king: "Was it really
thus? Did it really occur in that manner?"

Show me from history that it could not be so; that it is not in
accordance with the character of the persons represented--then I will
confess that I am wrong, and you are right; then have I not presented an
illustration, but only a caricature of history, faulty as a work of art,
and wanting the dignity of truth.

I am conscious of having earnestly and devotedly striven for the truth,
and of having diligently sought it in all attainable historical works.
The author of an Historical Romance has before him a difficult task:
while he must falsify nothing in history, he must poetize it in a manner
that both historical and poetic truth shall be the result. To those,
however, who so very severely judge Historical Romance, and would deny
its historical worth, I now, in conclusion, answer with the following
significant quotation from Schiller:

"I shall always prove a bad resource for any future historian who may
have the misfortune to recur to me. History is generally only a magazine
for my fantasy, and objects must be contented with whatever they may
become under my hand."--(See Weisnar's "Musenhof," p. 93.)

This declaration of Schiller satisfies me with respect to the nature of
my own creations. I desire not to be a resource for historical writers,
but I shall always earnestly and zealously seek to draw from the
wells of history, that nothing false or unreal may find a place in the
"magazine of my fantasy."

CLARA MUNDT,

(L. MUEHLBACH. )

BERLIN, September 22, 1866.

OLD FRITZ AND THE NEW ERA.

BOOK I. OLD FRITZ.

CHAPTER I. THE LONELY KING.

"Well, so let it be!" said the king, sighing, as he rose from his
arm-chair; "I must go forth to the strife, and these old limbs must
again submit to the fatigue of war. But what matters it? The life of
princes is passed in the fulfilment of duties and responsibilities,
and rarely is it gladdened with the sunny rays of joy and peace! Let us
submit!

"Yes, let us submit!" repeated the king, thoughtfully, slowly pacing his
cabinet back and forth, his hands folded upon his staff behind him, and
his favorite dog, Alkmene, sleepily following him.

It was a melancholy picture to see this bowed-down old man; his thin,
pale face shaded by a worn-out, three-cornered hat, his dirty uniform
strewn with snuff; and his meagre legs encased in high-topped,
unpolished boots; his only companion a greyho