“No one is like him, and no one would have treated me as he did. I addressed to him a poem, begging him with true inspiration and emotion to let a German poetess find favor in his sight--and that he would be for me a Maecenas, if I were not a Horace. My heart bled with sorrow, that I must so beg and pray, and my tears wet the paper upon which I indited my begging, rhyming petition. How much money do you think the great king sent me for my house? Think of the smallest sum.” “If it was small, yet for building-money he would send you at least two hundred thalers.” The poetess burst into a scornful laugh. “He sent me three thalers! 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.”