in-peaks appeared.

"Why, there is a distant horizon!" I involuntarily exclaimed.

"Ah, but even that is so near!" replied Frau von Goethe, smiling.

The room where we were, as well as the adjoining apartment into which
we were allowed to peep, was full of relics of all kinds. Each article
probably had its special history, from the paintings and drawings
on the walls and the old-fashioned chests, chairs and tables, to the
cups, vases, glasses, coverlets, and cushions arranged in the neatest
order, some standing or lying around the apartment, others visible
through the glass doors of a cupboard. But the most interesting object
to me was the portrait of Goethe painted by Stieler. It has been
made familiar to all by copies, and represents the poet, though at
an advanced age, in the full possession of his physical strength. He
holds in his hand a letter, from which he is in the act of looking up:
the face is turned slightly aside. It seems as if the glance was one
of greeting to some friend who is just entering. The colors are still
wonderfully fresh and the expression bewitching. The large eyes beam
with the fire of genius, Olympian majesty is enthroned upon the brow,
and the curve of the lips possesses unequaled grace and beauty. A more
aristocratic, noble mouth cannot be imagined. Who could have resisted
the eloquence of those lips?

"This picture is not in the least idealized: it is a perfect likeness
of my father-in-law," observed Frau von Goethe, and added that this
portrait by Stieler was one of the best which had ever been painted.
Not far from the superb portrait of the father appears the melancholy
face of the son, August von Goethe, but I sought in vain for a picture
of the bud so early broken, Goethe's granddaughter, the lovely Alma,
who died in Vienna.

Fran von Goethe noticed with evident pleasure our eager interest in
her surroundings, and showed us many a relic. As she spoke of the
radiance of those long-past days which still gilded her quiet life,
she seemed to me like the venerable figure in the tale of the "Seven
Ravens," who relates marvelous stories to a listening group. Gradually
a throng of shapes from the dim past entered the small room and
gathered round the speaker, who suddenly became transfigured by the
light of youth. She was again the poet's cheerful nurse, the fair
flower of the household, the happy mother, the intellectual woman, the
centre of a brilliant circle. I gazed as if at a burie