ual, I
could make it good again; but if I committed it jointly with three or
four others, it would be impossible to make it good, for among many
there are many opinions."

Goethe was in excellent spirits today. He showed me Frau von Spiegel's
album, in which he had written some very beautiful verses. A place had
been left open for him for two years, and he rejoiced at having been
able to perform at last an old promise. After I had read the "Poem to
Frau von Spiegel," I turned over the leaves of the book, in which I
found many distinguished names. On the very next page was a poem by
Tiedge, written in the very spirit and style of his _Urania_. "In a
saucy mood," said Goethe, "I was on the point of writing some verses
beneath those; but I am glad I did not. It would not have been the first
time that, by rash expressions, I had repelled good people, and spoiled
the effect of my best works.

"However," continued Goethe, "I have had to endure not a little from
Tiedge's _Urania_; for, at one time, nothing was sung and nothing was
declaimed but this same Urania. Wherever you went, you found _Urania_ on
the table. _Urania_ and immortality were the topics of every
conversation. I would by no means dispense with the happiness of
believing in a future existence, and, indeed, would say, with Lorenzo
de' Medici, that those are dead even for this life who hope for no
other. But such incomprehensible matters lie too far off to be a theme
of daily meditation and thought-distracting speculation. Let him who
believes in immortality enjoy his happiness in silence, he has no reason
to give himself airs about it. The occasion of Tiedge's _Urania_ led me
to observe that piety, like nobility, has its aristocracy. I met stupid
women, who plumed themselves on believing, with Tiedge, in immortality,
and I was forced to bear much dark examination on this point. They were
vexed by my saying I should be well pleased if, after the close of this
life, we were blessed with another, only I hoped I should hereafter meet
none of those who had believed in it here. For how should I be
tormented! The pious would throng around me, and say, 'Were we not
right? Did we not predict it? Has not it happened just as we said?' And
so there would be ennui without end, even in the other world.

"This occupation with the ideas of immortality," he continued, "is for
people of rank, and especially ladies, who have nothing to do. But an
able man, who has some thing reg