“Now, take up Burns.  How is he great, except through the circumstance that the whole songs of his predecessors lived in the mouth of the people—­that they were, so to speak, sung at his cradle; that, as a boy, he grew up amongst them, and the high excellence of these models so pervaded him that he had therein a living basis on which he could proceed further?  Again, why is he great, but from this, that his own songs at once found susceptible ears amongst his compatriots; that, sung by reapers and sheaf-binders, they at once greeted him in the field; and that his boon-companions sang them to welcome him at the ale-house?  Something was certainly to be done in this way.

“On the other hand, what a pitiful figure is made by us Germans!  Of our old songs—­no less important than those of Scotland—­how many lived among the people in the days of my youth?  Herder and his successors first began to collect them and rescue them from oblivion; then they were at least printed in the libraries.  Then, more lately, what songs have not Buerger and Voss composed!  Who can say that they are more insignificant or less popular than those of the excellent Burns? but which of them so lives among us that it greets us from the mouth of the people?  They are written and printed, and they remain in the libraries, quite in accordance with the general fate of German poets.  Of my own songs, how many live?  Perhaps one or another of them may be sung by a pretty girl to the piano; but among the people, properly so called, they have no sound.  With what sensations must I remember the time when passages from Tasso were sung to me by Italian fishermen!

“We Germans are of yesterday.  We have indeed been properly cultivated for a century; but a few centuries more must still elapse before so much mind and elevated culture will become universal amongst our people that they will appreciate beauty like the Greeks, that they will be inspired by a beautiful song, and that it will be said of them ’it is long since they were barbarians.’”

Tuesday, December 16.—­I dined today with Goethe alone, in his work-room.  We talked on various literary topics.

“The Germans,” said he, “cannot cease to be Philistines.  They are now squabbling about some verses, which are printed both in Schiller’s works and mine, and fancy it is important to ascertain which really belong to Schiller and which to me; as if anything could be gained by such investigation—­as if the existence of such things were not enough.  Friends, such as Schiller and I, intimate for years, with the same interests, in habits of daily intercourse, and under reciprocal obligations, live so completely in each other that it is hardly possible to decide to which of the two the particular thoughts belong.

“We have made many distiches together; sometimes I gave the thought, and Schiller made the verse; sometimes the contrary was the case; sometimes he made one line, and I the other.  What matters the mine and thine?  One must be a thorough Philistine, indeed, to attach the slightest importance to the solution of such questions.”