TWENTY-FOURTH EVENING.
I will give thee a picture from Frankfort,—said the Moon:—I took notice of one building in particular. It was not the birth-place of Goethe, nor was it the old town-house, where, through the grated windows, are still exhibited the horned fronts of the oxen which were roasted and given to the people at the emperor’s coronation, but it was the house of a citizen painted green and unpretending, at the corner of the narrow Jews’ street. It was the house of the Rothschilds. I looked in at the open door; the flight of steps was strongly lighted; servants stood there with burning lights in massive silver candlesticks, and bowed themselves lowly before the old woman who was carried forth down the steps in a sedan chair. The master of the house
