esented himself as Philip Moritz?
Then please to inform me whether you are the Philip Moritz who wrote a
spirited and cordial letter to Johann Wolfgang Goethe some years since
about the tragedy of 'Stella,' the representation of which had been
forbidden at that time?"

"Yes, I am the same Philip Moritz, who wrote to the poet Goethe to prove
to him, with the most heart-felt sympathy, that we are not all such
stupid fellows in Berlin as Nicolai, who pronounced the tragedy 'Stella'
immoral; that it is only, as Goethe himself called it, 'a play for
lovers.'"

"And will you not be kind enough to tell me what response the poet made
to your amiable letter?"

"Proud and amiable at the same time, most gracefully he answered me, but
not with words. He sent me his tragedy 'Stella' bound in rose-colored
satin. [Footnote: "Goethe in Berlin,"--Sketches from his life at the
anniversary of his one hundredth birthday.] See there! it is before the
bust of Apollo on my writing-table, where it has lain for three years!"

"What did he write to you at the same time?"

"Nothing--why should he? Was not the book sufficient answer?"

"Did he write nothing? Permit me to say to you that Goethe behaved like
a brute and an ass to you!"

"Sir," cried Moritz, angrily, "I forbid you to speak of my favorite in
so unbecoming a manner in my room!"

"Sir," cried the other, "you dare not forbid me. I insist upon it that
that man is sometimes a brute and an ass! I can penitently acknowledge
it to you, dear Moritz, for I am Johann Wolfgang Goethe himself!"

"You, you are Goethe!" shouted Moritz, as he seized him with both hands,
drawing him toward the window, and gazing at him with the greatest
enthusiasm and delight. "Yes, yes," he shouted, "you are either Apollo
or Goethe! The gods are not so stupid as to return to this miserable
world, so you must be Goethe. No other man would dare to sport such a
godlike face as you do, you favorite of the gods!"

He then loosed his hold upon the smiling poet, and sprang to the
writing-table. "Listen, Apollo," he cried, with wild joy. "Goethe is
here, thy dear son is here! Hurrah! long live Goethe!"

He took the rose-colored little book, and shouting tossed it to the
ceiling, and sprang about like a mad bacchant, and finally threw himself
upon the carpet, rolling over and over like a frolicksome, good-natured
child upon its nurse's lap.

Goethe laughed aloud. "What are you doing, dear Moritz? What does this