le and social elegance; but they are women who
have some charm, and if the charm remains, the attraction holds
indefinitely. But sad indeed is the case of the man of mind who has
married a mere doll, and who, when youth has flown, finds he has a wife
who is not capable of being companion or friend to him. Many a man holds
himself steadfast to duty under these circumstances through a long life,
but if the woman whom his maturity would have chosen--the sweet,
companionable woman, with a mind that can sympathize with and appreciate
his own--chances to dawn upon him, too late, there is apt to be a
struggle which is long and hard.

Indeed, it is never the part of wisdom for the intellectual man or woman
to marry one who is consciously an inferior. He or she who does this
makes a high bid for an unhappy life. As regards Christine Vulpius, it
is certain that, although not an intellectual woman, she was not without
some taste for pursuits in consonance with those of Goethe. It was for
her that he wrote the "Metamorphoses of Plants," and in her company he
pursued his optical and botanical researches. Had she shown no
comprehension of these things, assuredly Goethe would never have
persisted in instructing her in them. It was for her, too, that he wrote
the "Roman Elegies," which shows that he did not esteem her a mere
drudge.

Whatever may be our general estimate of Goethe's character, it will
certainly be conceded that he showed great capacity for domestic love
and domestic happiness in continuing loyal for so many years to one who
degraded herself as did Christine. He certainly cannot be counted among
the sons of genius with whom it is found difficult, almost impossible
even, to live. Rather must we rank him high among those genial and
warm-hearted men who love too much, rather than too little, and who are
easily led by the women to whom they give their devotion. Irregular and
faulty, even immoral as he was, he yet possessed the redeeming domestic
virtues in a large degree. Away beyond his seventieth year we find women
still madly loving him, and him capable of reciprocating their
affections. And well was it that this should be so, for otherwise he
would have stood alone and friendless. One by one the companions of his
youth and his manhood were taken from him, until, upon the death of Carl
August, he could truthfully exclaim, "Nothing now remains." It was well
that the end drew near.

When one can say, "Nothing now remains