sees, beyond the glow of the many lights and the flashing splendour, the great twilight of the dome filled with purple vapour; and that is the most indescribable thing of all. That is, precisely, Rome!
This letter has got too long. I will end it now, and it will arrive just at Christmas. A happy festival to you all! I am sending some presents too, which will get off to-morrow morning, and reach you for the silver wedding. We are having many great days together, and I cannot tell whether to think of you to-day and wish you all happiness, or to let myself travel with the letter and come to you for Christmas, and then mother will refuse to let me through into your study. Well, at least I send my thoughts. Farewell, with all good wishes.Felix.
Your letter has just come with the news of Goethe’s illness. I cannot describe what I feel about it. All the evening I seemed to hear his last words, “I will do my best to keep up till your return;” they blot out all other thoughts from my mind. If he is gone, Germany will have another aspect for all artists. I have never thought of our country but with delight and pride in the knowledge that it contained Goethe; all else that has grown up there seems so weak and ineffectual that one’s heart is saddened. He is the last, and closes our fortunate era. The year ends heavily.
