Weimar, pleasantly situated in the valley of the Ilm, is now known by
name to all the world, thanks mainly to Goethe’s association with it. At
the time when he arrived there, it was an obscure little place, about
which most people even in Germany had only the vaguest information. It
was still a walled town, but had few picturesque or otherwise
interesting buildings. The old Schloss had been burned down in 1774, and
the Court was established in a temporary residence which was not well
adapted for the purpose.
Goethe was received with enthusiasm by the young Duke, and all sorts of
entertainments were got up for his benefit. These entertainments gave
rise to much gossip, and soon it was whispered in many places in Germany
that Goethe was leading a shamefully dissolute life at Weimar, and
exercising on the Duke a most deplorable influence. By and by Klopstock,
hearing a rumour of what was supposed to be going on, took it upon
himself to write to his fellow poet a letter of reproof and
expostulation. Goethe had the highest respect for Klopstock, and, when
he had passed through Frankfort, had taken occasion to show him due
honour. But now it was necessary to prove that there were limits beyond
which even the author of “The Messiah,” in his intercourse with younger
men, had no right to pass. Accordingly Klopstock received a cool little
letter in which it was indirectly and delicately intimated that he had
interfered in matters which did not concern him, and about which he was
inadequately instructed.
The worst that could be said about the lively proceedings that went on
at Weimar after Goethe’s arrival was that they took up a great deal of
time, and wasted much good energy. As for the notion that the Duke was
in any way misled by Goethe, nothing could be further from the truth.
The Duke had in his blood the fiery impulses of many a wild ancestor,
and even now it was Goethe’s aim to restrain rather than to stimulate
his passion for pleasure and excitement. Goethe knew him too well to
think of troubling him with formal advice, but none the less he sought
to suggest to the young prince that as a ruler he had obligations which
honour required him to take seriously. Afterwards Goethe kept this
object steadily before himself, and the result was that, notwithstanding
occasional outbreaks of irregular passion, the Duke became one of the
best of the minor German sovereigns, for, of all men, Goethe had the
strongest hold over his imagination and feelings.
At first Goethe found some difficulty in arriving at a satisfactory
relation with the young Duchess. For a time she also was disposed to
think that he led her husband astray. She was, however, too frank and
sincere not to see things in the end as they really were. She became
Goethe’s true friend; and he often had opportunities of showing how
worthy he was of her confidence by acting as a mediator for the removal
of domestic misunderstandings. With the Duchess Dowager Amalia he never
had the slightest trouble. Although the mother of a reigning prince, she
was only thirty-six years of age at the time of Goethe’s arrival in
Weimar. She was a woman of masculine intelligence, and during her son’s
minority had discharged firmly and discreetly her duties as regent.
Handsome, amiable, endowed with delicate tact, and taking a sincere
interest in art and literature, she could not but attract Goethe; and he
in his turn at once gained her good opinion. She saw clearly how wisely
he was likely to guide the Duke, and was most eager that he should, if
possible, be persuaded to settle in Weimar.
Among the residents of the little capital a high place was by universal
consent conceded to Wieland, who had accepted, in 1772, an invitation
sent to him by the Duchess Amalia, to come to Weimar as the tutor of her
sons. Wieland was now forty-two years of age, and one of the most
prominent writers in Germany. He had been grievously offended by the
“Farce” written at his expense, but Goethe had by letter made some
amends for the injury done to him, which, after all, was not very
serious; and Wieland had magnanimously let the matter slip from his
mind. Now, when he met Goethe, he thought he had never seen any one who
was more to his liking. He wrote to a friend that he was “as full of
Goethe as a dewdrop of the morning sun.” And the two poets continued to
be on pleasant terms with one another. When Wieland wrote “Oberon,”
incomparably the finest of his poems, he was enchanted by Goethe’s warm
appreciation of its merits. It was natural for Goethe to praise lavishly
anything that pleased him. There was no room in his generous spirit for
even a touch of petty jealousy.
While living at Frankfort, he had for some time had much reason to
complain of the conduct of Herder, who for no good cause had conceived a
violent prejudice against him. Happily, this had been dispelled; and at
Weimar Goethe was able to be of splendid service to his friend. The
office of Court preacher and general superintendent of matters
ecclesiastical was vacant, and the Duke asked Goethe whether he knew of
any one to whom it might be offered. He at once suggested Herder, who
was thoroughly tired of his position at Bückeburg, and thinking of
accepting a professorship at Göttingen. The majority of the clergy of
the duchy were by no means delighted with the proposal, for Herder had
the reputation of being a heretic; but Goethe never grudged labour
undertaken for a friend, and worked so hard, and with so much tact, in
Herder’s interest, that all difficulties were overcome. Herder came to
Weimar in 1776, and soon made a great mark, not only as a preacher, but
as an earnest promoter of every scheme for the public welfare. At Weimar
he wrote his “Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit”
(“Ideas towards the Philosophy of the History of Humanity”), which,
although only a fragment, displays so wide a knowledge, so firm a grasp
of great principles, and so deep an appreciation of all that makes for
the highest ideals, that it can never lose its place as one of the
treasures of German literature. For many years Goethe and Herder had
much pleasant intercourse in Weimar, and encouraged each other in work
by mutual sympathy.
The Duke became so attached to Goethe that he was resolved they should
never part, and accordingly he expressed to the high officials of his
Government his wish that his friend should be admitted into the public
service. The proposal met with vehement opposition, for grave old
councillors found it impossible to believe that a poet could be capable
of attending to business. The Duke, however, warmly supported by his
mother, insisted on having his own way.
The elder Goethe strongly disliked the idea of his son entering the
service of a prince. Brought up in a free imperial city, he had a
decidedly Republican feeling, subject, of course, to loyalty to the
Emperor, which was rather a nominal that a real obligation. Moreover, he
had always hoped that his son would become an eminent Frankfort lawyer,
and that he himself and his wife would have the pleasure of welcoming to
their home a daughter-in-law whom they could love. Goethe, however, felt
that it would be impossible for him to go back to Frankfort. He had not
been happy there; he still disliked the work of an advocate; he longed
to be independent; and he knew that he would receive every consideration
from the Duke, the Duchess, and the Duchess Dowager, for all of whom he
had a sincere regard. On the other hand, he did not wish to bind himself
absolutely to remain in Weimar. It was necessary that he should be at
liberty to leave it at any time when he might desire to go. This he
stated to the Duke, and so the matter was arranged.
In the spring of 1776, Goethe was formally appointed a member of the
Privy Council, with the title of “Geheimer Legationsrath,” Privy
Councillor of Legation. His salary, which was gradually increased, was
at first 1,200 thalers (£180). The Duke, as a special mark of favour,
provided for him a house overlooking the Ilm, and surrounded by a
pleasant garden. It was in the Park beyond the town, so that Goethe was
able to have perfect quiet, and to enjoy to his heart’s content solitary
strolls along the banks of the stream flowing past his dwelling. Here he
lived for some years, his household consisting of his valet Seidel, whom
he had brought with him from Frankfort; a man servant; and an elderly
woman who acted as cook. Afterwards he took a house in Weimar, and spent
only the summer months in his garden-house.
By the time he definitely took up his abode in Weimar, he had formed a
relation which was to exercise a powerful influence over him during the
following ten years--his relation to Charlotte von Stein. In Frankfort
he had seen her silhouette, which was to appear in Lavater’s book on
Physiognomy. Under it he wrote, “It would be splendid to see how the
world reflects itself in this soul. She sees the world as it is, yet
through the medium of love. Mildness is, therefore, the general
impression.” So vividly did the face appear before him that it kept him
awake during three successive nights. On the other hand, Frau von Stein
was familiar with, and strongly admired, Goethe’s writings. They were
thus prepared to think well of one another.
When Goethe arrived in Weimar, she was at her estate, Kochberg; but she
soon returned, and he was introduced to her at court by the Duke. She
was six years older than Goethe, had been married eleven years, and was
the mother of seven children; and she had no very remarkable
intellectual gifts. She had, however, delicate grace and beauty, fine
tact, and warm sympathy with all that seemed to her best and greatest in
life and literature; and these qualities drew Goethe towards her with an
irresistible attraction. At first his expressions of regard and
admiration--after the fashion of the time--were so ardent that she was
rather alarmed, and took care that he should not see her too often; but
by and by he showed the most tender respect for her wishes, and so there
grew up between them a true, pure, and noble friendship. There were few
days when they did not meet. When either was from home, he sent her long
letters telling her everything that happened; and even when both were in
Weimar, little notes containing kindly greetings constantly passed
between them. Goethe confided to her all his cares and anxieties, and
she never failed to strengthen him, and give him fresh courage, by her
sympathy. His thoughts, studies, and plans of work he also spoke of, and
she sought not only to understand them and to share the pleasure they
gave him, but to encourage him in all his high undertakings. If
sometimes there were misunderstandings, they soon vanished, and Goethe
could write to her that the torment due to such experiences was “the
sunlit rain (Sonnen-Regen) of love.”
With Frau von Stein’s husband, who held the office of master of the
horse, Goethe was on the best of terms. He was a sensible, practical
person, who did not interfere with his wife’s friendships; and the idea
that there was any reason why he should be jealous of Goethe seems never
to have entered his mind. Goethe’s letters to her were often enclosed in
letters to her husband. Her children always welcomed Goethe with cries
of delight. In this respect they were not different from other children;
it was one of his characteristics that young people invariably felt, by
a kind of instinct, that he was their friend.
While attending the University of Leipsic, he had been much impressed by
the singing of a young public singer called Corona Schröter, and during
a short visit to Leipsic in 1776, all his old enthusiasm for her was
revived. The result was that she was asked to come to Weimar as a singer
in the chamber concerts of the Duchess Dowager. She accepted the
invitation, and spent at Weimar the greater part of the rest of her
life. She was very handsome, and not only a good singer, but an
admirable actress. Goethe was thrown much into her society, and liked
her so well that she necessarily has a place in his biography. She was
not, however, one of the women who left their mark deeply on his inward
life and on his poetry.
A profound change passed over Goethe’s character during the early years
of his residence at Weimar. This change was partly a natural evolution,
partly the result of deliberate and long-continued effort. He became
painfully conscious of the fact that in the past he had allowed himself
to be swayed too much by momentary impulses, that he had cherished wild
desires which had no real relation to the facts of existence, that his
happiness had been at the mercy of passing moods, some of the darkest of
which had sprung from too intense a concentration of thought on his own
feelings. It became his fixed purpose that all this should come to an
end, that he should acquire firm control over himself, and that his
powers should be disciplined to work steadily for lofty but
clearly-defined and attainable ends. “A calm glance back on my past
life,” he wrote in his diary on the 7th of August, 1779, “on the
confusion, restlessness, lust after knowledge, of youth, how it roams
about everywhere to find something satisfying. How, especially, I found
delight in mysteries--in dark, imaginary relations. How, when occupied
with anything scientific, I only half attacked it, and soon let it pass;
how a sort of humble self-complacency goes through all I then wrote.
With how little insight I moved round and round in human and divine
things. How there was as little of action as of thought and poetry
directed to an aim; how many days were wasted in time-destroying
sentiment and shadow-passions; how little good came to me therefrom; and
how, now that the half of life is past, there is no way back, but I
simply stand here as one who has saved himself from the water, and whom
the sun begins beneficently to dry. The time I have spent in the rush of
the world, since October, ’75, I do not yet trust myself to review. God
help further and give lights, so that we may not stand so much in our
own way; cause us to do from morning to night what is fitting; and give
us clear ideas of the consequences of things, so that one may not be
like men who complain all day of headache and dose themselves for
headache, and every evening take too much wine! May the idea of purity,
extending itself even to the morsel I take into my mouth, become ever
more luminous in me!” On the 13th of May, 1780, he wrote: “In my present
surroundings, I have little, hardly any, hindrance outside of myself. In
myself there is still much. Human frailties are thorough tapeworms; one
tears away a piece, but the stock remains where it was. I will yet,
however, be master. No one save he who wholly renounces self is worthy
to rule, or can rule.”
How sternly he disciplined himself, and with what magnificent success,
we may see from the manner in which he discharged his duties at Weimar.
It must have been hard for a poet of quick sensibilities to grapple with
the difficulties of business, yet he shrank from no obligation, however
severe the demands it might make on his temper and patience. The
sittings of the Privy Council he attended with strict regularity, and he
made a point of mastering every important document submitted to it, so
that his judgment might be of real service to the State. He devoted
especial attention to questions connected with finance, and so wisely
did he deal with them, seeking to secure at once economy and efficiency,
that he excited the astonishment and admiration of those who had doubted
the fitness of a poet for the practical work of life.
It was not only in the Council that Goethe had to do difficult service.
He was intrusted by the Duke with many special duties, all of which he
fulfilled with scrupulous care. He had frequently, for instance, to
carry on negotiations with the Estates of the two duchies, Weimar and
Eisenach, both of which were subject to the Duke; and in the exercise of
this delicate function he displayed unfailing firmness and tact. It was
the Duke’s desire that the disused mines of Ilmenau should be reopened,
and in connection with this scheme Goethe worked earnestly, studying the
principles of mining, consulting with men who had a right to an opinion
on the subject, and finally seeing that the undertaking was organized in
accordance with the most advanced methods. He was made responsible for
public works, and in this position had much to say as to the plans for
the new Schloss and for the laying out of the Park in which his
garden-house was situated. The University of Jena, which was the common
property of the Saxon Duchies, he missed no opportunity of benefiting;
and he did what he could for popular education in Weimar. The small
military force of the duchy, consisting of six hundred men, was put
under his care, so far as administration was concerned; and he not only
brought it to a high state of efficiency, but made it less burdensome to
the people by reforming the system according to which the troops were
levied. He insisted that the soldiers should be treated by their
officers with more consideration than was in those days thought to be
safe or proper, and for soldiers’ daughters he established a school of
spinning and embroidery, which he placed under the charge of Seidel,
whom he knew he could trust. As he had to ride about a great deal in
attending to military matters, it was considered that no one could so
well manage everything connected with public highways; and this duty
also he readily undertook. It became his business, too, to look after
the demesne lands, and here one is glad to think he had the aid of a
thoroughly competent Englishman, George Batty, for whose energy, skill,
and good sense Goethe had profound respect. This part of his work was
congenial to his tastes, but we find him on one occasion complaining
bitterly that those in high places consumed in a day more than could be
produced in the same time by the labours of all the toilers on the
estates under his charge.
In discharging the various duties imposed upon him, Goethe became the
soul of the entire administrative system, and diffused through all its
branches much of his own vigour and thoroughness. As he did his own work
honestly, he would take no dishonest work from others; and this came to
be well understood by every one who had to carry out his orders. For a
long time he was not unhappy in his labours. “The pressure of affairs,”
he wrote in 1779, “is very good for the mind; when it has disburdened
itself, it plays more freely and enjoys life. There is nothing more
miserable than a comfortable man without work.” Again: “Many a time I
feel as if I ought, like Polycrates, to throw my most precious jewel
into the water. In everything I undertake I have luck.”
During these years Goethe disciplined the body not less strictly than
the mind. He slept on a straw mattrass, and drank only half the quantity
of wine to which he had formerly accustomed himself. Riding, walking,
fencing, and other forms of physical exercise he delighted in; and--what
must then have been thought an extraordinary eccentricity--he took cold
baths regularly in winter as well as in summer. The result of all this
was that he enjoyed better health than at any previous period of his
life.
His manner necessarily changed to some extent in accordance with the
change in his character. He was still occasionally capable of the frank
and genial outbursts of feeling that had so often delighted his comrades
in the days of “Sturm und Drang,” but, upon the whole, he became more
calm, sedate, and reserved. This did not mean that there was any
diminution of the kindly impulses of his character. Every one who knew
him well was aware that the fine spirit of humanity that had welled up
so freely in his nature in the early part of his life never, as years
went on, lost its original depth and freshness. In the winter of 1777 he
went to the Harz mountains, and one of his objects in undertaking the
journey was to see whether he could not help a young man who, although a
perfect stranger to him, had ventured to tell him, by letter, of
troubles that made life intolerable. An unfortunate man who, although
also a stranger, appealed to Goethe, received an appointment at Ilmenau,
where Goethe not only gave him material aid, but with constant kindness
and sympathy encouraged him to maintain his own self-respect by doing
valuable work. “Goethe,” wrote Merck, while visiting his old friend,
“directs everything, and every one is pleased with him, for he serves
many and hurts none. Who can resist the unselfishness of the man?”
In 1778 Goethe spent some days with the Duke in Berlin, and in the
autumn of the following year they went together to Switzerland. On the
way to Switzerland Goethe rode out from Strasburg to Sesenheim, and
spent a night in the parsonage. He was touched by the frank and kindly
way in which Frederika Brion received him, and, as he said good-bye,
felt with relief that in future he might think of her with an easier
mind. In Strasburg he visited Frau von Türckheim, who was no other than
Lili, now the wife of a rich banker, and a mother. At Emmendingen he
stood by the grave of his sister, who, to his great sorrow, had died in
1777. “Aunt Fahlmer” had become Schlosser’s wife, and it made a strange
impression on Goethe to see her in his sister’s place. At Frankfort the
party were hospitably received by his mother. His father, now an old
man, was less genial, for he had never quite recovered from the
disappointment caused by Goethe’s choice of a career at Weimar. Goethe
did not again see his father, who died in 1782.
A few days before he started for Switzerland Goethe had been made a
“Geheimerath,” and in 1782 he became President of the Chamber of
Finance. In the same year he received a patent of nobility, so that he
was from this time Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Any pleasure he may have
derived from this honour was due to the fact that it did away with some
inconveniences arising from the etiquette of the petty German Courts.
In 1783, being jaded by overwork, he restored himself to fresh vigour by
a second visit to the Harz mountains. This tour was made doubly pleasant
by the fact that he had with him Frau von Stein’s son Fritz, a clever
boy for whom he had a warm affection. With Frau von Stein’s sanction,
Goethe had taken Fritz to live with him, and it was a constant delight
to him to have the boy’s companionship, to direct his education, and to
watch the gradual unfolding of his mind and character.
During this period Goethe entered upon the scientific investigations
which were to occupy many of the best hours of his life. Almost from
boyhood he had had a strong inclination for the study of science. At
Leipsic he attended lectures on physics and medicine, and at Strasburg,
as we have seen, he gave some attention to various branches of biology.
Now he devoted himself to science with an enthusiasm not less fervent
than that with which he had devoted himself to literature. He began with
mineralogy, to which he was led by his labours in connection with the
Ilmenau mines, and mineralogy soon made it necessary for him to turn his
thoughts to geology. Afterwards he occupied himself chiefly with
osteology and botany. For his investigations in all these subjects he
had considerable advantages. The collections at the University of Jena
were of course at his disposal, and the scientific professors were only
too glad to have a chance of giving him what aid they could. In botany
he was able to carry on long series of researches in his garden, and in
the forests of the duchy, which he had frequently to visit as an
administrator. He took up the study of science in a serious spirit, and,
as the results proved, he had a high capacity for it. He was a careful
and most exact observer, and his imagination, so far from standing in
his way, was the power to which he owed the greatest and most fertile of
his ideas.
It was in osteology that he made his first important discovery. In the
study of this branch of anatomy he was interested mainly in the points
of comparison between the human skeleton and the skeletons of other
vertebrates. It was generally held that the intermaxillary bone, which
is found in the upper jaw of some animals, is wanting in man, and this
was regarded as a proof of the doctrine that the physical nature of man
is vitally distinguished from that of other living creatures. On March
27, 1784, while examining various bones with his friend Professor Loder,
of the University of Jena, Goethe was greatly surprised to discover what
he believed to be the intermaxillary bone in a human jaw. He lost no
time in comparing it with the various forms assumed by the bone in
different species of animals, and the more widely the comparison was
extended the more sure he became that he was right. The results of his
researches he set forth in an essay, illustrated by drawings. This
essay, which is a model of lucid statement, was translated into Latin,
and submitted to several men of science. It was not, however, published
until about thirty years afterwards.
Goethe’s discovery of the intermaxillary bone in a human jaw finally
disposed of the notion that it is possible to draw a sharp line of
distinction between the physical nature of man and that of other
vertebrates. And it led Goethe to the theory that all organic beings of
the same class are formed in accordance with ideal types or patterns,
which Nature modifies indefinitely to suit varying conditions. This
conception marked an epoch in the history of scientific thought, for by
fastening attention on the fact that organic beings of the same class,
however widely their organs may seem to differ from one another, have a
fundamental agreement in structure, it directly prepared the way for the
discovery of the law of evolution, in which this fact is taken up and
explained.
It was impossible for Goethe, while occupied so much with science and
public affairs, to devote his best energies to imaginative creation. He
did not, however, wholly neglect literature. In 1776 he planned a great
prose drama, “Iphigenie,” and in 1779 it was written to his dictation.
The play was represented with brilliant success at the Weimar Court,
Corona Schröter taking the part of the heroine, and Goethe himself that
of Orestes. It is wholly different, both in conception and execution,
from his earlier dramas. It contains no violent outbursts of passionate
feeling; the diction is measured and dignified; and the utmost pains are
taken to secure that the various parts shall each have the place that
properly belongs to them in the general scheme. It has often been said
that the change in Goethe’s method, from the frank, glowing style of the
works by which he established his fame, to the consciously artistic
style of his mature writings, was wholly due to the impressions derived
during his visit to Italy. In reality, as the prose “Iphigenie” shows,
it began long before he went to Italy; and no doubt we must to some
extent associate it with the change which passed over his character as a
whole. Goethe’s aim was, above all things, to master himself, to have
every element of his nature under control; and it was inevitable that
the strenuous efforts he made to attain this object should leave their
mark on his art as well as on his practical life.
In 1777 Goethe began “Wilhelm Meister;” and, stimulated by Frau von
Stein, whom the work greatly interested, he returned to it again and
again during the following eight years. He also wrote a part of a prose
play, “Torquato Tasso,” and various minor prose dramatic pieces,
intended for the amusement of the Court, before which they were
represented. To this period, too, belong various powerful poems, one of
the most remarkable of which is the “Harzreise im Winter” (“The Harz
Journey in Winter”), presenting his thoughts and feelings on the day
when he climbed to the top of the Brocken in the winter of 1777. In
another poem of this time, “Ilmenau,” written in 1783 as a birthday-gift
for the Duke, Goethe showed how high and sacred, as he conceived them,
were the duties owed by a ruler to his subjects. A third poem, “Die
Geheimnisse” (“The Secrets”), begun in 1784, is unfortunately only a
splendid fragment. If completed, it would have given form to all that
Goethe had thought about the relations of the great religious movements
of the world to man’s deepest spiritual needs.
While he was slowly working out a new ideal, both in his character and
in his art, the intellectual movement in Germany, of which he had been
considered the chief representative, retained all its original
characteristics. In 1781 Schiller began his career with his wild play,
“The Robbers;” and other young writers, with little of his power, found
it easy to imitate his extravagance. To Goethe the prevailing tone of
the literature of the time--although he himself was in some degree
responsible for it--became deeply repugnant, and he turned from it with
more and more dislike, finding refuge in the calmer realms of philosophy
and science. Even his friend Jacobi contrived to displease him. Jacobi’s
“Woldemar” appeared in 1779, and its sentimentalism--reproducing the
sentimentalism of “Werther”--seemed to Goethe so ridiculous that one
day, in the Park at the Duchess Dowager’s residence at Ettersburg, he
climbed a tree and nailed the book to a branch as a warning to literary
evil-doers. Unfortunately Jacobi heard of this mad prank, and took
serious offence. After some time, however, Goethe wrote to him in a tone
of such sincere, although indirect, apology that Jacobi understood at
once that less had been intended than he had thought. In 1784 he came to
see Goethe at Weimar, and their friendship was never again interrupted.
When Goethe had been about ten years at Weimar, he began to feel that
some change of life was absolutely essential. He had worked hard,
steadily, and loyally in the fulfilment of difficult duties, and longed
for a time of relief, during which his mind might expand freely and be
enriched by fresh impressions. From early boyhood he had often wished to
visit Italy, and this yearning was now revived with almost painful
intensity. At last he decided that, at whatever cost, his desire should
be gratified. Late in July, 1786, he went, as he had repeatedly gone in
previous summers, to Carlsbad, where he met Frau von Stein, Herder and
his wife, and the Duke; and a little more than a month afterwards he
started on his travels. He had accompanied Frau von Stein a part of the
way back to Weimar, but even to her he had said nothing about his
approaching journey. Nor, in writing to the Duke for leave of absence,
did he speak of his destination. He had a kind of superstitious feeling
that if the secret were let out his scheme might be thwarted.
Simultaneously with the return of his desire for Italy Goethe was
conscious of a reawakening of his poetic genius. He began to think
seriously of his unfinished plans, and to dream of new achievements.
Finally he arranged with Göschen, a Leipsic bookseller (the grandfather
of Mr. Göschen, the English statesmen), for the publication of a
collected edition of his writings in eight volumes. The contents of four
of these volumes he prepared for the press before quitting Carlsbad.