To return to my time in Germany. The weather grew cold and foggy, and my expeditions from Cronberg into Frankfort were fewer than I could have wished, and many sights I did not see at all.

Among the towns of which I have an early though faint recollection, not even Paris itself is more utterly and entirely changed than Frankfort. Only here and there does anything remain that recalls Goethe's description, so familiar to the readers of his ever-enchanting autobiography, that perfect mixture, 'Truth and Poetry.' The Jewish cemetery, full of interest with its unbroken record from the twelfth century, I did not see, though to my mind it must be one of the most interesting spots in Europe. This feeling would only be understood by the English, the awful hatred of the Jews - universal on the Continent - being happily unknown to us. The world changes so much, and yet so much remains the same. Who would have imagined that at the end of the nineteenth century Jewish persecution would be the same as in the Middle Ages? If it were possible, would not the gates of the Ghetto be shut in the same cruel and unjust way as years ago? Hatred of the Jews seems to me the one real bond that unites France, Germany, and Russia. It is generally attributed to Disraeli, but I believe it was Heine who first said: 'Every nation has the kind of Jew it deserves.'

I am told that in this Jewish cemetery at Frankfort the surnames on the tombstones date back in many cases three hundred years. The old graves have generally only a first name (one cannot say Christian name) with a locality mentioned; as, for instance, 'Hannah of Hamburg.' The Jews seem to regard this cemetery as an even truer record of their families than we consider our peerage. The Judengasse has virtually disappeared. I never saw it but once in my childhood, when I felt the same kind of mixed awe and curiosity with which Goethe speaks of it. There is a sketch of it in that never-to-be-forgotten volume of our young days, 'The Foreign Tour of Messrs. Brown, Jones, and Robinson,' by Dickie Doyle. His drawing gives a somewhat spiteful version of it, but it is a funny remembrance of this swept-away quarter. Lewes says Goethe learnt much from the society of the Jews in the strange, old, filthy, but deeply interesting Judengasse. Like him, we have all pondered over 'the sun standing still on Gideon and the moon in the valley of Ajalon.'

It was with a genuine thrill that I entered Goethe's house, where he was born, where he lived, where he played and eat and slept and loved Gretchen, and which - angry and disappointed at being described as the boy he really was - he left, with the indifference usual at that age, to seek his fortunes in the world. As he says himself: 'At certain epochs children part from parents, servants from masters, proteges from their patrons; and whether it succeed or not, such an attempt to stand on one's own feet, to make one's self independent, to live for one's self, is always in accordance with the will of Nature.'

I am so fond of Goethe's sayings that they stick somehow in my mind, in spite of my bad memory. He says somewhere so truly, and it refers to this entrance into life that all have to face: 'Every man has his decoy, and every man is led or misled in a way peculiar to himself.' How frequently Goethe's sayings remind one of Lord John Russell's apt definition of a proverb, 'One man's wit and all men's wisdom'! Goethe's house in the Hirschgraben is now a museum, bought by the Goethe Society, whose headquarters are at Weimar, and restored by them with reverent care. Every effort is made to preserve it and what it contains from decay. Such guardians are necessary; they hold the hand of the destroyer and arrest decay, keeping for posterity what we ourselves highly value. The old house where Luther rested for the night on his way to the Diet of Worms was being levelled to the ground this summer before my eyes, to make room for a handsome entrance into the courtyard of a large white stucco house. So incongruous was this building to the old sixteenth-century street that had I seen it suddenly I should have said it was a residence, not in Frankfort, but in the Quartier St. Germain in Paris. I honour all societies that save us from this wholesale destruction of the past. In the Goethe house-museum there were some of Goethe's drawings which made me sympathise more than I had ever done before with Lewes's somewhat bitter reproaches about the time Goethe wasted on drawing. Lewes says: 'All his study and all his practice were vain; he never attained even the excellence of an amateur. To think of a Goethe thus obstinately cultivating a branch of art for which he had no talent makes us look with kinder appreciation on the spectacle, so frequently presented, of really able men obstinately devoting themselves to produce poetry no cultivated man can read; men whose culture and insight are insufficient to make them perceive in themselves the difference between aspiration and inspiration.'

I also went alone to the suburb of Sachsenhausen to see the Staedel Art Institute. Frederick Staedel, in 1816, bequeathed his pictures and engravings and 100,000l. to his native town. This formed the nucleus of the present gallery. Many pictures have been added since his death, and in many ways the collection is an interesting one. I stood long before a picture which the inscription on the frame told me had been presented by a Baroness Rothschild. Having no catalogue, and feeling shy about asking in German, I neither knew nor guessed what it was or why it was there. It powerfully arrested my attention - a life-sized picture of a man of about forty, sitting in a gray, flowing overcoat, on gray stones in the gray Campagna of Rome. Afterwards I was told that it was the famous picture of Goethe by Johann Friedrich Tischbein. This painter lived from 1750 to 1812 - that is to say, only a part of the life of Goethe, who was born a year before Tischbein and died in 1832. He therefore was thirty-seven when he wrote in the letters from Italy, December 1786, as follows: 'Latterly I have often observed Tischbein attentively regarding me; and now it appears he has long cherished the idea of painting my portrait. His design is already settled and the canvas stretched. I am to be drawn the size of life, enveloped in a white mantle, and sitting on a fallen obelisk, viewing the ruins of the Campagna di Roma, which are to fill up the background of the picture. It will form a beautiful piece, only it will be rather too large for our Northern habitations. I indeed may crawl into them, but the portrait will never be able to enter their door.'