and at the time of which we are writing (many years after the events related above), the favourite “lion” in the literary clique he had gathered round him in his palace, was a certain poet—­the son of a small tradesman in a small town, who had been educated by the kindness of the Burgomaster (long dead), and who now had made Germany to ring with his fame; who had visited the Courts of Europe, and received compliments from Royalty, whose plays were acted in the theatres, whose poems stood on the shelves of the booksellers, who was a great man—­Friedrich!

It was a lovely evening, and the Duke, leaning on the arm of his favourite, walked up and down a terrace.  The Duke was (as usual) in the best possible humour.  The poet (as was not uncommon) was just in the slightest degree inclined to be in a bad one.  They had been reading a critique on his poems.  It was praise, it is true, but the praise was not judiciously administered, and the poet was aggrieved.  He rather felt (as authors are not unapt to feel) that a poet who could write such poems should have critics created with express capabilities for understanding him.  But the good Duke was in his most cheery and amiable mood, and quite bent upon smoothing his ruffled lion into the same condition.

“What impossible creatures you geniuses are to please!” he said.  “Tell me, my friend, has there ever been, since you first began your career, a bit of homage or approbation that has really pleased you?”

“Oh, yes!” said the poet, in a tone that sounded like Oh, no!

“I don’t believe it,” said the Duke.  “Come, now, could you, if you were asked, describe the happiest and proudest hour of your life?”

A new expression came into the poet’s eyes, and lighted up his gaunt intellectual face.  Some old memories awoke within him, and it is doubtful if he saw the landscape at which he was gazing.  But the Duke was not quick, though kind; he thought that Friedrich had not heard him, and repeated the question.

“Yes,” said the poet.  “Yes, indeed I could.”

“Well, then, let me guess,” said the Duke, facetiously. (He fancied that he was bringing his crusty genius into capital condition.) “Was it when your great tragedy of ‘Boadicea’ was first performed in Berlin, and the theatre rose like one man to offer homage, and the gods sent thunder?  I wish they had ever treated my humble efforts with as much favour.  Was it then?”

“No!”

“Was it when his Imperial Majesty the Emperor of ——­ was pleased to present you with a gold snuff-box set with diamonds, and to express his opinion that your historical plays were incomparably among the finest productions of poetic genius?”

“His Imperial Majesty,” said Friedrich, “is a brave soldier; but, a—­hem!—­an indifferent critic.  I do not take snuff, and his Imperial Majesty does not read poetry.  The interview was gratifying, but that was not the occasion.  No!”

“Was it when you were staying with Dr. Kranz at G——­, and the students made that great supper for you, and escorted your carriage both ways with a procession of torches?”