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Updated: May 25, 2025
But in the middle of the night he woke with a deathly coldness, which extended from his hands over his body, and which took many hours to subdue. It then appeared that the lungs were attacked, and that there was no hope of his recovery. Goethe did not anticipate death.
Yet the emergence of the green colour will always be due to a union of the blue and yellow colours which spread from the two edges. This convinced Goethe that it is inadmissible to place the green in the spectrum in line with the other colours, as is customary in the explanation of the spectrum since Newton's time.
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.
Both society and poetry uttered a cry of despair: the death-agony of a form of society produced the agitation we have seen constantly increasing in Europe since 1815: the death-agony of a form of poetry evoked Byron and Goethe. I believe this point of view to be the only one that can lead us to a useful and impartial appreciation of these two great spirits.
Several of them have been introduced upon the stage, and others formed the originals of Parnell's "Hermit," of the "Zaire" of Voltaire, and of the "Renard," which Goethe has converted into a long poem. But perhaps the most interesting and celebrated of all the fabliaux is that of "Aucassin and Nicolette," which has furnished the subject for a well-known opera.
He recalls the impression made upon him in his youth by the writing of Carlyle, Goethe, Emerson and Francis Newman, and says: "Forty years ago, when I was an undergraduate at Oxford, voices were in the air which haunt my memory still. Happy the man who in that susceptible season of youth hears such voices! they are a possession to him forever. No such voices are there now.
Since then a strange blindness has struck men in the world we were born into. There has been a Goethe, no doubt, a Wilhelm von Humboldt, a Whitman. Men have scarcely noted them. Perhaps the responsibility in part lies at the door of Protestantism.
The king has come in his glory; my lord has now a subject who asks pardon for the liberties she has taken, like the gambler with loaded dice after cheating Monsieur de Grammont. My cherished poet! I will be thy Mignon happier far than the Mignon of Goethe, for thou wilt leave me in mine own land, in thy heart.
The commentaries and criticisms on these are numerous enough to occupy the shelves of a large library; some of them attempt to show that Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, Milton, and Goethe were all wrong in their methods of creation; but they still cannot obscure, to ordinary vision, the lustre of these luminaries as they placidly shine in the intellectual firmament, which is literally over our heads.
An old, bent, wrinkled peasant woman, speaking French, directs us for full information about Frederique thus is the name written in French to the auberge. First, with no little interest and pride, she unhooks from her own wall a framed picture, containing portraits of Goethe, and Frederika, and drawings of church and parsonage as they were.
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