hold back the scourge that it may not fall upon poor Wolfgang Goethe.
Adieu, dear Frau Karschin."

Goethe bowed, and hastened down into the street. "With the authors and
poets of Berlin I wish nothing more to do, but with the philosophers
I may be more fortunate, and with them find the wisdom and forbearance
which fail the poets."

Goethe bent his steps to Spandauer Street, in which the merchant
and philosopher Moses Mendelssohn lived; hastened up the stairs, and
knocked, which was answered by an old servant, to whom Goethe announced
himself. The servant disappeared, and the poet stood in the little,
narrow corridor, smilingly looking to the study-door, and waiting for
the "gates of wisdom" to open and let the worldling enter the temple of
philosophy.

The crooked little man, the great philosopher, Moses, son of
Mendelssohn, stood behind the door, turning over in his mind whether
he would receive Goethe or not. "Why should I? The proud secretary of
legation has already been in Berlin eight days, and wishes to prove to
me that he cares little for Berlin philosophers. My noble friend,
the great Lessing, cannot abide 'Gotz von Berlichingen;' and Nicolai,
Rammler, and Engel are the bitter opponents, the very antipodes of the
rare genius and secretary of legation from Weimar. If he wishes to see
me, why did he come so late, so--"

"Herr Goethe is waiting--shall he enter?" asked the servant.

The philosopher raised his head. "No," cried he, loudly. "No! tell him
you were mistaken. I am not at home."

The old servant looked quite frightened at his master--the first time he
had heard an untruth from him. "What shall I say, sir?"

"Say no," cried Moses, very excited and ill-humored. "Say that I am not
at home--that I am out."

With a determined, defiant manner the philosopher seated himself to work
upon his new book, "Jerusalem," saying to himself, "I am right to send
him away; he waited too long, is too late." [Footnote: From Ludwig Tieck
I learned this anecdote, and he assured me that Moses Mendelssohn
told it to him.--See "Goethe in Berlin, Leaves of Memory," p. 6.--The
Authoress.]

CHAPTER XVIII. FAREWELL TO BERLIN.

"What is the matter, my dear Wolf?" cried the duke, as Goethe returned
from his visits. "What mean those shadows upon your brow? Have the
cursed beaux-esprits in Berlin annoyed and tortured you?"

"No, duke, I--" and suddenly stopping, he burst into a loud ringing
laugh, and sprang about t