This is the exact description of the picture as it now is. Later on, in the letters in February of the following year, Goethe again alludes to the picture: 'The great portrait of myself which Tischbein had taken in hand begins already to stand out from the canvas. The painter has employed a clever statuary to make him a little model in clay, which is elegantly draperied with the mantle. With this he is working away diligently.' The last fact is curious, as it is exactly the way Meissonier worked a hundred years after. I went to his studio shortly after his death, and saw all his little clay models of cannons, figures, horses, roads, from which all his highly finished pictures were painted. The Goethe portrait has a distinct dash of affectation in it, and the whole pose, excusable enough in Goethe, is of a man in the prime of his life who felt himself to be famous and knew himself to be handsome. To our ideas the picture is singularly devoid of colour, almost monochrome; but it strikes one as very modern in treatment, considering its date, and for every reason it must always remain one of the interesting portraits of the world. In the early part of this century and during the Napoleonic days, when the Rothschilds of Frankfort began to spread themselves through Europe and establish their banking-houses in so many capitals, the son who went to Naples bought this great canvas of Tischbein's. In this way it has ultimately found a most fitting home - not in the small house which, Goethe truly said, would not admit it, but on the walls of this museum in his native town.

The Staedel Institute has many artistically interesting pictures most instructive to the student of the old masters, both German and Italian. For those who wish to understand modern criticism and the altering of long-accepted catalogues attributing pictures to wrong artists I can most strongly recommend 'Italian Painters,' by Giovanni Morelli (John Murray), translated into English by Constance Jocelyn Ffoulkes. Giovanni Morelli lived at Bergamo in Lombardy. He left as a legacy to his native town a small but very remarkable collection of pictures, the chief treasures of which are Dutch masterpieces. I imagine the 'Italian Painters' is almost the root of the kind of modern criticism which has torn from us of the older generation many of the faiths of our youth. For instance, the famous Guido's 'Cenci' of the Barberini Palace for more than a century drew tears of pity from the eyes of poets and their followers as being a most tender representation of a famous criminal painted in prison, who, but for this supposed portrait of her, would never have been known to posterity. As a fact she was executed six or seven years before Guido arrived in Rome. Neither is the picture a Guido at all, but a study by some inferior painter of an unknown model. At least, this, I believe, is the last word on the subject. The favourite portrait of Raphael by himself in the Louvre, leaning on his hand, is not a portrait of him, nor is the picture painted by him. The great Holbein at Dresden is said now not to be the original, which is at Darmstadt; and so on. In this Frankfort gallery there is an extraordinarily fine and interesting female portrait, hitherto attributed to Sebastiano del Piombo, but now supposed to be by Sodoma. It is one of the gems of the collection.

Before leaving England last year (1897) I had been immensely interested at hearing of the open-air treatment for phthisis as practised in Germany, the parent establishment of which is at Falkenstein, in the Taunus Mountains, close to Cronberg, where I was staying. I wished very much to visit this sanatorium myself, but circumstances rendered it impossible.

A good account of it was published just after I came home, in the 'Practitioner' for November, by Dr. Karl Hess, senior physician to the establishment.

It cannot fail to strike us as we walk or drive past the Brompton Hospital, with its airless situation and its closed windows, how hopelessly different its conditions and treatment must be from those recommended - and apparently so successfully carried out - at Falkenstein. In Germany twenty sister establishments have been started, and the medical management is supposed to be now so complete against infection that German parents have no fear of sending delicate children to these cures, at the age of sixteen or seventeen, to be benefited by the outdoor treatment as a strengthener against the possibility of their catching tuberculosis. At Falkenstein, the parent institution, much meat is insisted on; but I am told that at Nordrach Dr. Walther now gives very little meat, and sends away patients if they take any stimulant at all. He does cram them, but it is with enormous quantities of milk, cheese, butter, brown bread, and other farinaceous foods.

When I came home from Germany last year I noted three things which I hold to be of the utmost importance, and in which we seemed in England to be decidedly behind other nations. First, I wished to see established public slaughterhouses, duly inspected, not only in large towns, but in every village where beasts are slaughtered. It seems to me absurd to expect that the man who buys a beast, kills it himself, and counts on selling the meat at a profit, should forego his gains solely for the public good. Meat is constantly eaten which is rejected by the Jewish priests, and I believe it is a statistically established fact that Jews have a great immunity from both consumption and cancer. It used to be supposed that this was because they were of a different race from ourselves. I believe it is because they are much cleaner feeders than we are.

Secondly, I would gladly have seen greater intelligence and knowledge on the part of the public as regards the danger to children and invalids who live almost exclusively on milk of drinking it unsterilised or unboiled, since one tuberculous cow infects the whole supply, and this is not possible to detect by any analysis of the milk.