight in communicating it, the almost pedantic attention to details, which are noticeable in the poet, are all traceable in the father.

The mother was more like what we conceive as the proper parent for a poet. She is one of the pleasantest figures in German literature, and one standing out with greater vividness than almost any other. Her simple, hearty, joyous, and affectionate nature endeared her to all. She was the delight of children, the favorite of poets and princes. To the last retaining her enthusiasm and simplicity, mingled with great shrewdness and knowledge of character, Frau Aja, as they christened her, was at once grave and hearty, dignified and simple. She had read most of the best German and Italian authors, had picked up considerable desultory information, and had that 'mother wit' which so often seems to render culture superfluous in women, their rapid intuitions anticipating the tardy conclusions of experience a characteristic also of the

poetic mind. Her letters are full of spirit: not always strictly grammatical; not irreproachable in orthography; but vigorous with vivacity. After a lengthened interview with her, an enthusiastic traveller exclaimed, Now do I understand how Goethe has become the man he is!'* Wieland, Merck, Bürger, Madame de Stael, Karl August, and other great people sought her acquaintance. The Duchess Amalia corresponded with her as with an intimate friend; a letter from her was a small jubilee at the Weimar Court. She was married at seventeen, to a man for whom she had no love, and was only eighteen when the poet was born. This, instead of making her prematurely old, seems to have perpetuated her girlhood. 'I and my Wolfgang,' she said, have always held fast to each other, because we were both young together.' To him she transmitted her love of story-telling, her animal spirits, her love of everything which bore the stamp of distinctive individuality, and her love of seeing happy faces around her. Order and quiet,' she says in one of her charming letters to Freiherr von Stein, are my principal characteristics. Hence I despatch at once whatever I have to do, the most disagreeable always first, and I gulp down the devil without looking at him. When all has returned to its proper state, then I defy any one to surpass me in good humor.' Her heartiness and tolerance are the causes, she thinks, why every one likes her. I am fond of people, and that every one feels directly-young and old. I pass without pretension through the world, and that gratifies men. I never bemoralize any one always seek out the good that is in them, and leave what is bad to him who made mankind, and knows how to round off the

* Ephemeriden der Literatur, quoted in Nicolovius über Goethe. † Lovers of parallels will be glad to be reminded that Napoleon's mother was only eighteen when the hero of Austerlitz was born.

angles. In this way I make myself happy and comfortable.' Who does not recognize the son in those accents? The kindliest of men inherited his loving, happy nature, from the heartiest of women.

He also inherited from her his dislike of unnecessary agitation and emotion, and that deliberate avoidance of all things capable of disturbing her peace of mind, which, in him, has been construed as coldness. Her sunny nature shrank from storms. She stipulated with her servants that they were not to trouble her with afflicting news, except upon some positive necessity for the communication. In 1805, when her son was dangerously ill at Weimar, no one ventured to speak to her on the subject. Not until he had completely recovered did she voluntarily enter on it. 'I knew it all,' she remarked, but said nothing. Now we can talk about him without my feeling a stab every time his name is mentioned.'

In this voluntary insulation from disastrous intelligence, there is something so antagonistic to the notorious craving for excitement felt by the Teutonic races, something so unlike the morbid love of intellectual drams the fierce alcohol of emotion with which we intoxicate ourselves, that it is no wonder if Goethe has on this account been accused of insensibility. Yet, in truth, a very superficial knowledge of his nature suffices to show that it was not from coldness he avoided indulgence in the luxury of woe.' It was no want of sympathy, but excess of sensibility. His delicate nerves shrank from the wear and tear of excitement. That which to coarser natures would have been a stimulus, to him was a disturbance. It is, doubtless, the instinct of our emotional nature to seek such stimulants; but his reason was strong enough to keep this instinct under control. Falk relates that when Goethe heard he had looked upon Wieland in death, and thereby