"Oh, look upon me, sir," sweet Cordelia replies, "and hold your hands in benediction o'er me; no, sir, you must not kneel," she cries, holding in hers her father's hands, who, pale and trembling, wishes to kneel before his daughter, saying: "Pray do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, forescore and upward, not an hour more nor less; and, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant what place this is; and all the skill I have remembers not these garments; nor I know not where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia." "And so I am, I am," cries Cordelia, weeping, and wetting his hands with her tears. "Be your tears wet? Yes, 'faith. I pray, weep not: if you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters have, as I do remember, done me wrong: you have some cause, they have not." All the fearful sadness of the poor king, all the courageous tenderness of Cordelia, were exhaled from this beautiful drawing, which bore the imprint of the sombre and melancholy genius of Shakespeare. The other water-colour offered a remarkable contrast to the first; there, one beheld the wildness and rusticity of the German nature. The scene was laid in the vast and antique kitchen of old Goetz's château, which had been transformed into a magazine and hospital during the siege of his feudal habitation by the troops of the Empire. Elizabeth, his wife, is busy in attending to the needs of a wounded man; the men are all on the ramparts, and so the women and children are hurrying here and there, moulding bullets or preparing food for the besieged. Old Goetz has just entered. His rude physiognomy, frank and warlike, shows the stubbornness and bravery of this man of iron; armed with his breastplate, he has placed, for an instant, his casque and his arquebuse on a massive oak table, on which is stretched out the half of a deer, that no one has had the time to cut up. Goetz passes one of his great hands over his forehead, from which he wipes the moisture, and in the other hand holds a large pewter mug, from which he means to quench his thirst and renew his strength. "Thou hast a hard time, poor wife?" says he to Elizabeth. "I hope to have it a long time," she answers; "but we will hardly hold out." "Some charcoal, madame!" asks a servant maid. "What for?" "To melt bullets, we have no more." "How are you off for powder?" "We waste none of our shots, madame." In order to give an idea of the powerful and varied beauty of the principal figures in this drawing, it will suffice to say that they perfectly expressed the savage energy which Goethe ascribes to them.