writings. He also seemed to find pleasure in associating with the
lad who could listen with so much heart and soul. Yet
unfortunately, possibly in the fervour of his discourses, of
which he was not a little proud, he forgot that their substance,
as well as their form, was far above my youthful powers of
comprehension. I called daily to accompany him on his
constitutional walk beyond the city gates, and I shrewdly suspect
that we often provoked the smiles of those passers-by who
overheard the profound and often earnest discussions between us.
The subjects generally ranged over everything serious or sublime
throughout the whole realm of knowledge. I took the most
enthusiastic interest in his copious library, and tasted eagerly
of almost all branches of literature, without really grounding
myself in any one of them.

My uncle was delighted to find in me a very willing listener to
his recital of classic tragedies. He had made a translation of
Oedipus, and, according to his intimate friend Tieck, justly
flattered himself on being an excellent reader.

I remember once, when he was sitting at his desk reading out a
Greek tragedy to me, it did not annoy him when I fell fast
asleep, and he afterwards pretended he had not noticed it. I was
also induced to spend my evenings with him, owing to the friendly
and genial hospitality his wife showed me. A very great change
had come over my uncle's life since my first acquaintance with
him at Jeannette Thome's. The home which he, together with his
sister Friederike, had found in his friend's house seemed, as
time went on, to have brought in its train duties that were
irksome. As his literary work assured him a modest income, he