e in Hamburg to a crowded and
enthusiastic audience, he fled, with a friend, from his fatherland to
pursue his eventful and turbulent career. A description of his
appearance at this period is extant: "He was cramped into a uniform
of the old Prussian cut, that on army surgeons had an even uglier,
stiffer look; his little military hat barely covered his crown, behind
which hung a long queue, while round his neck was screwed a horse-hair
stock several sizes too small. More wondrous, however, was the nether
part of him. Owing to the padding of his long, white gaiters, his legs
seemed thicker at the calf than at the thigh. Moving stiffly about in
these blacking-stained gaiters, with knees rigid and unbent, he
reminded one irresistibly of a stork." Freed now by his own bold act
from military slavery, Schiller entered Mannheim with joyful hopes.
With the manuscript of "Fiesco" under his arm, he called upon the
regisseur, Meyer, in whose house he read two acts of the play before a
company of actors. His hopes were speedily dashed to the ground; when
he finished reading the second act every actor but one had left the
room, and Meyer thrust a dagger into the poet's heart by declaring
that "Fiesco" was nothing but high-flown rubbish. Having, however,
heard but two acts of the play, and probably stirred to compassion by
Schiller's mournful countenance, the regisseur requested that the
manuscript should be left with him; and the following morning the poet
was compensated for the intervening night of misery, by hearing Meyer
proclaim that "Fiesco" was a masterpiece, and that the bad effect it
had produced was due to the villainous manner in which Schiller had
read his verse. Notwithstanding this favorable opinion, which was
endorsed by others who read the play, it was with great difficulty
that Schiller succeeded in obtaining a publisher for the drama, and
then he was in an agony to see the public criticisms upon it.
Meanwhile he was working at fever heat on "Marie Stuart" and "Don
Carlos." Into this last work he threw all his heart and soul, spurred
on, doubtless, by the passion of love, which now for the first time
possessed him. The object of his affections was Charlotte von
Wolzogen, whom he had met in Stuttgart, and into whose society he was
now thrown. He experienced all an ardent lover's joys and tortures.
"It is fearful," he wrote, "to live apart from humanity, without some
sympathizing soul; yet no less fearful is it to clin