airy tale, _Prinzessin Brambilla_, which is greatly
wanting in clearness of conception, though he himself ranked it highly.

The excesses in which Hoffmann had for so long indulged brought at
last, as may easily be conceived, their own inevitable retribution. The
first herald of the approaching physical troubles was the death
(November 30, 1821) of the sagacious cat who was the real hero of
_Kater Murr_. Hoffmann was much cut up by the death of his favourite,
which he described to Hitzig with truly touching pathos.[26] Soon after
this he was suddenly stricken down by disease--_tabes dorsalis_; his
body gradually died, beginning at the feet and moving up to the brain,
a process which lasted several weeks. But from the autumn of 1821 to
April, 1822, he was cheered by the daily visits of the beloved friend
of his youth, Hippel, who had come up to Berlin for that space of time.
Hoffmann celebrated his 46th birthday with this true friend, and with
Hitzig and others less dear. Hoffmann and Hippel were dwelling fondly
upon the days of their youth and reviving old recollections, when
mention was made of death and dying. Hitzig remarked in substance that
"life was not the highest of all goods;" this caused the suffering
Hoffmann to reply with passionate emphasis, such as he did not give way
to on any other occasion during the course of the evening, "No, no--let
me live, live--let me only live, no matter in what condition." "There
was something awful," says Hitzig, "in the way in which these words
burst from his lips." And his wish was fulfilled in terrible wise; one
limb after the other failed to perform its office; his feet and hands
and certain parts of his inner organism became quite dead. On the day
before he died he was virtually a corpse as far as his neck; and so he
was full of hope that he should soon be well again, since he "felt no
more pain then." Even in this truly pitiable and helpless condition his
imagination continued to pour forth a stream of the most whimsical and
humorous fancies, and his cheerfulness was even greater than in the
days of sound health. Hippel's departure in April was a hard blow to
him. About four weeks before his death he underwent the sharp operation
of being burned on each side of the spine with red-hot irons. When
Hitzig entered the room after the terrible operation was over, Hoffmann
cried, "Can you smell the flavour of roast meat?" and he said that
whilst the doctors were burning him, the