qual judgment, is another
question. Lord Byron's transformed Devil[14] is a continuation of
Mephistopheles, and quite right too. If, from the whim of originality,
he had departed from the model, he would certainly have fared worse.
Thus, my Mephistopheles sings a song from Shakespeare, and why should
he not? Why should I give myself the trouble of inventing one of my
own, when this said just what was wanted. If, too, the prologue to my
_Faust_ is something like the beginning of Job, that is again
quite right, and I am rather to be praised than censured."

Goethe was in the best humor. He sent for a bottle of wine, and filled
for Riemer and me; he himself drank Marienbad water. He seemed to have
appointed this evening for looking over, with Riemer, the manuscript of
the continuation of his autobiography, perhaps in order to improve it
here and there, in point of expression. "Let Eckermann stay and hear it
too," said Goethe; which words I was very glad to hear, and he then laid
the manuscript before Riemer, who began to read, commencing with the
year 1795.

I had already, in the course of the summer, had the pleasure of
repeatedly reading and reflecting on the still unpublished record of
those years, down to the latest time. But now to hear them read aloud in
Goethe's presence, afforded quite a new enjoyment. Riemer paid especial
attention to the mode of expression; and I had occasion to admire his
great dexterity, and his affluence of words and phrases. But in Goethe's
mind the epoch of life described was revived; he revelled in
recollections, and on the mention of single persons and events, filled
out the written narrative by the details he orally gave us. That was a
precious evening! The most distinguished of his contemporaries were
talked over; but the conversation always came back to Schiller, who was
so interwoven with this period, from 1795 to 1800. The theatre had been
the object of their united efforts, and Goethe's best works belong to
this time. _Wilhelm Meister_ was completed; _Hermann and Dorothea_
planned and written; _Cellini_ translated for the "Horen;" the "Xenien"
written by both for Schiller's _Musenalmanach_; every day brought with
it points of contact. Of all this we talked this evening, and Goethe had
full opportunity for the most interesting communications.

"_Hermann and Dorothea_," said he, "is almost the only one of my larger
poems which still satisfies me; I can never read it without strong
i