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One and all the children were really distressed, with the exception of Friedrich, who had, as usual, given about half his attention to the subject in hand; and who now sat absently humming to himself the account of Bluebeard’s position and character, as set forth in Gotter’s ballad.

The others came to the conclusion that there was but one hope left–that St. Nicholas might have put some new ballads into the old book–and one and all they made for the hiding-place, followed at a feebler pace by the little Fraeulein, who ran with her lips tightly shut, her hands clenched, and her eyes wide open with a mixture of fear and expectation. The bricks were removed, the book unwrapped, but alas! everything was the same, even to the rough woodcut of Bluebeard himself, in the act of sharpening his scimitar. There was no change, except that the volume was rather the worse for damp. It was thrown down with a murmur of disappointment, but seized immediately by the little Fraeulein, who flung herself upon it in a passion of tears and embraces. Hers was the only faithful affection; the charm of the Maerchen-Frau was gone.

They were all out of humour with this, and naturally looked about for some one to find fault with. Friedrich was at hand, and so they fell upon him and reproached him for his want of sympathy with their vexation. The boy awoke from a brown study, and began to defend himself:–“He was very sorry,” he said; “but he couldn’t see the use of making such a great fuss about a few old ballads, that after all were nothing so very wonderful.”

This was flat heresy, and he was indignantly desired to say where any were to be got like them–where even one might be found, when St. Nicholas could not provide them? Friedrich was even less respectful to the idea of St. Nicholas, and said something which, translated into English, would look very like the word humbug. This was no answer to the question “where were they to get a ballad?” and a fresh storm came upon his head; whereupon being much goaded, and in a mixture of vanity and vexation of spirit, he let out the fact that “he thought he could write one almost as good himself.”

This turned the current of affairs. The children had an instinctive belief in Friedrich’s talents, to which their elders had not attained. The faith of childhood is great; and they saw no reason why he should not be able to do as he said, and so forthwith began to pet and coax him as unmercifully as they had scolded five minutes before.

“Beloved Friedrich; dear little brother! Do write one for us. We know thou canst!”

“I cannot,” said Friedrich. “It is all nonsense. I was only joking.”

“It is not nonsense; we know thou canst! Dear Fritz–just to please us!”

“Do!” said another. “It was only yesterday the mother was saying, ‘Friedrich can do nothing useful!’ But when thou hast written a poem thou wilt have done more than any one in the house–ay, or in the town. And when thou hast written one poem thou wilt write more, and be like Hans Sachs, and the Twelve Wise Masters thou hast told us of so often.”

Friedrich had read many of the verses of the Cobbler Poet, but the name of Hans Sachs awakened no thought in his mind. He had heard nothing of that speech but one sentence, and it decided him.

Friedrich can do nothing useful. “I will see what I can do,” he said, and walked hastily away. Down the garden, out into the road, away to the mill, where he could stand by the roaring water and talk aloud without being heard.

“Friedrich can do nothing useful. Yes, I will write a ballad.”

He went home, got together some scraps of paper, and commenced.

In half-a-dozen days he began as many ballads, and tore them up one and all. He beat his brains for plots, and was satisfied with none. He had a fair maiden, a cruel father, a wicked sister, a handsome knight, and a castle on the Rhine; and so plunged into a love story with a moonlight meeting, an escape on horseback, pursuit, capture, despair, suicide, and a ghostly apparition that floated over the river, and wrung her hands under the castle window. It seems impossible for an author to do more for his heroine than take her out of the world, and bring her back again; but our poet was not content. He had not come himself to the sentiment of life, and felt a rough boyish disgust at the maundering griefs of his hero and heroine, who, moreover, were unpleasantly like every other hero and heroine that he had ever read of under similar circumstances; and if there was one thing more than another that Friedrich was determined to be, it was to be original.