“Besides, let him who will not believe,” continued Goethe, “that much of Shakespeare’s greatness appertains to his great vigorous time, only ask himself the question, whether a phenomenon so astounding would be possible in the present England of 1824, in these evil days of criticising and hair-splitting journals?”

“That undisturbed, innocent, somnambulatory production, by which alone anything great can thrive, is no longer possible.  Our talents at present lie before the public.  The daily criticisms which appear in fifty different places, and the gossip that is caused by them amongst the public, prevent the appearance of any sound production.  In the present day, he who does not keep aloof from all this, and isolate himself by main force, is lost.  Through the bad, chiefly negative, aesthetical and critical tone of the journals, a sort of half culture finds its way into the masses; but to productive talent it is a noxious mist, a dropping poison, which destroys the tree of creative power, from the ornamental green leaves, to the deepest pith and the most hidden fibres.

“And then how tame and weak has life itself become during the last two shabby centuries.  Where do we now meet an original nature? and where is the man who has the strength to be true, and to show himself as he is?  This, however, affects the poet, who must find all within himself, while he is left in the lurch by all without.”

The conversation now turned on Werthe.  “That,” said Goethe, “is a creation which I, like the pelican, fed with the blood of my own heart.  It contains so much from the innermost recesses of my breast—­so much feeling and thought, that it might easily be spread into a novel of ten such volumes.  Besides, as I have often said, I have only read the book once since its appearance, and have taken good care not to read it again.  It is a mass of congreve-rockets.  I am uncomfortable when I look at it; and I dread lest I should once more experience the peculiar mental state from which it was produced.”

I reminded him of his conversation with Napoleon, of which I knew by the sketch amongst his unpublished papers, which I had repeatedly urged him to give more in detail.  “Napoleon,” said I, “pointed out to you a passage in Werther, which, it appeared to him, would not stand a strict examination; and this you allowed.  I should much like to know what passage he meant.”

“Guess!” said Goethe, with a mysterious smile.

“Now,” said I, “I almost think it is where Charlotte sends the pistols to Werther, without saying a word to Albert, and without imparting to him her misgivings and apprehensions.  You have given yourself great trouble to find a motive for this silence, but it does not appear to hold good against the urgent necessity where the life of the friend was at stake.”

“Your remark,” returned Goethe, “is really not bad; but I do not think it right to reveal whether Napoleon meant this passage or another.  However, be that as it may, your observation is quite as correct as his.”