he greatness and goodness of him who slept here, and who
here slept his last sleep, brings tears into our eyes, and makes the
breathing deep."

When I had finished reading this passage, my friend exclaimed
triumphantly, "There! don't you see that it was just because Goethe had
imaginative power of a strong and active kind that he cared nothing
about what surrounded him when he worked? He had statues and pictures to
occupy his mind when it was disengaged, but when he wrote he preferred
that bare little cell where nothing was to be seen that could distract
his attention for an instant. Depend upon it, Goethe acted in this
matter either from a deliberate and most wise calculation, or else from
the sure instinct of genius."

Whilst we were on this subject I thought over other instances, and
remembered my surprise on visiting Gustave Dore in his painting-room in
Paris. Dore has a Gothic exuberance of imagination, so I expected a
painting-room something like Victor Hugo's house, rather barbarous, but
very rich and interesting, with plenty of carved cabinets, and tapestry,
and _biblos_, as they call picturesque curiosities in Paris. To my
surprise, there was nothing (except canvases and easels) but a small
deal table, on which tubes of oil-color were thrown in disorder, and two
cheap chairs. Here, evidently, the pleasure of painting was sufficient
to occupy the artist; and in the room where he made his illustrations
the characteristics were simplicity and good practical arrangements for
order, but there was nothing to amuse the imagination. Mr. Leslie used
to paint in a room which was just like any other in the house, and had
none of the peculiarities of a studio. Turner did not care in the least
what sort of a room he painted in, provided it had a door, and a bolt on
the inside. Scott could write anywhere, even in the family sitting-room,
with talk going forward as usual; and after he had finished Abbotsford,
he did not write in any of its rich and noble rooms, but in a simple
closet with book-shelves round it. Dickens wrote in a comfortable room,
well lighted and cheerful, and he liked to have funny little bronzes on
his writing-table.

The best way appears to be to surround ourselves, whenever it can be
conveniently done, with whatever we know by experience to be favorable
to our work. I think the barest cell monk ever prayed in would be a good
place for imaginative composition, and so too would be the most
magnificent r