ly he discovers a green
oasis, and a being with outstretched arms calling to him with a soft,
angel-like voice: 'Come, save thyself in my arms; feel that thou art not
alone in the desert, for I am with thee, and will sustain thee!'"

"And I say it to you from the bottom of my heart," said Goethe,
affectionately. "Yes, here is one, who is only too happy to aid you, who
can sympathize with every sorrow, because he has himself felt it in his
own breast, who may even say of himself, like Ovid: 'Nothing human is
strange to me.' If I can aid you, say so, and I will willingly do it."

"No, you cannot," murmured Moritz.

"At least confide your grief to me; that is an alleviation."

"Oh, how kind and generous you are!" Moritz said, pressing the hand of
his new-made friend to his bosom. "How much good it does me to listen to
you, and look at your beautiful face! I believed myself steeled against
every thing that could happen to mortals; that the fool which I would
be had killed within me the higher man. I was almost proud to have
succeeded in deceiving men; that they mistook my grotesque mask for my
real face; that they point the finger at me, and laugh, saying to each
other: 'That is a fool, an original, whom Nature herself has chosen as
a kind of court fool to society.' No one has understood the cry of
distress of my soul. Those who laughed at the comical fellow by day,
little dreamed of the anguish and misery in which he sighed away the
night."

"You not only wrong yourself, but you wrong mankind," said Goethe,
kindly. "In the world, and in literature, you bear an honored name;
every one of education is familiar with your excellent work on 'Prosody
of the German Language'--has read also your spirited Journey to England.
You have no right to ask that one should separate the kernel from
the shell in hastily passing by. If you surround yourself with a wall
bedaubed with caricatures, you cannot expect that people will look
behind what seems an entrance to a puppet-show, to find holy temples,
blooming gardens, or a church-yard filled with graves."

"That is just what I resemble," said Moritz, with a melancholy air.
"From the depths of my soul it seems so. Nothing but buried hopes,
murdered ideals, and wishes trodden under foot. From childhood I have
exerted myself against circumstances; I have striven my whole life--a
pledge of my being against unpropitious Fate. Although the son of a
poor tradesman, Nature had given me a thi