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[124] for the spirit of diplomacy; so that, on the whole, it was one of the pleasantest evenings I have passed in Germany.

April 1.—Before leaving Gottingen I had made an arrangement with Hofrath Falcke, member of the Chancery at Hanover, to travel with him from Frankfort to Paris. This morning, therefore, we set out, and came to Darmstadt . . . . This afternoon I went to see Moller, the famous architect. . . . . He showed me a great number of his own architectural drawings, particularly one of the interior of the cathedral at Cologne, as it should have been finished, and one of the wonderful cathedral at Strasburg, which were fine, but were by no means so interesting as an immense plan of the steeple of Cologne Cathedral, which extended across the room, and is the original drawing, made 1240, on parchment, and came accidentally into his hands, after having been plundered from the archives by the French. He himself was no less interesting by his simplicity and enthusiasm, than his drawings were by their beauty and skill.

Heidelberg, April 2.—As soon as we had dined, I went to see the elder Voss,—now an old man between sixty and seventy,—tall, meagre, and beginning to be decrepit. Unlike most German men of letters, I found everything about him neat, and in some points approaching to elegance, though without ever exceeding the limits of simplicity. He received me with an open kindness, which was itself hospitality, and, after sitting with him ten minutes, I was at home.

He described to me his present mode of life, said he rose early and went to bed early, and divided the day between his garden, his books, his wife, and his harpsichord. Thus, he says, he preserves in his old age the lightness of heart which God gave him in his youth. At Eutin, he told me, where he lived a long time, he was poor, and when, at the end of the second year after his marriage, they struck the balance of their accounts, he found they were considerably deficient; ‘and so,’ he added with touching simplicity, ‘we gave up our Sunday's glass of wine and struck coffee out of our luxuries, and did it too without regret, for we were young then; and God has given my wife, as you will see when you know her, a heart no less happy and light than mine.’ He showed me his library, not large, but choice and neatly arranged, . . . . his manuscripts all in the same form . . . . . Among them was his translation of Aristophanes,—written, as he himself confessed, because Wolf had undertaken the Clouds,—and six plays of Shakespeare, in which, he said, he intended to avoid Schlegel's stiffness, but will not, I think, succeed. Of his ‘Louise’ he told me it was written in 1785, but not printed till ten years after; and, on my remarking that there


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