rom
David, and with the unpacking of which I had found him occupied some
days ago. The plaster medallions, with the profiles of the principal
young poets of France, he had laid in order side by side upon tables.
On this occasion, he spoke once more of the extraordinary talent of
David, which was as great in conception as in execution. He also showed
me a number of the newest works, which had been presented to him,
through the medium of David, as gifts from the most distinguished men of
the romantic school. I saw works by St. Veuve, Ballanche, Victor Hugo,
Balzac, Alfred de Vigny, Jules Janin, and others.

"David," said he, "has prepared happy days for me by this present. The
young poets have already occupied me the whole week, and afford me new
life by the fresh impressions which I receive from them. I shall make a
separate catalogue of these much esteemed portraits and books, and shall
give them both a special place in my collection of works of art and my
library."

One could see from Goethe's manner that this homage from the young poets
of France afforded him the heartiest delight.

He then read something from the _Studies_, by Emile Deschamps. He
praised the translation of the _Bride of Corinth_, as faithful, and very
successful.

"I possess," said he, "the manuscript of an Italian translation of this
poem, which gives the original, even to the rhymes."

_The Bride of Corinth_ induced Goethe to speak of the rest of his
ballads. "I owe them, in a great measure, to Schiller," said he, "who
impelled me to them, because he always wanted something new for his
_Horen_. I had already carried them in my head for many years; they
occupied my mind as pleasant images, as beautiful dreams, which came and
went, and by playing with which my fancy made me happy. I unwillingly
resolved to bid farewell to these brilliant visions, which had so long
been my solace, by embodying them in poor, inadequate words. When I saw
them on paper, I regarded them with a mixture of sadness. I felt as if I
were about to be separated for ever from a beloved friend."

"At other times," continued Goethe, "it has been totally different with
my poems. They have been preceded by no impressions or forebodings, but
have come suddenly upon me, and have insisted on being composed
immediately, so that I have felt an instinctive and dreamy impulse to
write them down on the spot. In such a somnambulistic condition, it has
often happened that I have had a s