“How many have you sold of this?” said Friedrich, in his dream.

“Forty thousand!” with another smile and bow.

Forty thousand!  It seemed to him that all the world must have read it.  This was Fame.

He went out of the shop, through the shouting market-place, and home, where his father led him in and offered pipes and a mug of ale, as if he were the Burgomaster.  He sat down, and when his mother came in, rose to embrace her, and, doing so, knocked down the mug.  Crash! it went on the floor with a loud noise, which woke him up; and then he found himself in bed, and that he had thrown over the mug of water which he had put by his bedside to drink during the thirsty feverish hours that he lay awake.

He was not a great man, but a child.

He had not written a ballad, but broken a mug.

“Friedrich can do nothing useful.”

He buried his face, and wept bitterly.

In time, his tears were dried, and as it was very early he lay awake and beat his brains.  He had added nothing to his former character but the breaking of a piece of crockery.  Something must be done.  No more funny ballads now.  He would write something terrible—­miserable; something that should make other people weep as he had wept.  He was in a very tragic humour indeed.  He would have a hero who should go into the world to seek his fortune, and come back to find his lady-love in a nunnery; but that was an old story.  Well, he would turn it the other way, and put the hero into a monastery; but that wasn’t new.  Then he would shut both of them up, and not let them meet again till one was a monk and the other a nun, which would be grievous enough in all reason; but this was the oldest of all.  Friedrich gave up love stories on the spot.  It was clearly not his forte.

Then he thought he would have a large family of brothers and sisters, and kill them all by a plague.  But, besides the want of further incident, this idea did not seem to him sufficiently sad.  Either from its unreality, or from their better faith, the idea of death does not possess the same gloom for the young that it does for those older minds that have a juster sense of the value of human life, and are, perhaps, more heavily bound in the chains of human interests.

No; the plague story might be pathetic, but it was not miserable—­not miserable enough at any rate for Friedrich.

In truth, he felt at last that every misfortune that he could invent was lost in the depths of the real sorrow which oppressed his own life, and out of this knowledge came an idea for his ballad.  What a fool never to have thought of it before!

He would write the history—­the miserable bitter history—­of a great man born to a small way of life, whose merits should raise him from his low estate to a deserved and glorious fame; who should toil, and strive, and struggle, and when his hopes and prayers seemed to be at last fulfilled, and the reward of his labours at hand, should awake and find that it was a dream; that he was no nearer to Fame than ever, and that he might never reach it.  Here was enough sorrow for a tragedy.  The ballad should be written now.