You will grant me that it is much more like a crazy person to strew his hair with flour, and tie it up in that ridiculous cue, than to wear it as God made it, uncombed and unparted, as I do my beautiful hair, and for which they call me crazy! But, for Heaven's sake, where are you going ?" asked Goethe, struggling to retain him.
"I am going to trumpet through every street in Berlin that the author of 'Werther,' of 'Clavigo,' of 'Gotz von Berlichingen,' of 'Stella,' of the most beautiful poems, is in my humble apartment.

I will call in all the little poets and savants of Berlin; I will drag Mammler, Nicolai, Engel, Spaulding, Gedicke, Plumicke, Karschin, and Burman here.

They shall all come to see Wolfgang Goethe, and adore him.

The insignificant poets shall pay homage to thee, the true poet, the favorite of Apollo." "My dear Moritz, if you leave me for that, I will run away, and you will trouble yourself in vain." "Impossible; you will be my prisoner until I return.

I shall lock you in, and you cannot escape by the window, as I fortunately live on the third story." "But I shall not wait to be looked in," answered Goethe, slightly annoyed.