"Yes; I knew him well," replied the stranger. "I am a native of
Baireuth, where he passed the best years of his life. In my mind the
man and the author are closely united. I never read a page of his
writings without hearing his voice, and seeing his form before me.
There he sits, with his majestic, mountainous forehead, his mild
blue eyes, and finely cut nose and mouth; his massive frame clad
loosely and carelessly in an old green frock, from the pockets of
which the corners of books project, and perhaps the end of a loaf of
bread, and the nose of a bottle;--a straw hat, lined with green,
lying near him; a huge walking-stick in his hand, and at his feet a
white poodle, with pink eyes and a string round his neck. You would
sooner have taken him for a master-carpenter than for a poet. Is he
a favorite author of yours?"

Flemming answered in the affirmative.

"But a foreigner must find it exceedingly difficult to understand
him," said the gentleman. "It is by no means an easy task for us
Germans."

"I have always observed," replied Flemming, "that the true
understanding and appreciation of a poet depend more upon
individual, than upon national character. If there be a sympathy
between the minds of writer and reader, the bounds and barriers of a
foreign tongue are soon overleaped. If you once understand an
author's character, the comprehension of his writings becomes
easy."

"Very true," replied the German, "and the character of Richter is
too marked to be easily misunderstood. Its prominent traits are