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"Fahrt wohl, ihr Strassen grad and krumm Ich zieh' nicht mehr in euch herum, Durchton euch nicht mehr mit Gesang, Mit Larm nicht mehr and Sporenklang." As the deep tones died away, the soft night was steeped in the sadness of that farewell song. It was Richter who brought the full force of it home to Stephen. "Do you recall the day you left your Harvard, and your Boston, my friend?" he asked.

Von Franzosen hat er euch befreit, Ich von Philister-netzen.” Goethe could hardly claim to be the apostle of public spirit; but he is eminently the man who helps us to rise to a lofty point of observation, so that we may see things in their relative proportions.

"Wer nie sein Brod mit Thränen ass, Wer nie die kummervollen Nächte Auf seinen Bette weinend sass, Er kennt Euch nicht, ihr himmlische Mächte!" Milly Harrington had passed two months at Birchmead, and her grandmother's neighbors were beginning to speculate on the probabilities of her staying over the summer. "Poor soul; it's lonely for her," Mrs. Chigwin said to her friend, Elizabeth.

And yet "Wilhelm Meister" changed the whole current of European literature the work was practically committed to memory by the noblest men and women of the world. We hear the venerated Queen of Prussia repeating from it in her cruel exile, "Wer nie sein Brod mit Thranen ass, Wer nicht die Kummervollen Nachte Auf Seinem Bette weinend sass, Der Kennt euch nicht, ihr himmlischen Machte."

Lashmar, perhaps, was mere sophist, charlatan, an unscrupulous journalist who talked instead of writing. Words, words! How sick he was of the universal babble! The time had taken for its motto that counsel of Mephisto: Vor allem haltet euch an Worte! And how many of these loud talkers believed the words they uttered, or had found them in their own minds?

"Fahrt wohl, ihr Strassen grad and krumm Ich zieh' nicht mehr in euch herum, Durchton euch nicht mehr mit Gesang, Mit Larm nicht mehr and Sporenklang." As the deep tones died away, the soft night was steeped in the sadness of that farewell song. It was Richter who brought the full force of it home to Stephen. "Do you recall the day you left your Harvard, and your Boston, my friend?" he asked.

In the night, exactly at one o'clock, Jakob and Jodokus started: we heard them go, the cattle-bells ringing and the "Leben Sie wohl!" "Behüt Euch Gott!" shouted lovingly after them from the open door and the lower windows of the silent old mansion. Six and twenty head of cattle: the goats, pigs and sheep were to follow later.

The pathetic lines of Goethe might seem to be written for his own case: "Wer nie sein Brod mit Thränen ass, Wer nicht die kummervollen Nächte Auf seinem Bette weinend sass, Der kennt euch nicht, ihr himmlischen Mächte." That Don Quixote could not have been written before 1591 is proved by the mention in chapter vi of a book published in that year.

We quickly impute to them more virtue than their ways betoken; and when in their lusty final song they break out in a strain of lofty idealism: Und setzet ihr nicht das Leben ein, Nie wird euch das Leben gewonnen sein, one is hardly conscious of the incongruity. The dramatic fable devised by Schiller for the tragedy proper carries us back to the winter of 1634.

O ihr Himmelsaugen droben, Weint euch aus in meine Seele, Dass von lichten Sternentranen Uberfliesset meine Seele! Heine. They rose, fluttered a moment above the lilac bushes, and then shot forward like the curve of a rainbow into the sleeping house. The next second they stood beside the bed of the Widow Jequier.