"You had rather he hungered, and wrote dramas, than he should lead a happy and comfortable life, and write deeds. Ah, my friend, the career of a poet is full of bitterness and humiliation. The wise and sensible shrug their shoulders when mention is made of him, as though he were a crazy fool; the so-called gentlefolk do not recognize him as their equal, and even the players on the stage act as though they conferred a favor on the poet when they render his dramas, and, as they say, give life to inanimate forms by their sublime impersonations. No, no, my mind is made up, I will write no more stage pieces, at least until I have achieved a respectable position in the world as a jurist. Man must always push on and possess the ambition which leads higher and higher. Are not you, too, ambitious, Andrew?" "Of course, I am, and will strive with all my might to obtain my ideal, and become the leader of an orchestra." "And I, Andrew, I will become a minister," cried Schiller, with enthusiasm. "Yes, that is my ideal!--minister of a little state--to devote my whole life, my thought, and being, to the happiness of mankind, to be a benefactor to the poor and oppressed, to advance men of talent and science, to promote the good and useful, to cultivate the beautiful. This, Andrew, is my ideal; and this is attained if I succeed in becoming a good jurist and a minister at one of our dear little Saxon courts. Yes, my friend, thus it shall be! You, an orchestra-leader--I, a minister! Let us arise with our foaming glasses, and shake hands over it. Let this be our last toast, and our final compact: 'We will neither write to, nor visit each other, until Andrew Streicher is the orchestra-leader, and Frederick Schiller the minister.'"[13] "So let it be," cried Andrew, laughing. "Hurrah, the orchestra-leader! hurrah, the minister!" They raised their glasses exultingly, and emptied them. They then gave each other one last embrace. The hour of departure and parting had come. Andrew accompanied his friend in silence through the deserted streets of the slumbering city, to the post-office, where the coach stood awaiting the passengers. A last pressure of the hand, a last loving look, and the coach rolled on, and carried into the world the "new Cæsar and his fortunes!" CHAPTER IX. THE LAST RIDE. Years, when we look back at them in the past, are but as fleeting moments; when we look forward to them in the future, they are eternities! How long was the year from the spring of 1785 to the spring of 1786 to be for young Frederick Schiller, who looked forward to it with so much hope and so many beautiful dreams! How long was the same year to be for old Frederick, for the old philosopher of Sans-Souci, who grew day by day more hopeless, in whose ear was daily whispered the awful tidings, "You must die!"