sting blush when he thought on the improprieties of the Book of
Ruth. So, hold up your head, our bright-eyed, beautiful Bettina, and cheer
the heart of the old man eloquent with your affection; and tell him over
and over, in your own wild and captivating manner, that you love him, and
worship him, and think of him always, and sing his ballads, and read his
books--and nobody in their senses will think a bit the worse of you for
it--not even your worthy husband, who was five or six and twenty years old
when you married him; and, very likely, was nearly as enthusiastic about
Wolfgang as yourself. And as to kissing and jumping on people's knees, and
hugging close to the heart, these seem equivalent, among the Germans of
all ranks and ages, to a good hearty shake of the hand among our more
sedately behaved population; and though we think that, under ordinary
circumstances, our national customs in those respects are preferable, we
are not prepared to say that we should be sorry for the introduction of a
little Germanism in our own case, if we were a great poet at the age of
fifty-eight, and were acquainted with a lively, happy, charming little
genius like Bettina, of fifteen. And that she was all that we have called
her--and more--we will now proceed to show, by giving a few translations
from her letters; and, if we can find an opportunity of introducing a
story or two by the mother, we will not let it pass.--And here let us make
a remark, savouring, perhaps, of national vanity--of which failing we have
heard our countrymen not unfrequently accused. Our remark is this, that
the Frau Rath, as Goethe's mother is called, has many characteristics
about her which we have been in the habit of considering Scotch. If we
reduced her reported conversations to our native Doric, they would read
exactly like the best parts of Scott and Galt--a great deal of shrewdness,
mixed with a wild sort of humour, sarcastic and descriptive; but in her,
perhaps, elevated by an occasional burst of poetry into something higher
than is met with in the _Ayrshire Legatees_, or even in _Cyril Thornton_.
In saying this, we allude, of course, to none of the tedious "havers"
contained in the book dedicated to the King of Prussia, or at least to the
anti-biblical parts of them--the old Frau Rath being about the worst
commentator it has ever been our fortune to meet.

But let us go back to Bettina. "Morris Bethman tells me," says the Frau
Rath, in a letter to her