text:  Now in the year 1749 there was born a boy in Frankfort --a poet great in soul--the maker of his country's literature--no other than the illustrious Goethe--a son worthy of such a mother as Bettina's friend; and while all Germany and France--the whole civilized world in short--were almost worshipping his matured perhaps his decaying genius the noble mother was loud and eloquent in her description of him as a boy--as a youth--as a poet of twenty years old; and the little girl of fifteen sat and listened till there arose in her heart--or rather in her brain for it was a stirring of the intellect more than the affections--a feeling of intense admiration softened under the mother's teaching into something that she herself fancied was love; for which audacious fancy the sagacious old woman gave her some raps over the knuckles--(we are not sure that they were altogether figurative either but good substantial raps)--enough to make the fingers tingle in a very disagreeable manner indeed