as in some respects disenchanting. The few
poems which date from it are picturesque and descriptive, but do not
indicate that his imagination was warmed by what he saw. He was never so
happy as when alone with his books and manuscripts, studying or writing,
according to the dominant mood. This secluded habit engendered a shyness
of manner, which frequently repelled the strangers who came to see
him,--especially those who failed to detect the simple, tender, genial
nature of the man, under his wonderful load of learning. But there was
nothing morbid or misanthropical in his composition; his shyness was
rather the result of an intense devotion to his studies. These gradually
became a necessity of his daily life; his health, his mental peace,
depended upon them; and whatever disturbed their regular recurrence took
from him more than the mere time lost.

When I first visited Coburg, in October, 1852, I was very anxious to
make Rueckert's acquaintance. My interest in Oriental literature had been
refreshed, at that time, by nearly ten months of travel in Eastern
lands, and some knowledge of modern colloquial Arabic. I had read his
wonderful translation of the _Makamat_ of Hariri, and felt sure that he
would share in my enthusiasm for the people to whose treasures of song
he had given so many years of his life. I found, however, that very few
families in the town were familiarly acquainted with the poet,--that
many persons, even, who had been residents of the place for years, had
never seen him. He was presumed to be inaccessible to strangers.

It fortunately happened that one of my friends knew a student of the
Oriental languages, then residing in Coburg. The latter, who was in the
habit of consulting Rueckert in regard to his Sanskrit studies, offered
at once to conduct me to Neuses. A walk of twenty minutes across the
meadows of the Itz, along the base of the wooded hills which terminate,
just beyond, in the castled Kallenberg (the summer residence of Duke
Ernest II.), brought us to the little village, which lies so snugly
hidden in its own orchards that one might almost pass without
discovering it. The afternoon was warm and sunny, and a hazy, idyllic
atmosphere veiled and threw into remoteness the bolder features of the
landscape. Near at hand, a few quaint old tile-roofed houses rose above
the trees.

My guide left the highway, crossed a clear little brook on the left, and
entered the bottom of a garden behind the larg