He began by speaking of my manuscript.  “I have just come from you,” said he; “I have been reading your writing all the morning; it needs no recommendation—­it recommends itself.”  He praised the clearness of the style, the flow of the thought, and the peculiarity that all rested on a solid basis and had been thoroughly considered.  “I will soon forward it,” said he; “today I shall write to Cotta by post, and send him the parcel tomorrow.”  I thanked him with words and looks.

We then talked of my proposed excursion.  I told him that my design was to go into the Rhineland, where I intended to stay at a suitable place, and write something new.  First, however, I would go to Jena, and there await Herr von Cotta’s answer.

Goethe asked whether I had acquaintance in Jena.  I replied that I hoped to come in contact with Herr von Knebel; on which he promised me a letter which would insure me a more favorable reception.  “And, indeed,” said he, “while you are in Jena, we shall be near neighbors, and can see or write to one another as often as we please.”  We sat a long while together, in a tranquil, affectionate mood.  I was close to him; I forgot to speak for looking at him—­I could not look enough.  His face is so powerful and brown! full of wrinkles, and each wrinkle full of expression!  And everywhere there is such nobleness and firmness, such repose and greatness!  He spoke in a slow, composed manner, such as you would expect from an aged monarch.  You perceive by his air that he reposes upon himself, and is elevated far above both praise and blame.  I was extremely happy near him; I felt becalmed like one who, after many toils and tedious expectations, finally sees his dearest wishes gratified.

Thursday, September 18.—­“The world is so great and rich, and life so full of variety, that you can never want occasions for poems.  But they must all be occasional[9] poems; that is to say, reality must give both impulse and material for their production.  A particular case becomes universal and poetic by the very circumstance that it is treated by a poet.  All my poems are occasional poems, suggested by real life, and having therein a firm foundation.  I attach no value to poems snatched out of the air.

“Let no one say that reality wants poetical interest; for in this the poet proves his vocation, that he has the art to win from a common subject an interesting side.  Reality must give the motive, the points to be expressed, the kernel, as I may say; but to work out of it a beautiful, animated whole, belongs to the poet.  You know Fuernstein, called the Poet of Nature; he has written the prettiest poem possible, on the cultivation of hops.