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temporary separations, the longer will your romance last." She acknowledged his judgment and sagacity; was poignantly afflicted at her inability to enable her husband to return a love like her own; and was only kept from concluding that he was really right in the dreary truth implied in this recommendation, and that her ideas of married love and bliss were indeed only the romance of girlhood, by a stronger conviction that there was something in herself which prevented any such love. She was not at all disposed to dissuade her brother from his purpose.

It was about the time when the evening service was usually over at Bribeworth church, when the travellers approached their native town. By a mutual impulse, both at the same moment looked eagerly forth from the carriage, as if expecting to recognise some familiar object. They were not disappointed. A plainly-attired female figure was standing with her back to them on the Windlebourne bridge, in a stooping attitude, as if talking to a little child who was playing timidly with her fingers. Sumner closed his eyes, and sank back in the carriage: Lucy Perigord clasped her hands with sudden delight, and something like her young glee glistened from her blue eyes. Lady Agnes slipped something into the tiny hand she held, closed the dimpled fingers upon it, and, hearing a sound of wheels as she rose from her stooping position, she carelessly raised her eyes towards the approaching object, as if only half conscious that she did so. Lucy, who was earnestly observing her, literally started with a thrill of joy, as she witnessed the evident and irrepressible emotion with which Lady Agnes first recognised the unexpected vehicle and its burden.

"Easier-far, already, than I find it," said Lady Agnes. She spoke with attempted calmness, but her voice trembled with emotion.

"Oh, how shall I tell my heavy news? How bear to see that face o'ercast? How willingly would I die rather!" exclaimed Sumner.

"Oh, Harry! Nay! not so," said Lady Agnes with gentle reproachfulness; "God's will be done, whatever it be."

"It is impossible for you to know how unspeakably I prize your love; and that is my misery," continued Sumner. "What do you mean, dearest ?" inquired Lady Agnes affectionately.

"It is taken from me-I must not have it. It is a higher will; and you-Oh, Agnes-Nay-I am a child -a very coward," he continued.

"Do, dear Harry, be calmer. Do not be so disturbed. What is it you would say?" she remonstrated, but with a caressing gentleness.

"I am a ruined man!" exclaimed Sumner abruptly. "Ruined! I know not what the word means, if you refer to anything on this side the grave," replied Lady Agnes. "You surely are not thus cast down about any temporal calamity that has happened?"

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Temporal Ruined!" he repeated; "No-true; but it is not a mere worldly calamity. It reaches over my life, and changes its whole form and tenor. No, I cannot! It is impossible-I am no longer in a posi tion to-to-I-”

"I fancy I gather your meaning. If I am right, name not the subject to me, except as to your betrothed wife."

Such was Lady Agnes' reply to her distracted lover. "I must I must!" he exclaimed passionately.

Traces of emotions which she betrayed not were, however, very perceptible. When the carriage drew up, and the travellers had descended, there was a slight"There was at best a wide distance between our respectremor of her whole frame, as she grasped Lucy's hand tive positions. Yes-your consent was a condescension with genuine affectionateness. A grateful smile played a sacrifice to love. I had a position and a fortune upon her lips; a heightened colour spread a glow of then-I have neither now-I am an outcast-a pauper gladness over her countenance; and when she calmly-yes, Agnes-literally a pauper!" turned her soft dark eyes upon her lover, it was as if a blaze of love had flashed upon his soul.

That evening was spent in her society; they rambled about the grounds, sat in the old favourite nook by the stream side, watched the setting sun from the hill top, dived into the shade of trees-basked, in short, in the common rapture of a lovely summer evening's walk. Calm and tranquil were the transports of the one; there was an impetuosity in the blissful delirium of the other. Not a word of what he had purposed fell from him that evening. He felt that renewing and prolonging these joys, was to wrong and delude the loved girl who leaned upon his arm; but to break the spell was utterly beyond his power. A heavy punishment was exacted of him in his bitter self-reproaches in the solitude of that night. No sleep closed his eyelids; and he spent the hours as they should who have a great trial to pass through.

The experience of the day that had passed prepared him for the next; and before he had scarcely greeted her, from whom he was about finally to tear himself on the following morning, she had observed that something was wrong. Sumner distrusted himself this time, and would run no risk of procrastination. Before a word beyond the ordinary morning salutation could be spoken, he said, with ill-repressed feeling, that he had something to communicate which deeply concerned them both, and prayed her to bestow upon him the favour of one more saunter in the 'grounds.

Lady Agnes hastened to equip herself for that purpose. They were heavy moments-those of her absence. Her lover used them to fortify himself for the occasion. So soon as they had gone forth into the summer air, and were now out of hearing, Sumner commenced.

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Agnes," he said, you have long been in the habit of overcoming your own will. To you it has become almost easy. You have taught me to aspire to the same standard: but I am only a beginner. To me -I find it-it is-"

The guilelessness and disinterested devotion of Lady Agnes' plighted love did not admit of her placing herself sufficiently in her lover's position. She had long learned to look down on the casual appendages of rank and wealth. The notion of the union of two lovepledged souls depending absolutely on either of them, seemed to her simply preposterous. Her answer partook of the tone and colour of her thoughts.

"Must I remind you, Harry," she said, smiling, "I am yours and you are mine? It is a contract-and one too which must not be lightly broken." Here the lovely speaker interrupted herself with a nervous laugh; and accused her lover of making her to be guilty of "unmaidenly boldness." Then she added in a lower tone of voice, with deep feeling, "How grateful both of us ought to be, Harry, that, in spite of the entire loss of property you appear to have experienced, there is yet between us more than enough for our utmost wants, and almost luxuries, if we demand them. As to rank and position, there is but one, as you know, that I aspire to; and you will give me more valuable help in reaching that, than I can dispense with."

Sumner was wholly overcome. To speak was for a few minutes out of the question. He made two abortive efforts. He would have displayed a weakness, of which he would have been unnecessarily ashamed, if he had not desisted. If he had had time to weigh matters dispassionately, he might have seen cause for coming to a dif ferent decision. But Lady Agnes' last words had struck the most sensitive chord in his nature. . Responsive to the lightest touch, this volunteered self-sacrifice, as it appeared to him, sent thrilling echoes through and through him. He was conscious of but one impulse, and that was to follow their echoing inspirations any whither, on the moment, headlong. The very devotion of the love of this generous girl, her fascination and endearments, did but exasperate the instinct. Instead of

making separation more impossible, it hurried him the more violently away. He could literally see nothing but the meanness of linking such an one to his fatesof dragging her from her peerless height to his low level of taking advantage of her love, of its very disinterested, or rather, self-sacrificing nobleness, to humble her, and to enrich and exalt himself. "Never!" he vowed internally. "She shall know at least that my love is too true for that."

"Agnes!" he said at length, when he had summoned sufficient self-command to express himself with firmness, "when I wed another, you may conclude that I never really loved you. To have known you, and to have revelled for months in the rapture of your society, as brother with sister, is happiness enough for the rest of my life. At least, it is all I am permitted. A power, to whose decrees you have taught me we must lovingly submit, has forbidden more."

He spoke with such fearful calmness, and there was such a truly appalling rigidness of inflexible resolution in his very look and gesture, that now for the first time in the conversation, and on a sudden, the heart of Agnes Clifton sank down to utter hopelessness, and she wept bitterly.

So soon as the first violence of her woe had subsided, Lady Agnes recovered her composure. But she was no longer the same being in appearance. Her face was deadly pale; all colour had left her lips; her eyes-their soft radiance dimmed with unbidden tears-looked, as the heavy lids half curtained their dark and expressive orbs, the very symbols of misery. Still she was calmlike her lover-strongly, rigidly, fearfully calm. Her resolution, too, had been made in a short interval: it was the same as his. For the rest, she must obey and endure.

She gazed at her lover for a moment or two with unutterable fondness; and then fondly, but deliberately, she proceeded:

"I have told you, Harry, that all external advantages are to me utterly worthless and contemptible. I value wealth only for the sake of alms-giving; rank, because it affords greater opportunities of sacrifice to God. For themselves, I entirely despise them. Happiness would be quite as near to me in a cottage as in a palace-perhaps nearer. Happen what may, the consent I gave you is irrevocable; mark me, irrevocable. Whatever you are to me now, you will be to me when the last summons arrives."

There was a pause; Harry Sumner's breath came and went convulsively; an icy faintness came over him. Fortunately it was only a passing thrill. Lady Agnes stood still pale and motionless.

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"Place yourself-place yourself in my position," at length he found power to articulate. Imagine it, Agnes; picture it-Could you?--Would you? No; you would spurn the idea! A pauper, without even a prospect, to wed an earl's daughter! Hush, my traitor, coward heart; nothing under heaven shall induce me to swerve from a determination prompted by the plainest considerations of honour."

Lady Agnes listened still and silent; her breathing was quick and strong; but her lips remained firmly closed.

Sumner then found strength to resume that terrible stern calmness, as he said, in slow and deep accents, with lips that blenched not, and unquivering voice, I go. Farewell.-The Eternal rain blessings on you! Happiness and I part company to-day."

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"What are your plans?" asked Lady Agnes, in voice scarcely audible.

"Holy Orders!"

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After a long and most trying pause to both, "Go !" she exclaimed-and her accents were as of one inspired-"Go! thou whom-now, alas! I feel too keenly-I have set up as an idol in my heart. Go, unt l we have both learned what it is to love without idolatry. In any case there is heaven to live for." And, bending her head on

his breast, she waited for his solemn farewell. It was given, and Lady Agues Clifton and Harry Sumner separated.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"And through that conflict seeking rest."-The Excursion. SUMNER'S trials were not ended with his sad farewell. It was not permitted him to indulge to the full his grief. He was resolved not to communicate ever so small a share of his trouble to his sister. A profound inner peace is the invariable instalment of reward of every act of duty performed at a great sacrifice of oneself. There is, too, a degree of physical excitement in the first fresh pangs of overwhelming affliction. These came to the aid of Sumner's natural fortitude. However, the sufferings of his heart were too excruciating to be completely concealed. A word-a gesture-an involuntary sigh an occasional fit of absence, with the altogether altered expression of a countenance, on which unremitting suffering soon began to tell-betrayed the misery within. His sister saw it plainly enough, despite all his efforts to hide it. She wondered within herself how Lady Agnes, by any persuasions, or on any plea, could have been induced to consent to exile herself from such a love as her brother's. To her, sorrow was familiar-a constant guest-an inseparable companion. Its bitterest visitations were with her. Earth knows no keener anguish than the loving as did Lucy Perigord, where its return is as impossible as it was from her husband. Such sorrow as this could not but dull the edge of every other in Lucy Perigord's desolated bosom. With all her tender love for her darling brother, and in spite of all her unfathomable sympathizings with his sorrow, it added not materially to her own. For there is no deeper than the deepest-darker than the darkest— worse than the worst. But when in the home of their infancy, as they sorrowfully, their arms wreathed round each other, trod that dear garden which had once echoed with the innocent glee of their childhood, and in the twilight of the evening sauntered carefully amidst the pale lights that gleamed faintly at their feet on that sward so soft and green, which until now had scarce drunk a tear from their eyes, he discoursed to her in solemn and fervent phrase of the present and of the future-the furnace fires and the refined gold-the cross of a year or two, and the everlasting crown:--when, glowing with his subject, he spoke after a still more impassioned fashion, of the unspeakable love, which itself inflicted every calamity, having first endured its fellest form itself-of how all human love, the purest and most intense, is but a torment in preparation, if it be not subordinate to that, and tend not thitherward, where love would receive its fruition and its joy :--then, indeed, she listened to her brother with feelings resembling those with which Lady Agnes had appreciated his grandeur of purpose and nobility of soul. Then she began to feel enamoured indeed of grief-to welcome, to embrace it. Remembering in whom she suffered, she scarcely prayed to be relieved.

Harry Sumner sought an interview with Mr. Smith before he returned to Town. He communicated to him his wish to prepare for Holy Orders. Mr. Smith's advice was, that he should return to Oxford and place himself under the guidance of an eminent member of that University. Sumner unhesitatingly adopted this wise counsel. He had informed his constituents, in his farewell address, that a sudden and great reverse of fortune had compelled him so soon to terminate a connexion which had commenced so auspiciously. There was an open genuineness, and at the same time a depth of feeling, in the address, which increased the universal regret at his retirement. He expressed his wish and intention to avoid any public demonstration. He hoped to take leave of all of them personally. Having fulfilled this intention to the best of his power, he returned with his sister to London. Mr. Perigord was in the very zenith of success. He had laid a financial scheme on the table

of the House, that sent the moneyocracy into raptures. | It sent him at one bound to the top of the contested ladder. Addresses, freedoms, deputations, leading articles, bad odes, and worse dinners, swelled the triumph of the man of business. It was a brilliant ovation. The premier was brim full of that patronizing affability so grateful to sycophants and place hunters. His parliamentary majority swelled. The last step taken by his brother-in-law had rid him of that perplexity. He had now only to clear himself of him altogether, and fix the blame where it evidently belonged. This he did effectually. Honourable members looked aghast at "such infatuated folly." These were the sort of sentiments regarding him, amidst which Sumner now found himself on his return from Bribeworth. Some who used to shake him by the hand with uncomfortable heartiness, surveyed him through an eye-glass, and studied a shopwindow with intense ardour until he was out of ken. Cold bows and cold shoulders, haughty recognitionssuch constituted his present reception. Mr. D'Aaroni saw through the whole affair-the member for Cantingbury liked him too much to be cool, if he had become a highwayman, even-his friend Banbury cared nothing for on dits;" and, moreover, did not know how to change his manner and feelings to a friend. These three formed almost the only exception to the all but universal prejudice that had been excited against him. Not a feeling of anger was kindled in his breast by this false-hearted injustice. He smiled sadly, and pursued his course. He remained a fortnight in London. It was spent in profound retirement. His mother then returned to Pendlebury with Lucy, who was within three weeks of her accouchement. Her son took his departure on the same day for Oxford.

"

Lord Clifton did not remain in England. In the last conversation he had with Sumner, he had, in answer to his inquiries, been informed by him of every particular of those events which had terminated in a manner so untoward and unexpected. Few persons would have suspected the depth of feeling that lay beneath the quiet, simple manner of Lord Clifton. Upon this occasion he felt like a woman for his friend. But he resolved to watch events; and if it appeared that the lapse of a year or two did not allay the intenseness of that emotion which he well knew had been kindled in either breast, it was his fixed determination to remove all obstacles. At present he dared not interfere. How could he tell but that he might be seeming to thwart higher purposes? A year or two would discover if their souls were inseparably united. If so, there could be no hesitation about ratifying their union. He was thus easily prevailed upon by his sister to consent to let Windlebourne for a year or two. She had a particular reason. was to receive the proceeds, and was to dispose of the whole as she pleased without being called to an account. Lord Clifton was delighted to gratify this little whim of his sister's, in spite of a strong private aversion to allowing strangers to inhabit Windlebourne. The letting it was placed in the hands of an agent; and Lady

Agnes, with her brother, hastened to the continent.

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As soon as Sumner arrived at Oxford, he placed himself, according to Mr. Smith's advice, under the direction of an eminent doctor of that university; who had counselled him to spend two entire years in strict preparation. A year and a half of that period had now transpired. It had been spent by him in a manner which the reader will suffer to remain in its inviolable privacy. Let it suffice to be told, that it was spent in the strictest observance of duty.

A few days before the time at which we resume our story, Mr. Smith had been presented to a living, which he found he could conscientiously accept. Mr. Perigord's brother, the rector, had been so delighted with the curate's care of the parish, and with the man him

self, that he was anxious to meet with a clergyman of similar principles. Mr. Smith was very anxious that Sumner should succeed him, and represented the ad

vantages of such an appointment so powerfully to the rector-who, besides being of an easy disposition, liked the proposition himself immensely-that nothing would do but Harry Sumner must come, in spite of his only being in deacon's orders. Now, on the very morning of which we are speaking, Sumner had received letters of the most pressing description from Mr. Perigord, the rector, Mr. Smith, his mother and sister, urging, the latter beseeching him, to accept the curacy. He had laid them before Dr., who knew every circumstance needed to form an opinion, and received his assent. He was to present himself for deacon's orders at the forthcoming -the Pentecost-ordination. He well knew what he was undertaking. A vivid sense of the responsibility to which he was about to be committed was ever present with him. He looked from the array and power of the enemies against whom he was pledged to wage war to the death, and the priceless value of the charge about to be entrusted to him, to his own insufficiency, with many a trembling misgiving. Often he would have declined such a charge, but his adviser encouraged him to proceed. Guided by him, he betook himself more diligently and resolutely, during the short remaining interval before his consecration, to that exercise of prayer, whence he procured strength, and skill, and weapons, for a work at the prospect of which his heart sank within him.

What hung upon his conscience most heavily was the incapacity he experienced to divert his heart from its human love.

The sole an day at length arrived, and Sumner was ordained at Oxford by the Bishop of

THE YOUTH OF GOETHE.

BY E. 0.

Ir the question were asked in a numerous circle, whose works amongst those of the German poets stood forth so prominently marked by national peculiarities as fairly to be taken for the type of their class, the names of Goethe and of Faust would probably rise spontaneously to the lips of all present it cannot, therefore, be uninteresting to trace the circumstances which contributed to form a character so well known, and threw their varied shades of colouring over writings which have exercised a powerful influence on the literature of Europe during the greater part of a century. Goethe has enabled us to do this with considerable accuracy, by leaving to the world a portion at least of his autobiography, and thus furnishing us with a key to unlock the secret springs on which the more visible workings of his mind depended. The German title of this book is "Dichtung und Wahrheit," and the first English translation of it has this year made its appearance, under the name of "Truth and Poetry from my own Life;" the first ten books of the work, had, however, been published in America, before the present, and more complete version was undertaken.

"On the 28th of August, 1749, at mid-day, as the clock struck twelve," says Goethe, "I came into the world at Frankfort-on-the-Maine. My horoscope was propitious; the sun stood in the sign of the Virgin, and had culminated for the day; Jupiter and Venus looked on him with a friendly eye, and Mercury not adversely, while Saturn and Mars kept themselves indifferent: the Moon alone, just full, exerted the power of her reflection all the more as she had then

reached her planetary hour; she opposed herself she left a lasting impression of her kindness and intherefore to my birth, which could not be accom-dulgence on the minds of Goethe and his sister; and plished until this hour was passed. I came into the also a legacy which they highly valued, in the shape world as dead, and only after various efforts was I of the puppet theatre, whose speechless actors had enabled to see the light. We lived in an old house, already awakened in them both so lively an interest which, in fact, consisted of two houses that had been in the drama. opened into each other; a spiral staircase led to rooms on different levels, and the unevenness of the stories was remedied by steps. For us children, a younger sister and myself, the favourite resort was a spacious floor below, near the door of which was a large wooden lattice that allowed us direct communication with the street and open air. A bird-cage of this sort with which many houses were provided was called a Frame; the women sat in it to sew and knit, the cook picked her salad there, female neighbours chatted with each other; and the streets consequently in the fine season wore a southern aspect; one felt at ease while in communication with the public. My father's mother, in whose house we properly dwelt, lived in a large back room on the ground floor, and we were accustomed to carry on our sports even up to her chair, and when she was ill, up to her bed-side. I remember her as it were a spirit -a handsome thin woman, always neatly dressed in white. One Christmas evening she crowned all her kindnesses by having a puppet-show displayed before us, and thus unfolding a new world in the old house." This unexpected exhibition produced a great and lasting impression upon Goethe and his sister Cornelia, so that from that time they enjoyed nothing so much as contriving and bringing forward upon their narrow stage, various pieces with appropriate dresses and scenery.

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Goethe's favourite retreat was amongst a few plants placed in the window of what was called "the garden-room," which commanded a view over the gardens which reached to the very walls of the city: over these, and beyond the ramparts, might be seen a beautiful and fertile plain stretching towards Höchst. "There," says he, "I commonly learnt my lessons, and watched the thunder-storms, but I could never look my fill at the setting sun, which went down directly opposite my windows; and when at the same time I saw the neighbours wandering through their gardens taking care of their flowers, the children playing, parties of friends enjoying themselves, and could hear the bowls rolling and the ninepins dropping, it early excited within me a feeling of solitude and a sense of vague longing resulting from it, which, conspiring with the seriousness and awe implanted in me by nature, exerted its influence at an early age, and showed itself more distinctly in after years."

His father was of a singularly didactic turn, delighting in nothing so much as the work of instruction, which he carried on as regarded his young wife and her two children with the most persevering and minute atten

tion; his affection for his own aged mother, during whose life-time he delayed his long cherished plans for the complete alteration of the gloomy old house in which they lived, was however a redeeming trait in his particularly tiresome character. When she died,

But now a new condition of life was about to begin; for, during the period in which the house was rebuilding, the children were sent to a public school, and for the first time emancipated from the seclusion in which they had hitherto been brought up. Young as he was, Goethe used his comparative freedom, to become acquainted with different parts of his native city, of which he had till then only heard; and a certain liking for the antique was thus implanted within him, which was increased by the wood-cuts and old chronicles he used to purchase for a few half-pence during his wanderings, relating to the siege of Frankfort and other local events. With infinite pleasure and minuteness does the old man dwell on the impressions of his thoughtful and inquiring childhood; on the days passed in the council-house, where his grandfather sate in civic dignity as the Schultheiss or chief magistrate, elected by the city; on the legends gathered from all who were able to satisfy his curiosity respecting the portraits of the early emperors, and the coronations of Charles VII. and of Francis I., and on the pageants and curious ceremonies which remained in those days to link the present with the past.

Meanwhile, the house was finished, and the family were again united, and soon resumed their old routine of study in more cheerful apartments, which were destined to be adorned with paintings from the easels of modern masters. It was a favourite opinion with Goethe's father, that pictures were just like Rhenish wines, which may be produced in each year of equal excellence, though age may impart to them a higher value: he therefore employed for many years the whole of the Frankfort artists; but the one who especially awoke and nourished the love of art in his children was Seekatz, a pupil of Brinkmann, the court painter at Darmstadt. Conscious as he was of his own acquirements and unceasing perseverance in the task of education, he undertook to instruct them himself, using the help of masters only so far as their lessons appeared absolutely necessary: but when these were gradually multiplied, he allowed the neighbours' children to share them with his son and daughter, and on Sundays the fellow-pupils held a little assembly of their own, in which each was expected to produce original verses. Goethe was struck by the observation, that although his own poems always appeared to him to be the best, the other boys invariably thought the same of their performances, whatever they might be; and the thought of whether he might not seem as mad to them as they did to him, occasioned him long and deep disquietude-a singular proof of the tendency of his mind towards metaphysical speculations. His studies were frequently interrupted by illnesses, from which he had scarcely time to recover before his father, vexed at the delay which each occasioned,

and still more willingly the lampoons directed against the other party, as atrocious as were often the verses themselves." In the course of the dissensions to which this state of politics gave rise, the adherents of either side could scarely meet in the streets without a war-cry, like that of the old Montagues and Capulets : Goethe perceived the injustice of the spirit which animated both, and traces to the feelings which it aroused in himself, that disdain of public opinion which clung to him for many years, and only in later days was brought within bounds by insight and cultivation.

insisted on double lessons being learnt, and shortened the few hours of recreation which he had ever allowed. Religious education he had none, if we except what he calls " a dry kind of morality without any appeal being made to the understanding or to the heart." The Old Testament and Ovid seem equally to have engaged his attention; but, in the simplicity of childish faith, he held firmly the belief, that God who had created all things, would take care of him, and might be approached by him with offerings of what he possessed. He determined to erect an altar, upon which natural productions were to be set forth as images of the world, and over them a flame should burn, signifying the aspirations of the heart of man towards his Maker: and this plan he accomplished by means of his collection of ores and fossils, arranged upon a music stand; a few fumigating pastils which emitted fragrance and at least a glimmer, appeared to him a fitter representation of the feelings of the heart than a more vivid light; and he kindled them with animity, after finding verses without rhyme brought burning glass just as the morning sun arose. The altar remained as an ornament in his chamber; others regarded it only as a well-arranged collection; but the boy was conscious of something holier, which he carefully concealed. An accident, however, which soon afterwards happened to the music-stand, owing to his inexperience in using his burning-glass, so dis-each apartment of which had been furnished and kept concerted him, that he did not again renew the cere

mony.

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About this time our young philosopher used to astonish and perplex his young friends by the romantic stories he was in the habit of telling them, half truth, half fiction, and partly gathered from his reading his mind indeed appears to have been as singularly beyond his years, as was the new summer suit given him for Whit-Sunday, which he thus describes at the opening of his story, called "The new Paris," which, considering the age of the narrator, is truly marvellous. My costume for the festival consisted of shoes of polished leather with large silver buckles, fine cotton stockings, black nether garments of serge, and a coat of green baracan with gold buttons; the waistcoat of gold cloth was cut out of my father's bridal waistcoat: my hair had been frizzled and powdered, and my curls stuck out from my head like little wings."

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Scarcely had Goethe completed his seventh year, when Frederic II., king of Prussia, commenced the famous seven-years' war by falling upon Saxony with 60,000 men; and then, instead of a previous declaration of war, he published a manifesto, explaining the causes which he supposed justified so monstrous a step. The world, finding itself appealed to as judge, split into two parties, and our hero's family was an image of the great whole: his grandfather took the Austrian side. "As for myself," says he, "I was altogether a Prussian, or, to speak more correctly, a Fritzian; for what cared we for Prussia? It was the personal character of the great king that impressed all minds. I rejoiced with my father in our conquests, readily copied the songs of triumph,

A somewhat less serious subject of dispute was soon afterwards introduced into the family circle, by the appearance of Klopstock's "Messiah," which was smuggled into the hands of Goethe and his mother, by their old friend Councillor Schneider. It was a vexatious era to the master of the house; for scarcely had he in some degree recovered his equainto fashion, when it sustained a severer and more lasting shock, by the appearance of Count Thorane, the lieutenant of the king of France, who, at the head of a column, marched into Frankfort on the Newyear's Day of 1759, and soon afterwards took possession of his quarters in the newly-finished mansion,

with such unremitting care. Willingly would we transcribe the whole account of the reserved and dignified soldier, with his perfect uprightness, and his love of art: his character stands in admirable contrast to that of the elder Goethe, who became daily more of a self-tormentor under the annoyances consequent on Count Thorane's residence under his roof, though he never but once came into personal contact with him. The Frankfort artists were again fully employed in painting an immense number of pictures, which were destined to adorn the chateau of the Count's elder brother; and the boy often persuaded them to execute subjects of his own selecting, and acquired a considerable knowledge of their art. His mother, for whom he cherished throughout life the tenderest affection, behaved with admirably good sense, in maintaining peace and mutual charity in her household; she already spoke Italian, and now rapidly acquired French also, the more readily to converse with her guests, and her children soon spoke both languages fluently. Her son thus describes her :"A mother, as yet almost a child, who first grew up to consciousness with and in her two elder children; these three looked on the world with healthy eyes, capable of enjoying life, and desirous of present happiness." They were inseparable in wishes, in tastes, and in sorrows; but the family was unhappily divided from its head, at least in spirit and in feeling.

Goethe now began to study English with ardour; and, at his own desire, he took lessons in Hebrew also, from a strange old man of whom he had always stood in wondering awe, Rector Albrecht, who insisted on teaching him on the approved method, with points, instead of allowing him to gain only a superficial knowledge of

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