and Canitz, Hagodorn, Drollinger,—writers then much beloved, now slumbering upon dusty shelves, unvisited except by an occasional historian, and by spiders of an inquiring mind.
Not only did he tell stories, he wrote them also, as we gather from a touching little anecdote preserved by Bettina. The smallpox had carried off his little brother Jacob. To the surprise of his mother, Wolfgang shed no tears, believing Jacob to be with God in heaven. "Did you not love your little brother, then," asked his mother, "that you do not grieve for his loss?" He ran to his room, and from under the bed drew a quantity of papers on which he had written stories and lessons. "I had written all these that I might teach them to him," said the child. He was then nine years old.
Shortly before the death of his brother he was startled by the sound of the warder's trumpet from the chief tower, announcing the approach of troops. This was in January, 1759. On came the troops in continuous masses, and the rolling tumult of their drums called all the women to the windows, and all the boys in admiring crowds into the streets. The troops were French. They seized the guard-house; and in a little while the city was a camp. To make matters worse, these troops were at war with Frederick, whom Wolfgang and his father worshipped. They were soon billeted through the town; and things relapsed into their usual routine, varied by a military occupation. In the Goethe house an important person was quartered,—Count de Thorane, the king's lieutenant, a man of taste and munificence, who assembled around him artists and celebrities, and won the affectionate admiration of Wolfgang, though he failed to overcome the hatred of the old councillor.
This occupation of Frankfort brought with it many advantages to Goethe. It relaxed the severity of
