"Do not be angry, my Andrew," exclaimed Schiller, extending his hand to his friend with a cordial smile. "A poet must above all things wait upon the muses submissively, and may not show them the door when they pay him a visit at an unseemly hour of the night." "Ah, the nine muses would have been satisfied if you had shown them out, and had graciously accorded them the privilege of knocking at your door again this morning! But get up, Fritz! Unfortunately, I have something of pressing and grave importance to communicate!" With one bound Frederick Schiller was out of his bed. "Of pressing and grave importance," he repeated, dressing rapidly, "that sounds very mystical, Andrew. And now that I look at you, I find that your usually open brow is clouded. It is no misfortune that you have to announce?" "No, Fritz, no misfortune, thank God, but a very great annoyance. Miserable, grovelling poverty once more stretches out its ravenous claws." "What is it?" asked Schiller, breathlessly, as he drew the dressing-gown over his shoulders with trembling hands. "I am now composed and ready to hear all! Some impatient creditor who wishes to throw me into prison. Is it not so? Speak it right out, Andrew, without hesitation." "Well, then, come with me into the other room. There you shall learn all," answered Andrew Streicher, taking his friend's hand and throwing the chamber door open, which he had closed behind him on his entrance. "Come and see!" "Mr. Schwelm," exclaimed Schiller, as he observed on crossing the threshold a gentleman standing in a window-niche, whose countenance indicated that he was very ill at ease. "Yes, truly, this is my loved and faithful friend, Oswald Schwelm, from Stuttgart, the literary godfather of my career as a poet, and--But how mournful you look, dear Schwelm! and not a single word of friendship for me, no greeting?" "Ah, Schiller, these are hard times," sighed Oswald Schwelm. "Anxiety and want have driven me from Stuttgart, and I come to you as a right unwelcome guest. Only believe that I deplore it deeply myself, but I cannot help it, and it is not my fault. I would gladly sacrifice every thing for my friend Schiller, but I have nothing more; and painful necessity compels me to remind you of the old debt."