ave been made more conspicuous than the
inner necessity. You have yourself spoilt the reader by the
arrangement of the rest of your work, and have justified him in making
greater demands than can generally be required of novel writers. Could
not the Marquis be made an old acquaintance of Lothar or of the Uncle,
and his journey hither be more interwoven with the whole?

The end, as well as the whole history of the Harpist, excites the
greatest interest. I have already said how excellent I find your
thought of deriving the terrible destinies of the Harpist and of
Mignon from religious extravagance. The priest's notion of describing
a small transgression as monstrous, in order that a great crime--which
he will not mention for humanity's sake--may be atoned for by it, is
sublime of its kind and a worthy representative of this whole mode of
thinking. You might perhaps make Sperate's story a little shorter
still, as it comes in at the end where one is prone to hurry
impatiently to the goal.

That the Harpist should prove to be Mignon's father, and that you
yourself do not mention it or thrust it at the reader, makes the
effect all the greater. One is forced to reflect upon the fact
oneself, to recall to mind how close in life was the relation which
existed between these two mysterious natures, and to look down into an
unfathomable depth of fate. But no more for today. My wife wishes to
inclose a little note to tell you her impressions of your Eighth Book.

Farewell, my beloved, my esteemed friend! I am deeply moved when I
think that that which we otherwise look for and rarely find in the far
distance of favored antiquity lies so close to me in you. You need no
longer be astonished that there are so few who are capable or worthy
of understanding you. The wonderful naturalness, truth, and fluency of
your description hide from the common herd of critics every thought of
the difficulty, of the grandness of your art, and those who are
capable of following the artist, who perceive the means by which the
effects have been produced, will feel themselves so averse, so hostile
toward the genial power which they there see in action, and find their
needy selves in such straits, that they will angrily thrust the work
from them, while in their hearts--though with _de mauvaise
grace_--they are certain to be your liveliest worshippers.

* * * * *

GOETHE _to_ SCHILLER Weimar, July 5, 1796.

As soon as I