GOETHE'S MOTHER [Sidenote: _G.H. Lewes_]

That he was the loveliest baby ever seen, exciting admiration wherever nurse or mother carried him, and exhibiting, in swaddling clothes, the most wonderful intelligence, we need no biographer to tell us. Is it not said of every baby? But that he was in truth a wonderful child we have undeniable evidence, and of a kind less questionable than the statement of mothers and relatives. At three years old he could seldom be brought to play with little children, and only on the condition of their being pretty. One day, in a neighbour's house, he suddenly began to cry and exclaim, "That black child must go away! I can't bear him!" And he howled till he was carried home, where he was slowly pacified; the whole cause of his grief being the ugliness of the child.

A quick, merry little girl grew up by the boy's side. Four other children also came, but soon vanished. Cornelia was the only companion who survived, and for her his affection dated from the cradle. He brought his toys to her, wanted to feed her and attend on her, and was very jealous of all who approached her. "When she was taken from the cradle, over which he watched, his anger was scarcely to be quieted. He was altogether much more easily moved to anger than to tears." To the last his love for Cornelia was pa.s.sionate.

In old German towns, Frankfurt among them, the ground-floor consists of a great hall where the vehicles were housed. This floor opens in folding trap-doors, for the pa.s.sage of wine-casks into the cellars below. In one corner of the hall there is a sort of lattice, opening by an iron or wooden grating upon the street. This is called the Gerams. Here the crockery in daily use was kept; here the servants peel their potatoes, and cut their carrots and turnips, preparatory to cooking; here also the housewife would sit with her sewing, or her knitting, giving an eye to what pa.s.sed in the street (when anything did pa.s.s there) and an ear to a little neighbourly gossip. Such a place was, of course, a favourite with the children.

One fine afternoon, when the house was quiet, Master Wolfgang, with his cup in his hand, and nothing to do, finds himself in this Gerams, looking out into the silent street, and telegraphing to the young Ochsensteins who dwelt opposite. By way of doing something, he begins to fling the crockery into the street, delighted at the smashing music which it makes, and stimulated by the approbation of the brothers Ochsenstein, who chuckle at him from over the way. The plates and dishes are flying in this way, when his mother returns: she sees the mischief with a housewifely horror, melting into girlish sympathy, as she hears how heartily the little fellow laughs at his escapade, and how the neighbours laugh at him.

This genial, indulgent mother employed her faculty for story-telling to his and her own delight. "Air, fire, earth, and water I represented under the forms of princesses; and to all natural phenomena I gave a meaning, in which I almost believed more fervently than my little hearers. As we thought of paths which led from star to star, and that we should one day inhabit the stars, and thought of the great spirits we should meet there, I was as eager for the hours of story-telling as the children themselves; I was quite curious about the future course of my own improvisation, and any invitation which interrupted these evenings was disagreeable. There I sat, and there Wolfgang held me with his large black eyes; and when the fate of one of his favourites was not according to his fancy, I saw the angry veins swell on his temples, I saw him repress his tears. He often burst in with 'But, mother, the princess won't marry the nasty tailor, even if he does kill the giant.' And when I made a pause for the night, promising to continue it on the morrow, I was certain that he would in the meanwhile think it out for himself, and so he often stimulated my imagination. When I turned the story according to his plan, and told him that he had found out the _denouement_, then was he all fire and flame, and one could see his little heart beating underneath his dress! His grandmother, who made a great pet of him, was the confidante of all his ideas as to how the story would turn out, and as she repeated these to me, and I turned the story according to these hints, there was a little diplomatic secrecy between us, which we never disclosed. I had the pleasure of continuing my story to the delight and astonishment of my hearers, and Wolfgang saw, with glowing eyes, the fulfilment of his own conceptions, and listened with enthusiastic applause." What a charming glimpse of mother and son!

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 favourite 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 in women and poets seems to render culture superfluous, their rapid intuitions antic.i.p.ating the tardy conclusions of experience. Her letters are full of spirit: not always strictly grammatical; not irreproachable in orthography; but vigorous and vivacious. After a lengthened interview with her, an enthusiast exclaimed, "Now do I understand how Goethe has become the man he is!" Wieland, Merck, Burger, Madame de Stael, Karl August, and other great people sought her acquaintance. The d.u.c.h.ess Amalia corresponded with her as with an intimate friend; and her letters were welcomed eagerly 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 princ.i.p.al 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 surpa.s.s me in good humour." 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 pa.s.s without pretension through the world, and that gratifies men. I never _bemoralise_ 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 angles_. In this way I make myself happy and comfortable." Who does not recognise the son in those accents? The kindliest of men inherited his loving, happy nature from the heartiest of women.

WHERE--AND OH! WHERE?

[Sidenote: _Henry S. Leigh_]

Where are the times when--miles away From the din and the dust of cities-- Alexis left his lambs to play, And wooed some shepherdess half the day With pretty and plaintive ditties?

Where are the pastures daisy-strewn And the flocks that lived in clover; The Zephyrs that caught the pastoral tune And carried away the notes as soon As ever the notes were over?

Where are the echoes that bore the strains Each to his nearest neighbour; And all the valleys and all the plains Where all the nymphs and their love-sick swains Made merry to pipe and tabor?

Where are they gone? They are gone to sleep Where Fancy alone can find them; But Arcady's times are like the sheep That quitted the care of Little Bo-peep, For they've left their tales behind them!

THE SECRETS OF THE HEART [Sidenote: _Austin Dobson_]

"Le coeur mene ou il va"

_SCENE--A Chalet covered with honeysuckle_

NINETTE NINON

NINETTE This way--

NINON No, this way--

NINETTE This way, then.

(_They enter the Chalet_) You are as changing, child,--as men.

NINON But are they? Is it true, I mean?

Who said it?

NINETTE Sister Seraphine.

She was so pious and so good, With such sad eyes beneath her hood, And such poor little feet,--all bare!

Her name was Eugenie la Fere.

She used to tell us,--moonlight nights,-- When I was at the Carmelites.

NINON Ah, then it must be right. And yet, Suppose for once--suppose, Ninette--

NINETTE But what?

NINON Suppose it were not so?

Suppose there _were_ true men, you know!

NINETTE And then?

NINON Why, if that _could_ occur, What kind of men should you prefer?

NINETTE What looks, you mean?

NINON Looks, voice and all.

NINETTE Well, as to that, he must be tall, Or say, not "tall"--of middle size; And next, he must have laughing eyes; And a hook-nose,--with, underneath, Oh! what a row of sparkling teeth!

NINON (_touching her cheek suspiciously_) Has he a scar on this side?

NINETTE Hush!

Some one is coming. No; a thrush: I see it swinging there.

NINON Go on.

NINETTE Then he must fence (ah, look, 'tis gone!) And dance like Monseigneur, and sing "Love was a Shepherd,"--everything That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon.

NINON Shall I? Then mine has black, black hair ...

I mean, he _should_ have; then an air Half sad, half n.o.ble; features thin; A little _royale_ on the chin; And such a pale, high brow. And then, He is a prince of gentlemen;-- He, too, can ride and fence and write Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight No worse for that--

NINETTE I know your man.

NINON And I know yours. But you'll not tell,-- Swear it!

NINETTE I swear upon this fan,-- My grandmother's!

NINON And I, I swear On this old turquoise _reliquaire_,-- My great-_great_-grandmother's!-- _(After a pause)_

Ninette!

I feel _so_ sad.

NINETTE I too. But why?

NINON Alas, I know not!

NINETTE (_with a sigh_) Nor do I.

BRITISH FESTIVITIES [Sidenote: _Mark Twain_]