ers! The
great Frederick sent me three thalers to build a house!"

"What did you do? Did you take them?"

"Yes," she answered, proudly, "and I will leave them as a legacy to my
daughter, as an historical souvenir for succeeding generations, who will
relate the benevolence of the German king for the German poetess. I sent
the king a receipt--I will read it to you.

"'His majesty commanded, Instead of building-money, To send me three
thalers. The order was exactly, Promptly fulfilled. I am indebted for
thanks, But for three thalers can No joiner in Berlin My coffin make.
Otherwise to-morrow I would order Such a house without horror Where
worms feast, And, feasting, quarrel Over the lean, care-worn Old woman's
remains That the king let sigh away.'" [Footnote: See "Life and Poems of
Louisa Karschin," edited by her daughter.]

"Why do you not laugh?" said Frau Karschin, raising her flashing eyes to
Goethe, who sat looking down earnestly and quietly before her.

"I cannot," he gently answered. "Your poem makes me sad; it recalls the
keen sorrow of a poet's existence, the oft-repeated struggle between
Ideality and Reality. The blessed of the gods must humble themselves;
though they may raise their heads to heaven, their feet must still rest
upon earth; and to find their way upon it, and walk humbly therein, they
must again lower their inspired heads."

"Oh, that makes me feel better," cried Karschin, with tears in her eyes;
"that is balsam for my wounds. You are a great poet, Goethe, I feel it
to be so. You are a great man, for your heart is good and filled with
pity. How unjustly they call you cold and proud! Only be a little more
yielding, and call upon the Berlin poets and writers. You can imagine
that the news of your arrival ran like wild-fire through the town.
Nicolai, Rammler, Engel, Mendelssohn, and all the other distinguished
gentlemen have stayed at home like badgers in their kennels, watching
for you, so as not to miss your visit. At last they became desperate,
and scolded furiously over your arrogance and pride in thinking yourself
better than they. Why have you not called upon them?"

There was a loud knocking at the door, and the young man with his album
entered, almost breathless. "Here I am," said he, "I came directly from
Professor Rammler here, as I promised you."

"You saw him, then? Has he written something for you?"

"Yes, I saw him, and he granted my request."

"And abused me, did he not, with