"My father was right," he cried, in his rage. "I am an inflated fool, who over-estimates himself, and boasts of great prospects and expectations which are never to be realized! Why did I not listen to his wise counsel? why did I not remain the regimental surgeon, and crouch submissively at the feet of my tyrant? Why was I such a simpleton as to desire to do any thing better than apply plasters! I imagined myself invited to the table of the gods, whereas I am only worthy to stand as a lackey at the table of my Duke, and eat the hard crust of duty and subserviency! She laughed! Laughed at my poem! All these words, these thoughts that had blossomed up from the depths of my heart; all these forms to whom I had given spirit of my spirit, life of my life: all this had no other effect than to excite laughter--laughter over my tragedy! Oh, Charlotte, Charlotte, why have you done this?" And he again thrust his hands violently into his hair, and sank groaning into his chair. "I am unhappy, very unhappy! I believed I could conquer a world, and have not yet conquered a single human heart! I hoped to acquire honor, renown, and a competency by the creative power of my talents, and am but a poor, nameless man, tormented by creditors, by misery, and want, who must at last admit that he placed a false estimate on his abilities. Truly I am unhappy, very unhappy! Entirely alone; none who loves or understands me!" Deep sighs escaped his breast, and tears stood in the eyes that looked up reproachfully toward heaven. As he lowered his eyes, he looked toward the writing-table--the writing-table at which he had spent so many hours of the night in hard work; at which he had written, thought, and suffered so much. "In vain, all in vain! Nothing but illusion and disappointment! If what I have written with my heart's blood excites laughter, I am no poet, am not one of the anointed! It were better I had copied deeds and written recipes, instead of tragedies, for a living, and--" He ceased speaking as he observed a letter and package, which the carrier had brought and deposited on his table during his absence. A simple letter would have excited no pleasure or curiosity; yes, would even have filled him with consternation, for the letters he was in the habit of receiving only caused humiliation and pain. They were either from dunning creditors, from his angry father, or from theatre-managers, rejecting his "Fiesco," as useless, and not adapted to the stage. But beside this letter lay a package; and the letter which Schiller now took from the table bore the postmark Leipsic. From Leipsic! Who could write to him? who could send him a package from that city? Who had ever sent him any thing but rejected manuscripts and theatrical pieces? "Ah, that was it!" He had also sent his "Fiesco" to the director of the theatre at Leipsic, and this gentleman had now returned it with a polite letter of refusal. Of course, it could be nothing else!