ection for his son, who
died about two years since, was unbounded. After his death, Goethe was
but the shadow of that which he once had been. To his daughter-in-law he
was indebted for that tenderness and assiduity which soothed his
declining years. When upwards of eighty years of age, he meditated
literary projects with the vigour and enthusiasm of youthful genius.
Indeed, his constitution was unimpaired, and seemed to promise some
years of life: his death therefore excited at Weimar, a feeling of
surprise as well as sorrow.

The last moments of Goethe were those of an unbroken mind--a bright
light waning and glimmering out. He had not the slightest presentiment
of his death. About a week before, he caught cold, which brought on a
catarrh. It was thought that his powerful constitution was unattacked.
He conversed with great serenity, particularly upon his theory of
colours, which so powerfully occupied his mind to the last moment of his
existence. On the evening of March 21, he explained to his daughter the
conditions of the peace of Basle; desired that the children should be
taken to the theatre; and said that he was much better; he requested
that Salvandy's Sixteen Months might be handed to him, although his
physician had forbidden him all laborious occupation; but the doctor
having gone out for a few moments, he ordered lights to be brought, and
attempted to read. Not being able to do so, he held the book for some
moments before him, and then said, "Well, let us do at least as the
Mandarins do:" he fell asleep, and his slumbers appeared light and
refreshing. Next day he conversed cheerfully with his daughter, his
grandchildren, and some friends. "At seven o'clock he desired his
daughter to bring him a portfolio, to enable him to illustrate some
phenomena of colouring, and he began with his right hand to trace some
characters in the air. Towards ten o'clock he ceased almost entirely to
speak, held firmly between his own the hand of his daughter who was by
his side, and turned his eyes, already half-closed, towards her with an
expression of tenderness: with her other hand she supported his head on
a pillow until he breathed his last, without convulsion or
suffering."[5] His daughter closed the fine eyes of the poet, and
summoning her children to behold their grandfather for the last time,
she rushed from the chamber of death, and gave vent to a flood of grief.
Another account states that Goethe growing weaker and weak