gallows. Let us
rather speak of Goethe's own work--of the 'Sorrows of Werther.' I have
read it many times, and it has always afforded me the highest enjoyment;
it accompanied me to Egypt, and during my campaigns in Italy, and it is
therefore but just that I should return thanks to the poet for the many
pleasant hours he has afforded me."

"Sire, your majesty, at this moment, amply rewards me," said Goethe,
bowing slightly.

"Your 'Werther' is indeed a work full of the most exalted ideas," added
Napoleon; "it contains noble views of life, and depicts the weariness
and disgust which all high-minded characters must feel on being forced
to leave their sphere and come in contact with the gross world. You have
described the sufferings of your hero with irresistible eloquence, and
never, perhaps, has a poet made a more artistic analysis of love. Let me
tell you, however, that you have not been entirely consistent in the
work. You make your hero die not only of love, but of wounded ambition,
and you mention expressly that the injustice he met with at the hands of
his official superiors was a wound always bleeding, of which he suffered
even in the presence of the lady whom he loved so passionately. That is
not quite natural, and weakens in the mind of the reader the
comprehension of that influence which love exerted on Werther. Why did
you do so?"

Goethe looked almost in astonishment at the emperor; this unexpected
censure, and the quick, categorical question, had equally surprised him,
and momentarily disturbed the calmness of the poet. "Sire," he said,
after a brief pause, "your majesty has found fault with something with
which no one has reproached me heretofore, and I confess that your
criticism has struck me. But it is just, and I deserve it. However, a
poet may be pardoned for using an artifice which cannot easily be
detected, in order to produce a certain effect that he believes he is
unable to bring about in a simple and natural way."

Napoleon nodded assentingly. "Your 'Werther' is a drama of the heart,
and there are none to be compared with it," he said. "After reading it,
I am persuaded that it is your vocation to write in this style; for the
tragic muse is the favorite companion of the greatest poet. Tragedy was
at all times the school of great men. It is the duty of sovereigns to
encourage, patronize, and reward it. In order to appreciate it
correctly, we need not be poets ourselves; we only need knowledge of