o blow him into the air."

Goethe shoved aside the breakfast-table, straightened his delicate form,
with his noble head proudly erect, and one foot in advance, extended his
right arm, giving one loud hurrah! "Now, for once, a tumult and noise,
that thought may turn about like a weathercock. This savage noise has
already wrought its own benefit. I begin to feel a little better. Rage
and expand, mad heart, quicken yourself in hurly-burly-burly-burly!"
[Footnote: From Klinger's tragedy "Sturm und Drang."]

"Bravo! bravo!" laughed the duke. "Is that Klinger, or who is it that
refreshes himself in hurly-burly?"

"It is I who am every thing," replied Goethe, striding and swaggering up
and down. "I was an assistant, in order to be something--lived upon the
Alps, tended the goats, lay under the vault of heaven day and night,
refreshed by the cool pastures, and burned with the inward fire. No
peace, no rest anywhere. See, I swell with power and health! I cannot
waste myself away. I would take part in the campaign here; then can my
soul expand, and if they do me the service to shoot me down, well and
good!" [Footnote: From Klinger's tragedy "Sturm und Drang."]

"Bravo! Wild, bravo!" cried the duke. "Hei! that thundered and rolled,
and struck fire! It does me good to hear such vigorous words from an
able rare genius in the midst of this miserable, starched elegance. The
powerful Germans are healthy fellows. Something of the Promethean fire
blazes forth in them. They were forced to come, those jolly, uproarious
boys, after the affected cue period; they were the full, luxurious
plants, and my Wolfgang, the favorite of my heart, my poet and teacher,
is the divine blossom of this plant. Let them prevail, these 'Sturmer
und Dranger,' for they are the fathers and brothers of my Wolfgang.
Do me the sole pleasure not to refine yourself too much, but let this
divine fire burst forth in volcanic flames, and leave the thundering
crater uncovered. Sometimes when I see you so simpering, so modest and
ceremonious, I ask myself, with anxiety, if it is the same Wolfgang
Goethe, who used to drink 'Smollis' with me at merry bacchanals out of
death-skulls?--the same with whom I used to practise whip-cracking upon
the market-place hours long, to the terror of the good citizens?--the
same who used to dance so nimbly the two-steps, and was inexhaustible
in mad pranks. Now tell me, Herr Wolfgang, are you yourself, or are you
another?"

"I am myself