tirical verses rushed like rockets from the lips of the
reader--a real illumination of wit and humor, of good-natured jokes and
biting sarcasm, and it delighted the old man that every one had received
hits and thrusts but himself; he had been spared until now! Every one
regarded him, smiling and amused, as the reader exalted the merits of
the Maecenas, and praised him highly for the interest he took in the
poet's heart, soul, and purse, and shouted victory when one excelled.
But suddenly the good father also changed, and, instead of the patron
on the right throne, there was a turkey-cock on the round nest, which
zealously sought to hatch out the many eggs that he had to take care of
for others besides his own; he sat brooding untiringly, and shed many
a tear of joy over the fine number of eggs, yet it happened that a
poetical viper had put but under him one of chalk, which he cared for
with the others.

Herr Gleim could no longer contain himself, and, striking the table, he
cried, "That is either Goethe or the devil!" The entire company burst
into uncontrollable laughter, and the old man shouted the second time,
though inwardly angry, "It is either Goethe or the devil!"

"Both, dear Father Gleim," said Wieland, who was drying his tears from
laughter, "it is Goethe, and he has the devil in him to-day. He is like
a wild colt, which kicks out behind and before, and it would be well not
to approach him too near." [Footnote: Wieland's own words.--See Lewes'
"Life of Goethe," vol. i., p. 432.]

Goethe alone retained his composure, and continued reading in a louder
voice, which hushed all conversation. He lashed with bitter sarcasm "him
who assumed to be a god--a wise man--and who counted for nothing better
than a pretentious, saucy fellow, who made himself the scorn of
the poets by his sweet, Werther-like sighs, and other worthless
lamentations, heeding neither God nor the devil!"

And so he stormed and thundered, ridiculed and slandered his own flesh
and blood, until Goechhausen, red with anger, rose and snatched the book
from his hand, and closed his lips with her hand, crying: "If you do
not cease, Goethe, I will write to your beloved mother, Frau Aja, that
a satirist, a calumniator has had the impudence to defame and slur her
beloved son in a most sinful and shameful manner! I will write to her,
indeed, if you do not stop!"

Goethe rose, and bowing offered his hand to Father Gleim in such a
friendly, affectionate man