ke, pressing him
to his bosom.

"Oh! Wolf, my dear Wolf, you have a child's heart and a poet's soul. Are
you faint-hearted and dispirited? Do you not know that you are the sun
which brings forth the flowers for us, and shines for us all? Let no
clouds overshadow you, Wolf! Let your fresh, youthful vigor, and divine
brilliancy, penetrate them. In the thick, sandy atmosphere of Berlin I
confess the sun itself loses its force and brightness! Come! let us be
off. Our steeds stamp with impatience." The duke drew his friend from
the room and joyfully they sprang down the stairs to the carriage, the
great dog following, howling and barking after them. "Forward, then,
forward! Blow, postilion, blow! A gay little air! Let it peal through
the streets, a farewell song! Blow, postilion, blow! and I will moisten
your throat at the gates with the thin, white stuff, which you have the
boldness to call beer." The postilion laughed for joy, and the German
song resounded in quivering tones--"Three riders rode out of the gate."
He blew so long and loudly, that the dog set up a mournful howl, and
amid the peals of the postilion, and the distressed cry of Wolfshund,
they drove through the long, hot streets of Berlin, through the Leipsic
Gate, and the suburbs with their small, low houses. The wagon-wheels
sank to the spokes in the loose, yellow sand of the hill they soon
mounted, and, arriving at the top of which, the postilion stopped to let
his horses take breath, and turned to remind his aristocratic passengers
that this was their last view of the city.

"And will be seen no more," repeated the duke. "Come, let us take a
farewell look at Berlin, Wolf!" and away they sprang without waiting for
the footman to descend, and waded through the sand to a rising in the
fallow fields. There they stood, arm in arm, and viewed the town with
its towers and chimneys, houses, barracks, and palaces stretched at
their feet. A thick, gray, cloud of vapor and smoke hovered over it,
and veiled the horizon in dust and fog. "Farewell, Berlin, you city of
arrogance and conceit!" cried the duke, joyfully. "I shake your dust
from my feet, and strew the sand of your fields over every souvenir of
you in memory," and suiting the action to his words, he tossed a handful
of it in the air.

"Farewell, Muses and Graces of sand and dust!" cried Goethe, as his
fiery eye flashed far out over the fog-enveloped roofs. "Farewell,
Berlin, void of nature and without verdure