mean?" he asked.

Moritz stopped a moment, looking up to Goethe with a face beaming with
joy. "I cannot better express my happiness. Language is too feeble--too
poor!"

"If that is the case, then I will join you," said Goethe, throwing
himself upon the carpet, rolling and tumbling about. [Footnote: This
scene which I relate, and which Teichman also mentions in his "Leaves
of Memory of Goethe in Berlin," has been often related to me by Ludwig
Tieck exactly in this manner. Teichman believes it was the poet Burman.
But I remember distinctly that Ludwig Tieck told me that it was the
eccentric savant, Philip Moritz, with whom Goethe made the acquaintance
in this original manner.--The Authoress.]

All at once Moritz jumped up without saying a word, rushed to the
wardrobe, dressed himself in modest attire in a few moments, and
presented himself to Goethe, who rose from the carpet quite astounded
at the sudden metamorphosis. Then he seized his three-cornered hat to go
out, when Goethe held him fast.

"You are not going into the street, sir! You forget that your hair is
flying about as if unloosed by a divine madness."

"Sir, people are quite accustomed to see me in a strange costume, and
the most of them think me crazy."

"You are aware that insane people believe that they only are sane, and
that reasonable people are insane. You will grant me that it is much
more like a crazy person to strew his hair with flour, and tie it up
in that ridiculous cue, than to wear it as God made it, uncombed and
unparted, as I do my beautiful hair, and for which they call me crazy!
But, for Heaven's sake, where are you going?" asked Goethe, struggling
to retain him.

"I am going to trumpet through every street in Berlin that the author of
'Werther,' of 'Clavigo,' of 'Gotz von Berlichingen,' of 'Stella,' of the
most beautiful poems, is in my humble apartment. I will call in all the
little poets and savants of Berlin; I will drag Mammler, Nicolai, Engel,
Spaulding, Gedicke, Plumicke, Karschin, and Burman here. They shall
all come to see Wolfgang Goethe, and adore him. The insignificant poets
shall pay homage to thee, the true poet, the favorite of Apollo."

"My dear Moritz, if you leave me for that, I will run away, and you will
trouble yourself in vain."

"Impossible; you will be my prisoner until I return. I shall lock you
in, and you cannot escape by the window, as I fortunately live on the
third story."

"But I shall not wait to