He had much to darken his latter days. His wife had died in 1816. He
felt her loss bitterly. The Duchess Amalia had died eight years before.
He had now to undergo bitterer experiences when he was less able to bear
them. Frau von Stein, with whom he had renewed his friendship, if not
his love, died in January, 1827; and in June, 1828, he lost the
companion of his youth, the Grand Duke Karl August, who died suddenly,
away from Weimar.

We must pass to the closing scenes. On Thursday, March 15, 1832, he
spent his last cheerful and happy day. He awoke the next morning with a
chill. From this he gradually recovered, and on Monday was so much
better that he designed to begin his regular work on the next day. But
in the middle of the night he woke with a deathly coldness, which
extended from his hands over his body, and which took many hours to
subdue. It then appeared that the lungs were attacked, and that there
was no hope of his recovery. Goethe did not anticipate death. He sat
fully clothed in his arm chair, made attempts to reach his study, spoke
confidently of his recovery, and of the walks he would take in the fine
April days. His daughter-in-law Ottilie tended him faithfully. On the
morning of the 22d his strength gradually left him. He sat slumbering in
his arm chair, holding Ottilie's hand. Her name was constantly on his
lips. His mind occasionally wandered, at one time to his beloved
Schiller, at another to a fair female head with black curls, some
passion of his youth. His last words were an order to his servant to
open the second shutter to let in more light. After this he traced with
his forefinger letters in the air. At half-past eleven in the day he
drew himself, without any sign of pain, into the left corner of his arm
chair, and went so peacefully to sleep that it was long before the
watchers knew that his spirit was really gone. He is buried in the