who no longer sees his
lofty presence in the strength of reason. He too is pious on whom a
picture flashes rapturous delight, and who, while he reads
Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, feels blest and in paradise. For
even mirth, humour and wit are of divine original, and we grow the
purer and the more refined, the more we learn to perceive the ray of
divinity in these delicate sports of the fancy."

"It is true indeed," said the Baron, who had observed the Baroness's
obvious dissatisfaction, "we cannot to-day bring this interesting
conversation to an end."

"Impossible," answered the Count, who seemed himself surprized at his
own warmth, "else I should be glad to be informed why these pious
spirits do not submit with more humility to the church? Why they
require, that all men should see things in their way? How it happens
that no doubts cross them too, and enable them to conceive, that they
may themselves be in an error? Whether it is not more christian to
pray, rather according to the gospel with closed doors, than
pharisaically to proclaim their much praying to the world? I might also
observe, that this spiritual vertigo combines itself strikingly enough
with a political one, and that this morbid mood, which is spreading
over all Germany, has rendered it possible for an excessively confused
and feeble book to gain the applause of a crowd, which now at last
evinces, how little it ever comprehended our great poet, at the time
when it was shouting his praises. It may be considered as an outrage to
this great man, if we would not rather view it as ludicrous, that he
should be so schooled and catechized, that his works should be charged
with immorality, and deficiency in idealism, because he never
condescended to the miserable wants of this spokesman. That all this
has been possible, has shown me how little true intellectual culture
has taken root among us, and how easy it is therefore for giddy heads
to perplex with half-notions the bawling crowd."

"You mean Goethe," said the Baron, "and what are called the spurious
'Wander-jahre.' Well, we have now rambled sufficiently wide of our
original argument."

A pause ensued, all seemed out of tune, Dorothea was deeply agitated.
As a servant was bringing in a dish of roast meat, the Baroness cried,
"Oh! how could I forget the poor sick widow? John, carry this dish
immediately to the unfortunate woman, with my hearty wishes. She is
suffering incredibly, as I have been