reason to talk loudly of his liberality. He was the special admirer of
talent born in obscurity; and at the time of which we are writing
(many years after the events related above), the favourite "lion" in
the literary clique he had gathered round him in his palace, was a
certain poet--the son of a small tradesman in a small town, who had
been educated by the kindness of the Burgomaster (long dead), and who
now had made Germany to ring with his fame; who had visited the Courts
of Europe, and received compliments from Royalty, whose plays were
acted in the theatres, whose poems stood on the shelves of the
booksellers, who was a great man--Friedrich!

It was a lovely evening, and the Duke, leaning on the arm of his
favourite, walked up and down a terrace. The Duke was (as usual) in
the best possible humour. The poet (as was not uncommon) was just in
the slightest degree inclined to be in a bad one. They had been
reading a critique on his poems. It was praise, it is true, but the
praise was not judiciously administered, and the poet was aggrieved.
He rather felt (as authors are not unapt to feel) that a poet who
could write such poems should have critics created with express
capabilities for understanding him. But the good Duke was in his most
cheery and amiable mood, and quite bent upon smoothing his ruffled
lion into the same condition.

"What impossible creatures you geniuses are to please!" he said. "Tell
me, my friend, has there ever been, since you first began your career,
a bit of homage or approbation that has really pleased you?"

"Oh, yes!" said the poet, in a tone that sounded like Oh, no!

"I don't believe it," said the Duke. "Come, now, could you, if you