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GERMAN POETS. 
 
GERMAN POETS. 
 
 A SERIES OF 
 
 MEMOIRS AND TRANSLATIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSEPH GOSTWICK. 
 
 WITH PORTRAITS BY C. jAGER. 
 
 LONDON, 
 
 FREDERICK BRUCKMANN. 
 
 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 ; /v;':/ < 
 
/corbel. i\ 
 
 I UlNivr^:TY 
 
 V LJChAR^ 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 jome parts of these memoirs have appeared in 
 my handbook, 'Outlines of German Literature.' To 
 adapt them as parts of that compendium, memoirs 
 of poets and translations of poetry were, with some 
 exceptions, closely abridged. It was a pleasant sur- 
 prise when my translations, given in that form, won 
 favourable notices. To the encouragement afforded 
 by genial criticism the appearance of the present 
 work may be ascribed. My critics have written as 
 men who know the difficulty of translating German 
 Poetry into English. 
 
 East Dulwich, 12. Nov. 1874. 
 
 J. G. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Poets of the Hohenstaufen Time ... . . . I 
 
 The Master- Singers and their Times . . ... . . 48 
 
 Klopstoclc . ... .... 63 
 
 Wieland .... 81 
 
 Lessing ... 95 
 
 Herder .. .. .. .. .... ..Ill 
 
 Goethe 127 
 
 Schiller .... . . . ■ . 153 
 
 Jean Paul 179 
 
 Korner . . ... 195 
 
 Chamisso ..... . ... 205 
 
 Ruckert . . .... . . 215 
 
 Uhland ... ... 225 
 
 Heine 243 
 
THE POETS 
 
 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
Ihe Hohenstaufen Time was in poetry, as in social 
 and political life, a period of transitory splendour 
 soon followed by an almost total eclipse. Much has 
 been written of the great events of that time, and 
 more will be written; for where can be found an 
 interest deeper than that belonging to the interval 
 1 137 — 1254? — Where are questions more important 
 than those suggested by a study of that period? — 
 To what cause must be ascribed the degradation of 
 ideal culture in the gloomy times that followed? — 
 Was the higher culture of the Hohenstaufen Time 
 a natural development of those old Teutonic elements 
 which Tacitus described? — Or must that culture be 
 mainly ascribed to the influence of the Church? — 
 These questions are only named here, as associated 
 with our theme — the poetry of the Hohenstaufen 
 Time. 
 
 The life described in that poetry is now so far 
 away from us, that it shines forth only with the faint 
 colours and mysterious lights of a dream. For here, 
 
 1* 
 
4 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 indeed, is that dreamland once described, by the 
 Schlegels and their friends of the Romantic School, 
 as 'a union of life and poetry'. When reviewing the 
 past, we find ourselves almost at home in the six- 
 teenth century; for though houses, streets and some 
 towns may seem antique, the thoughts and especially 
 the controversies of the time are like our own. 
 Voices are louder and some expressions are more 
 energetic than we use now; but the main questions 
 discussed are such as still occupy our attention. But 
 when we go back as far as the thirteenth century, 
 what visionary figures meet us here among castles 
 and courtly halls, of which only gray ruins are now 
 remaining! We are inclined to say with Walther, 
 the Minnesinger: — 
 
 '"Was all this ever true, or is it but a dream'? 
 
 For here are knights in armour and longing to 
 expiate their sins by pilgrimage to the Holy Land, 
 yet devoting no slight part of their care to the study 
 of poetry; wandering on from hall to hall, and there, 
 in the presence of knights and ladies, singing such 
 verses as we find in the ' Minnelieder' of the period. 
 The mediaeval singer, trained to arms but singing 
 his own songs to tunes of his own composition, seems 
 now a figure out of place everywhere, save on the 
 stage of the opera; but here he is, a living reality 
 in the thirteenth century. And if we travel south 
 as far as Steiermark, we there may have to encoun- 
 ter a veritable Don Quixote — the knight Ulrich von 
 Lichtenstein, sallying forth to restore to life the in- 
 
THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 5 
 
 stitutions of king Arthur's court! Ulrich, however, is 
 no fair representative of chivalry. 
 
 The reader who would carefully inquire how far 
 the union of poetry with chivalry was ever true, or 
 ever had a real existence, may be referred to several 
 German books on the history of culture. That his- 
 tory accords well, on the whole, with impressions 
 derived from studies of such poetry as was revived 
 or invented in the thirteenth century. A culture, 
 not without its defects and errors, but far better than 
 anything belonging to Teutonic heathenism, then 
 prevailed at the courts of princes and the higher 
 nobility in Suabia, Thuringia and Austria. 
 
 Women in the highest rank of society, who were 
 more truly educated and refined than the men of 
 their time, exercised an influence greater than can be 
 explained by a reference to that ancient Teutonic 
 respect for women of which Tacitus bears witness. 
 The meek Spirit once living with .a few lowly dis- 
 ciples near the Sea of Galilee had, in some degree, 
 controlled the stern genius once dwelling in prime- 
 val German forests. Old heathenism supplied the 
 lance, the sword and a thirst for warlike adventure, 
 while the Christian Spirit tempered these vestiges of 
 ancient rudeness and supplied the graces required to 
 make knights of a new order. They longed to as- 
 sert their new faith in the old way of warfare, and 
 thus to reconcile their Christian belief with their 
 military rank. Hence their readiness to sacrifice 
 their lives in the crusades, to which, however, they 
 
6 THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 
 
 were often impelled by the influence of women who, 
 here as elsewhere, were powerful in the aid which 
 they afforded to the interests of the Church. They 
 now held— sometimes only in the realm of fancy, 
 but often in reality— a position far higher than that 
 awarded to them in the best times of heathenism, 
 and knowing how greatly they were indebted to 
 Christianity, they endeavoured, not without success, 
 to extend its influence. They were, on the whole, 
 well repaid for these endeavours, of which the re- 
 sults still remain with us. 
 
 That the homage paid to beauty and amiability 
 was often as pure as its object, can hardly be doubted, 
 except by malice, and to say that it was not always 
 pure is only saying that it took place in this world 
 and not in heaven. The best passages in some ro- 
 mances and in the ' Minnelieder' accord well with 
 the former assertion. At the same time there is no 
 want of grounds, on which may be founded unfavour- 
 able representations of the morals of chivalry. Writ- 
 ers on this section in the history of culture have too 
 often forgotten the truism: — 'what may be said of 
 many times and places can be said, with special re- 
 ference, of none'. There is no doubt, however, that 
 both the praise and the censure bestowed on chivalry 
 are well founded. Day and night existed in the 
 Hohenstaufen Time, as they do now. 
 
 A fair account of Teutonic Chivalry might con- 
 clude with something like the Minnesinger Walther's 
 farewell- song addressed to the Court of Thuringia. 
 
THE IIOHEXSTAUFEN TIME. 7 
 
 The landgrave Hermann, who ruled there as a patron 
 of poetry and music, was more generous than eclectic. 
 Not only minstrels of the higher class were there made 
 welcome but also others whose genius was perhaps bac- 
 chanalian rather than poetical. In bidding goodbye to 
 this Court, Walther says, in perfect good humour: — 
 'Farewell to the good, and — farewell to the bad!' 
 
 With some few exceptions of works not easily 
 classified, all the epic poetry of the Hohenstaufen 
 Time may be arranged in these three classes: — 
 
 I. National epic poems, founded, more or less, 
 on traditions of heathen times and on their mytho- 
 logy. Of these poems the Nibelungen-Lied is the 
 chief representative. 
 
 II. Poems founded on Foreign Romances, includ- 
 ing the Romance of 'king Arthur and his knights'. 
 To these may be added some poems partly founded 
 on Ancient History. 
 
 III. Poems founded on Christian Legends, includ- 
 ing the mysterious Legend of the Gral, which, pos- 
 sibly, was not originally Christian. It supplies the 
 chief interest in the romance of ' ParzivaV '. 
 
 Of the national epic poems, founded partly on 
 heathen traditions, some contain indistinct references 
 to the incursions and the chronic warfare of the 
 Goths and the Franks, while others refer to the his- 
 tories of the Saxons, the Lombards, and the Burgun- 
 dians. But, though some general traits of heathen 
 times have thus been preserved, the historical ves- 
 tiges contained in the poems are inextricably con- 
 
8 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 fused and are blended with mythology. During the 
 times of the great migrations, the traditions of 
 several*' times were mingled, and, afterwards, popular 
 historical ballads (mostly warlike) were, as far as 
 possible, suppressed by the monks who first intro- 
 duced a knowledge of Christianity. To counteract 
 the influence of the old ballads, Otfried, a monk of 
 Fulda, wrote, in the ninth century, the Krist, a life 
 of Christ founded on a harmony of the Gospels. 
 About the same time, another work having the same 
 design but more poetical merit, the 'Heliand' ('the 
 Saviour') was constructed by an unknown author, a 
 Saxon, who most probably was assisted by some 
 monastic teacher. This work in alliterative verse is 
 written in Low Saxon, which, of all Teutonic langua- 
 ges, approaches nearest to the Oldest English, origi- 
 nally spoken in Schleswig and the neighbouring dis- 
 tricts. In this Oldest English language we have 
 the epic poem, 'Beowulf, which still contains some 
 clear traits of heathenism. In all probability these 
 were modified at an early period by compilers or 
 editors, who erased almost all the mythology, and 
 inserted here and there some precepts borrowed from 
 Christianity. 
 
 Some traditions of heathen times were preserved 
 in Latin versions, and others were still dwelling in 
 the memory of the people, when a revival of poetry 
 took place in the time of the Hohenstaufen emperors. 
 It was natural at such a time, when poetry borrowed 
 partly from foreign romances was winning favour, 
 
THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 9 
 
 that some effort should be made to reconstruct and 
 improve old national ballads, so as to fit them for 
 competition with poetry of the new school. And as 
 the times to which they referred had become obso- 
 lete and mythical, no serious moral objection was 
 raised when the stories of 'Siegfried', 'queen Brun- 
 hild', and 'king Etzel' were revived. Thus were 
 brought together the most heterogeneous materials 
 of poetry, and the result was a series of poems too 
 extensive to be described here, except in a few 
 examples. 
 
 Vestiges of the oldest epic poetry are preserved 
 in the Nibelung en-Lied and Gudrun, which may 
 here represent the national poetry. Parzival and 
 Tristan may be noticed as romantic poems present- 
 ing a remarkable contrast. The story of Iwein may 
 be named as a specimen of Breton romances of the 
 more fantastic kind. To these examples may be add- 
 ed some brief notices of romances founded, more 
 or less, on ancient history. 
 
 As every period in the history of poetry must 
 be judged partly by the aid of a contrast with the 
 preceding time, a few words on the oldest ballads 
 may serve to introduce a notice of the Nibelnngen- 
 Lied. 
 
 The prevalent moral trait of those ballads, or 
 fragments of ballads, was a spirit of revenge. 
 'Never forgive'! was the old maxim of heathenism 
 maintained in defiance of the new law, 'love your 
 enemies'. We must not wonder, therefore, if the 
 
io THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 teachers who first made known this new law, endea- 
 voured to destroy all vestiges of old poetry or wrote 
 them down only as exercises in the study of Teu- 
 tonic dialects. In one of the oldest ballads men slain 
 in battle are every night recalled to life that the 
 fight may be renewed on the following day. In 
 another, warriors make grim jests on their own 
 wounds, and a third ballad describes the fight of a 
 chieftain with his own son. Such was the poetry 
 which the monks consigned to neglect. But several 
 of these ballads were still living in the memory of 
 the people, and, in the twelfth century, a poet, or 
 more probably several poets, reconstructed and inter- 
 mingled old traditions, gave to them, here and there, 
 some superficial graces borrowed from the later ro- 
 mantic poetry, and thus produced 'the Nibelung en- 
 Lied — ' a story of long-enduring love, firm loyalty, 
 and terrible revenge. There is no room here for 
 criticism, but the motives of the epic may be noticed. 
 It divides itself into two parts: — one ending with the 
 death of Siegfried, the other describing Kriemhild's 
 revenge. The following is an analysis of the story: — 
 
 THE NIBELUNGEN-LIED. 
 There lived at the castle of Worms on the Rhine, a princess 
 of great beauty, named Kriemhild, the sister of King Giinther of 
 Burgundy. In another fortress, lower on the same river, lived 
 Siegfried, the dragon-slayer, who had overcome in battle the un- 
 earthly race of Nibelungen and had taken possession of their hoard 
 of gold and gems. In another adventure he had slain a dragon, 
 and by bathing in its blood, had made himself invulnerable, ex- 
 cept one spot between his shoulders, where 'a stray leaf of a 
 
THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. n 
 
 linden-tree had fallen and hung'. He came to Worms to win the 
 hand of the Princess, spite of a warning that his love must end 
 in grief. He was welcomed at Worms, and there distinguished 
 himself in tournaments; but was not introduced to the princess for 
 the space of a year. Meanwhile, however, he had won, at least, 
 her admiration; for when he was engaged, with other knights, in 
 a tournament, Kriemhild, at the window of her chamber, would 
 look with pleasure on the pastime, and smiled when he was the 
 victor. At the end of the year, and when he had rendered military 
 service to King Giinther, the hero was introduced to the prin- 
 cess: — 
 
 "She came out from her chamber; so comes the morning red 
 Forth from the gloomy clouds; upon her dress were spread 
 Bright gems; her glowing cheek a secret love confessed" 
 After the betrothal of Siegfried and Kriemhild, the hero ren- 
 dered to the king services of a supernatural character and enabled 
 him to win the hand of queen Brunhild. These services were too 
 soon followed by enmity arising between the queen and the wife 
 of the dragon-slayer who had been regarded as the king's rival. 
 Brunhild, having resolved that Siegfried must die, appealed to the 
 loyalty of Hagen, the sternest of all the heroes assembled at the 
 court of Burgundy. Loyalty demanded that the hero must avenge 
 the wrong endured by the queen; but even such a man as Hagen 
 durst not encounter Siegfried in an open and fair fight. He, there- 
 fore, pretended to be the devoted friend of the dragon-slayer, and 
 promised Kriemhild that, in an approaching battle, he would defend 
 her husband. Induced by this promise, the anxious wife marked 
 plainly on the back of a coat to be worn by Siegfried the exact 
 spot between the shoulders where he was vulnerable. 
 
 Hagen then invited the hero to join a party going to hunt wild 
 boars in a neighbouring forest. But when the dragon-slayer was 
 hastening away at morn to join the party, Kriemhild entreated him 
 to stay at home. 'For I have had a dream', she said, 'that two 
 wild boars were chasing you along the wood, and the grass was 
 wet with your blood; and another dream, just before I awoke, that 
 two rocks fell upon you as you walked along a dale'. The dra- 
 
 2* 
 
i2 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 gon-slayer enfolded Ms wife in his arras and kissed her, to banish 
 her fears, until she gave him leave to go. In the forest, where he 
 had to meet enemies more formidable than wild boars, there was 
 a clear, cool spring, and the hero, warm with the chase, was 
 stooping to drink, when Hagen thrust a spear through his victim, 
 just at the fatal spot which Kriemhild had marked. The body of 
 the lifeless dragon-slayer was carried home, and Kriemhild, after 
 recovery from her first violent sorrow, demanded the trial of the 
 bier, in order to detect the assassin of her husband. Several heroes 
 passed beside the bier, and when Hagen's turn came, drops of 
 blood trickled from the corpse and silently accused the murderer. 
 Now Kriemhild knew the man who had slain her husband, and 
 her soul soon became as still as a pool frozen hard in the depth 
 of winter. She had hitherto had but one bosom-thought — love for 
 Siegfried. She had still but one, but it was now revenge. Hagen 
 should die, if all Burgundy must die with him. That was her 
 resolution, and for its fulfilment she waited thirteen years and more. 
 
 Hagen, fearing lest she should, by a distribution of her wealth — 
 the hoard of gold and gems carried away from the Nibelungen — 
 raise a powerful party in her favour, carried away all that treasure 
 and buried it in the Rhine. This wrong also was endured in 
 silence for thirteen years, and then the opportunity for revenge, 
 so long waited for, presented itself. The heroine — once gentle, 
 now formidable — accepted the hand of a second husband, Etzel 
 king of the Huns, that he might avenge the death of Siegfried, and 
 when she was hailed in the land of the Huns by all the king's 
 assembled warriors, 'Tis well!' she said to herself, 'I have here 
 the men who will execute my plan of vengeance'- The first part 
 of this plan was to invite king Giinther, Hagen, and all the lead- 
 ing heroes of Burgundy into the land of the Huns. The invitation 
 was accepted in spite of some dark forebodings. 'If the king goes, 
 I must go': said Hagen; 'but I know well the meaning of this 
 invitation'. 
 
 On their journey the heroes of Burgundy stayed a while at the 
 castle of Riidiger, who entertained them with genial hospitality and 
 then led them on towards the castle of king Etzel. When they 
 
THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 13 
 
 arrived there, the queen expressed her pleasure on finding that 
 Hagen had come. She coldly received her kinsmen and gave a 
 kiss to none save the youngest prince, who had taken no part in 
 the death of the dragon-slayer. When Hagen noticed this he 
 fastened his helmet more tightly and warned his friend Volker to 
 be on his guard against an attack by surprise. While the other 
 heroes from Burgundy slept, Hagen and "Volker stood all night as 
 sentinels in the court-yard. Volker with a foreboding of the com- 
 ing events now casting their shadow over him, sung the death- 
 song of the royal race of Burgundy. 
 
 A banquet soon followed, and while Hagen and some of his 
 friends were feasting in one of the vast halls of the castle, an 
 attack was suddenly made on the Burgundians who were assembled 
 in another hall. This was the beginning of a series of hand-to- 
 hand duels. The hero Rudiger refused for a time to take any 
 part in the conflict. His fidelity was due to king Etzel, by whom 
 he had been employed to lead Giinther and his men into the land 
 of the Huns. Of the queen's design against the lives of her kins- 
 men, Rudiger had known nothing. He had sworn friendship to the 
 visitors, and there was a severe contest in his heart when the queen 
 called him to muster all his followers and go to fight against the 
 Burgundian heroes: — 
 
 To the hero said the queen: — "think only of your vow 
 
 To serve me and defend; I claim your service now. 
 
 Here in the midst of foes, I look for aid to you". 
 
 Said Rudiger, in sorrow: — "I know I must be true". 
 
 Then to the king said he: — "take back into your hand 
 Whatever you have given; my castle and my land; 
 And let me go! henceforth, my days in want to spend, 
 Before I draw my sword against a faithful friend". 
 
 But loyalty prevails, and Rudiger goes forth to attack the men 
 whom he so lately called his friends. When they see him coming 
 on, with his armed followers, they cannot believe that he comes as 
 a foe:— 
 
i 4 THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 
 
 "Defend yourselves"! said he:— "no words of peace I bring; 
 We once were friends. — 'Tis past! for I must serve the king." 
 
 "But God forbid", said Gunther, that you should raise your hand 
 Against the men you led as friends into your land!" 
 
 "It must be so!" said Riidiger, who was about to give the com- 
 mand to attack, when he was interrupted by a loud call from 
 Hagen. "See"! said Hagen, "the shield your wife gave me, when 
 we were staying at your castle, has been cut in pieces by the 
 Huns".— 
 
 Said Riidiger: — "take mine! and yet if this be known, 
 There '? danger, I may seem disloyal to the throne. 
 But take it, Hagen! — There! my shield is in your hand; 
 May you live to bear it home to your Burgundian land!" 
 
 Grim Hagen at his heart felt all the hardness yield, 
 And as he forward stepp'd, to take the trusty shield 
 Given by a noble friend to whom stern death was near, 
 Down many * warrior's cheek there gushed a sudden tear. 
 
 "May God in heaven reward you", said Hagen, "for the shield! 
 How after this can Hagen his sword against you wield ? — 
 'Twould be the worst of sorrows to smite a man so true"! 
 Said Riidiger to Hagen:— "My heart is broken too". 
 
 But loyalty prevails, and, after this short truce and parley, 
 Riidiger gives the command to attack and leads on his men. He 
 soon falls under a sword-cut inflicted by the weapon he had lately 
 given as a pledge of friendship to the prince Gemot. More des- 
 perate conflicts followed Riidiger's death, and at last Gunther and 
 Hagen — the sole survivors of all the men from Burgundy— were 
 made prisoners. The king was soon put to death. Then said 
 Kriemhild, turning to Hagen: — "I have still one precious relic — 
 
THE IIOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 15 
 
 Siegfried's own sword". So saying, with one blow, she beheaded 
 the wounded and exhausted prisoner. One of Etzel's chief vassals — 
 the old hero, Hildebrand — enraged to see a warrior fall by a wo- 
 man's hand, forgot for a moment that she- was the queen, and the 
 death of Kriemhild, beheaded by her own vassal, closes the tragedy 
 of revenge. 
 
 Such is the story of the Nibelungen-Lied. Though 
 its concluding scenes are extremely savage, and lie 
 beyond the pale of our sympathies, this old Teutonic 
 epic developes well two motives that command ad- 
 miration. The first is the heroine's long devotion to 
 the man whose love had won and kept all her heart. 
 For his sake she mourned long years in solitude, and 
 to avenge his death, she married an alien king and 
 sacrificed her own nearest relatives. Such power 
 and endurance of will command admiration, even 
 while we deplore their devotion to no higher pur- 
 pose than that of revenge. The other noble motive 
 that controls all the chief events of the narrative is 
 that of loyalty unconquerable. Not to gratify any 
 personal spite, nor to gain any selfish advantage, 
 did Hagen slay Siegfried; but to avenge a wrong 
 believed to have been inflicted on the queen. In 
 good faith, and all bound together as one man by 
 mutual loyalty, the Burgundians go into the land 
 of the Huns. They go because they must, though 
 they have gloomy forebodings of the result. How- 
 ever erroneous in the purposes to which it may be 
 devoted, the power that binds men together so deeply 
 and closely, and makes them all one in facing an 
 enemy, will be both honoured and formidable as long 
 
1 6 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 as the world endures. Kriemhild wishes to slay one 
 man, Hagen; but he is one of a stern union of 
 heroes, and if he must die, the king- and all the 
 chief warriors of Burgundy must die with him. That 
 is the thought that lifts into the realm of high tra- 
 gedy some passages even of the terrible closing 
 scenes of the epic. 
 
 GUDRUN. 
 
 'That sorrow ever follows love', is the key-note 
 of the tragic epic above described. That constant 
 love is at last rewarded, is the sentiment prevailing 
 throughout the epic poem Gudrun. The best feature 
 of the poem is that, in its conception of love, it is 
 higher than many romances of later times; for the 
 union of Herwig arid Gudrun is more truly charac- 
 terised by constancy and patience than by passion. 
 The princess Gudrun, who was betrothed to Herwig 
 a prince of Seeland, was carried away from her 
 father's realm on the coast of the Baltic, and was 
 taken to Normandy by the pirate-king Hartmut and 
 his men. 
 
 The robbers were pursued by the bereaved father 
 and his followers, and a sternly contested battle 
 took place on the 'Wulpensand'. So fierce was the 
 fight that, 'when the evening-redness had died away 
 in the western sky, it seemed to be shining out 
 again in the glitterings of many swords striking fire 
 from the helmets'. Hettel, the father of the heroine, 
 was slain, with many of his followers; but his chief 
 
THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 17 
 
 warrior survived and went home, there to wait until 
 he could raise a new army strong enough to invade 
 Normandy. Meanwhile the heroine remained a cap- 
 tive on a foreign shore, and steadfastly refused to 
 give her hand to the pirate Hartmut, who was so 
 far honourable that he would wait for her consent. 
 He waited long in vain, and his mother, Gerlint, 
 enraged at this treatment of her son, degraded 
 Gudrtjn to the rank of a menial. It was a bleak, 
 frosty morn in March, and the captive princess and 
 some companions were hanging out white linen in 
 the breeze on the seacoast, when her betrothed and 
 her brother with many followers landed from their 
 vessels and came to her rescue. Herwig waited un- 
 til night came on, and then followed a battle by 
 moonlight, in which the men from the Baltic gained 
 the victory. 
 
 THE ROMANCES OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 The national epic poems already noticed deserve 
 the priority assigned to them on account of their 
 Teutonic origin; but their merits were hardly esti- 
 mated during the Hohenstaufen Time. The most 
 characteristic literature of the period was supplied 
 by the romances of chivalry of which some were 
 founded, as we have said, on Breton legends of king 
 Arthur's court; others on passages taken from an- 
 cient history and treated with extraordinary freedom 
 with respect to both facts and chronology. To the 
 
 3 
 
1 8 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 former class belong partly the two romances, 'Par- 
 zival' and ' Tristan'. 
 
 Seldom has a contrast appeared in literature more 
 striking than that presented in the two most remark- 
 able romances of the thirteenth century — Parzival 
 and Tristan. The former is characterised in its best 
 passages by moral earnestness, and sometimes ap- 
 proaches asceticism; the latter is gay and graceful, 
 but 'of the earth, earthly'. The former is often 
 obscure, but, here and there at least, a 'light from 
 Heaven' shines out of the gloom. The idea is some- 
 times clear, but at other times we are led to doubt 
 whether the poet ever dreamed of the high pur- 
 pose ascribed to his weird romance. The characteris- 
 tic passages of the two stories suffice to bring out 
 the remarkable contrast of the two poems. The two 
 heroes still have many representatives in the real 
 world, and the opposite motives of the two poems 
 are still contending in the hearts of men. Parzival 
 treats life as a discipline; Tristan would make it 'a 
 perpetual feast of nectared sweets'. Tristan 'swims 
 down with the tide of the world'; Parzival strives 
 upward against it. 
 
 Wolfram von Eschenbach, the author of 'Parzival' , 
 was a poor knight and, as he confesses, could neither 
 read nor write, but could speak French as well as 
 German. Though complaining of his poverty, he 
 betrays some pride of ancestry. His feudal lord was 
 the Graf von Wertheim, a pleasant little town situ- 
 ate at the junction of the Main with the Tauber; 
 
THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 19 
 
 yet Wolfram calls himself a Bavarian. He survived 
 his patron, the Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia, 
 who died in 1216. In several passages in his romance 
 Wolfram refers to his own history and to his own 
 opinions, especially of morality; but his egotism is 
 frank and not unpleasing. It is to these passages 
 we are indebted for the little we know of the author's 
 life. It seems clear that he was married and had 
 children. He was acquainted with the Minnesinger 
 Walther von der Vogelweide. During Wolfram's 
 life-time his style was condemned by his clever rival 
 Gottfried von Strasburg, who called it 'odd, dry, 
 and obscure'. That Gottfried could write more 
 fluent verse was proved by his Tristan; but 'Parzi- 
 val' survived this censure, found many admirers, and 
 was printed in 1477. The poet's grave in the church- 
 yard at Eschenbach used to be shown to visitors in 
 the early part of the seventeenth century. 
 
 There can scarcely be found in the whole com- 
 pass of mediaeval literature a book harder to describe 
 than 'Parzival'. It consists of two parts: — a long 
 story of adventures of which king Arthur's court is 
 the centre, and another and far better story founded 
 on the legend of the Gral. These two stories are 
 strangely intermingled. In the lighter passages of 
 the romance, Sir Gawein and other knights of the 
 Round Table represent a worldly chivalry, while 
 Parzival' s search for the Gral represents a consecra- 
 tion of life to religious duty. This contrast shines 
 forth well in the best parts of the romance; but in 
 
 3* 
 
20 THE HO HENS 'TAUFEN TIME. 
 
 others it disappears or at least becomes indistinct. 
 It must be confessed there are some harsh discords 
 in the long story. 
 
 Leaving almost unnoticed all the adventures of 
 Sir Gawein and his friends, -our attention may be con- 
 fined to the story of Parzival's quest of the Gral. 
 This includes some of the most remarkable passages 
 found in mediaeval romance; as a brief analysis may 
 show: — 
 
 PARZIVAL. 
 
 The Gral, a chalice of chrysolite, was first used in Christ's last 
 supper with his disciples and then was confided to the care of 
 Joseph of Arimathea. It ever afterwards retained a healing and 
 life-giving power. In the course of time the guardianship of the 
 sacred chalice was confided to the family of Titurel, of which Par- 
 zival was a descendant. The old king Titurel built in a lone 
 region a castle for the reception of the Gral and for its preservation 
 founded an order of knights. Parzival, who, by birth, belongs to 
 that order, is left in early life without a father and is brought up 
 in seclusion by his mother, who fears lest he should be seduced' by 
 the splendours of worldly chivalry. Her prayer for him is that he 
 may live and die in obscurity. During his boyhood, spent in a 
 lone forest, he submits himself to maternal teaching until his char- 
 acter suddenly receives a new impress. He is made discontented 
 with life in solitude, by meeting on the skirts of the forest three 
 knights, who tell him something of the splendour of an unknown 
 world. He can rest now no longer in the shade, but must go forth 
 and see the scenes of chivalry of which the knights have told. He 
 escapes from his forest home, and goes to the court of King Arthur. 
 After receiving some instructions, he gains distinction in chivalry. 
 Thence, discontented with the reward of his valour, he wanders forth 
 again, and travels far, urged on by a vague unrest, that cannot be 
 appeased by military success. 
 
THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 21 
 
 One evening, after long wanderings, he finds himself near a 
 lake in a secluded valley, where, in reply to an inquiry for a place 
 of shelter, a fisherman, described as 'a melancholy man, yet richly 
 clad', directs him to a lonely castle as the only place where he 
 may find entertainment. For Parzival has now arrived in a deep 
 solitude — a region where only knights of a certain high lineage 
 are welcome. He goes to the castle, is readily admitted, and 
 there witnesses a mysterious ceremony. In the spacious hall four 
 hundred knights are seated around their king. Beautiful maidens, 
 dressed in splendid robes, bring in lights and censers, and take 
 their places near the throne , ready to bear part in some high fes- 
 tival. Last of all comes in a maiden of a surpassing beauty and 
 radiance, bearing 'a chalice cut from one rare chrysolite'. She 
 places it before the king, who gazes devoutly on it, but must not 
 taste its contents. Amid all the rich decorations of the ceremony 
 deep sorrow prevails. The king has been wounded, and when a 
 page, dressed in mourning, enters and trails through the hall the 
 spear, with blood on its steel, from which the king received his 
 wound, the assembled knights bow their heads in lamentation. 
 Through an open portal Parzival sees now, in an interior hall, 
 'an old, snow-white man' seated on a couch, and apparently near 
 death. The wounded king; the beautiful maidens richly attired and 
 holding up the brilliant lamps; the solemn company of knights; 
 the dying 'snow-white old man'; the glory and the sorrow of the 
 ceremonial — all excite inquiry; but Parzival remains silent. He 
 asks no question, even when the king calls him up to the throne, 
 and presents to him a sword with an intimation that it is to be 
 used in the service of the donor. 
 
 After this the silent champion goes to rest. In the morning he 
 rises, and finds a profound stillness within and all around the 
 castle, and everything prepared for his departure. As he rides 
 away down the dale, the seneschal, standing on a turret of the 
 castle, calls after him, not to invite him back, but to reproach 
 him for diffidence in asking no questions. Soon afterwards he 
 meets with similar reproaches from a woman whose husband has 
 been recently slain in battle. She claims Parzival as a relative, 
 
22 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 and, when she finds that he has been entertained in the Castle 
 tells him that he has been guilty of a fatal error in not caring to 
 know the meaning of the rites he has seen, and in neglecting to 
 make inquiry respecting the wound received by the king. Amazed 
 by these reproaches, the hero rides away, and, after passing through 
 other adventures, returns to the court of king Arthur. Here he 
 would gladly rest; but when he is seated in the hall an angry 
 messenger from the Gral Castle arrives, and, in the presence of 
 assembled knights, charges him with unfaithfulness and neglect of 
 duty. He leaves the court, and again wanders far, finding no ser- 
 vice worthy of the sword given to him by the wounded king. 
 
 Meanwhile Sir Gawein and other knights of Arthur's circle are 
 engaged in an adventure to loose the spell cast by an enchanter 
 on the mansion ' Chateau Merveil ' and all its inmates. Parzival, 
 alone, rides by the mansion, and hears the battle cry of the knights 
 coming to its rescue, but takes no part in the fight. No adventures 
 of worldly chivalry can give rest to the heart of Parzival. For 
 years he has wandered far, almost without an aim, and has yielded 
 so far to doubt and despondency that at last (as the author says,) 
 'Parzival believes neither in God nor in any Providence'." Here 
 the religious purport of one fart of this strange romance is made 
 clear. The knight in his mood of despair rides 'on Good Friday' — 
 or ' still Friday ', as it was called — through a forest. Here he meets 
 an old knight from whom he receives a reproof: — 
 
 "As thus he rode he met an old man gray; 
 A knight was he; but, on this holy day, 
 He walked for penance with his feet all bare; 
 Beside him came his wife and daughters fair. 
 Along the path, although 'tis white with snow, 
 All meekly toward some forest-shrine they go'. 
 
 'Thus to the knight, when Parzival drew near, 
 The old man said with speech and look severe: — 
 "Why ride you forth on such a holy day? 
 "Why bear you arms when you should go to pray"? — 
 
THE IIOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 23 
 
 And then said Parzival: — "most worthy knight! 
 
 This is some day, I know, because 'tis light, 
 
 That it is sacred is unknown to me, 
 
 I cannot tell you what its name may be. 
 
 In years gone by, I served a God unknown, 
 
 Who leaves me here, forgotten and alone". 
 
 "This is the day", the gray old man replied, 
 When God, the virgin's son, for sinners died, 
 And, therefore, still and clothed in meek array, 
 Yet glad at heart, we venerate the day. 
 If holy water ever touch'd your brow, 
 Remember, knight, your own baptismal vow. 
 If you're a heathen man, cast off your pride, 
 And toward a hermit's cell — not distant — ride; 
 There you may learn the truth of all I tell, 
 And win release from all your doubt. Farewell"! 
 Parzival rides on, and soon arrives at a cell, where he is kindly 
 received by a hermit who is called Trevrizent and, by birth, be- 
 longs to the lineage of the "Gral-Templars". In the course of a 
 long conversation, the hermit explains to his guest that the 
 wounded king in the Gral Castle has, by yielding to the seductions 
 of earthly love, made himself unworthy of his office, and that he 
 now awaits the coming of the true champion, who will declare 
 himself by first asking of the safety of the holy chalice. 'You', 
 •says the hermit, 'have been in the Gral Castle; you have seen the 
 wounded king who is your uncle and my brother. The maid of 
 heavenly beauty who carried the chalice is your late mother's 
 sister, and the snow-white old man is Titurel, your ancestor. These 
 all still await your coming*. 
 
 Trevrizent, the hermit, mildly reproves the knight for neglect 
 of duty and for unbelief, and then goes on to give an account of 
 some institutions belonging to the service of the Gral. In this 
 part of the story it seems clear that Wolfram speaks of the Gral 
 as a symbol of the Church. Thus he describes the election of 
 ministers, or guardians in the castle: — 
 
24 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 "They come as children to that place divine, 
 From many a distant land, to guard the shrine. 
 O happy call the mother who shall bear 
 A son found worthy of a station there! 
 There rich and poor assembled^equal all — 
 Are from the world safe shelter'd by the wall. 
 Whatever wealth or friendship they resigned, 
 There's recompense for all that's left behind. 
 
 The Gral receives and gives; first children takes, 
 And then of children knights and rulers makes. 
 Forth from the shrine, from Heaven's elected band, 
 Are rulers sent to govern many a land; 
 Bless'd are the people over whom doth rule 
 A champion trained in such a holy school"! 
 
 The notion that Wolfram intended — here at least — 
 to make the Gral a symbol of the Church, seems to 
 be confirmed at the close of the address, where the 
 hermit exhorts the knight to pay due reverence to 
 the priesthood. Still more is this theory supported 
 when, in bidding goodbye to his guest, the hermit, as 
 one belonging to the lineage of the Gral, assumes 
 the office of a priest. Thus he concludes his ad- 
 dress: — 
 
 ''Leave all your sins and sorrows with me here! 
 
 Go forth to guard the Gral, and never fear; 
 
 Walk in the path I've pointed out to-day, 
 
 And may God's grace be with you on your way"! 
 
 In the sequel, Parzival, shortly before arriving once more at 
 the castle, has to sustain the hardest of all the combats in his 
 career. It is a duel with an unknown heathen Prince. In this 
 part of the story are found some of Wolfram's most characteristic 
 passages of bold expression. When about to engage in a conflict 
 
THE IIOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 25 
 
 with a formidable opponent, Parzival remembers the faithful wife 
 of his youth, whom he had left, for long years, lonely in her castle 
 at 'Pelrapare'. He now uses this word as his battle-cry: — 
 'Now with a. sudden cry that rent the air, 
 He thrust, and shouted loudly "Pelrapare"! 
 Swift, o'er four kingdoms flying, to his side, 
 To shelter him, there came, unseen, his bride'! 
 After receiving this invisible aid from a spirit, our hero fights 
 and, though all previous combats were but play compared with this, 
 the mighty heathen Prince is almost subdued when, suddenly, 
 Parzival's sword is snapped asunder, and he is left to the mercy 
 of his foe. But the generous heathen refuses to take advantage of 
 the accident. In the parley that follows, Parzival finds in the Prince 
 a long-lost brother, and, when both combatants are made sure of 
 their close relationship , a pleasing passage of conversation follows. 
 It takes a gloomy turn when Parzival refers to the death of his 
 father, of which the Prince has never before heard; but his grief 
 is less than his joy in finding a brother, to whom he thus replies: — 
 'O brother! joy and grief to-day are mine, 
 And all the grief and joy I feel are thine. 
 But why believe that death can spirits sever? 
 Our father lives, and dwells with us for ever. 
 He, you and I, in semblance placed apart, 
 Are three in outward show, but one at heart. 
 Hither I came against myself to fight, 
 AVhile you against yourself put forth your might, 
 And, when you fought, O brother true and brave! 
 It was myself from mine own sword to save'. 
 
 Soon after this adventure, a strange story is told 
 of the heathen brother's sudden conversion to Chris- 
 tianity. Parzival goes again to the mysterious castle, 
 makes himself known by asking the expected ques- 
 tion, and is hailed as king or High Guardian of the 
 Gral. 
 
 4 
 
26 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 So ends the weird story — the most remarkable of 
 the romances belonging to the Hohenstaufen Time. 
 The sources of the story are not clear. Wolfram 
 partly followed Gdiot, a Provencal author, who, it is 
 supposed, derived some of his materials from the 
 Cymraeg tale of 'Peredur'; but this theory is still 
 left doubtful. The sources of the Gral Legend have 
 not been explored. 
 
 The general idea of the romance may be described 
 as a grand thought obscurely expressed. In some 
 parts it is almost lost in a crowd of fantastic and 
 incoherent adventures, but it is clear in the best 
 passages. Here Parzival, in obedience to a call from 
 a better world, sacrifices all earthly objects of am- 
 bition. The purport of these parts of the poem has 
 been expressed in a few words by a German writer: 
 — "It might be a view of the solemn, starry sky, or 
 from the peak of a high mountain; it might be the 
 still dawn of a summer day, with bells calling to 
 prayer, that first awakened a longing for the rest 
 the world cannot give. Or it might be in the midst 
 of gay society that the call to a better life was 
 heard. Then the sound of exulting music was, for 
 a moment, hushed, and your gay companions seemed 
 but like dim figures in a dream. It was sad if that 
 moment was allowed to pass away and be forgotten; 
 for that was a call from Heaven". 
 
 Whatever doubt may exist of the general idea of 
 'Parzival', there can be none respecting the purport 
 of the rival romance Tristan and holt, written by 
 
THE HOIIENSTA UFEN TIME. 27 
 
 an author of whom we know little more than what 
 his own story tells us. 
 
 Gottfried von Strasburg wrote the romance Tristan 
 and holt, in 1207 — 10, or about that time. Though 
 he wrote twenty thousand lines, he died before the 
 story was completed. He was, for his times, a well- 
 educated man, but most probably did not belong- to 
 the order of knights; for he subscribes his name as 
 'Master Gottfried of Strasburg'. With respect to 
 fluent versification, he was the best narrative poet 
 of his age. He could say lightly and cleverly what- 
 ever he had to say, and he laughed at his rival, 
 Wolfram, for sending out, under the title of a 
 romance, 'a book that wanted an interpreter'. No 
 such reproach could be retorted on Gottfried's own 
 romance, of which a brief analysis may here suffice: — 
 
 'TRISTAN AND ISOLT'. 
 
 The theme of the romance is 'Minne', (love), but 
 not in the pure and original sense of the word 
 'Mimic', which implies little more than kind remem- 
 brance. Gottfried tells the story of a passion out 
 of union with life and its duties, of which true love 
 should be the soul. The passion of which the Stras- 
 burg poet tells is related to love as lightning and 
 destructive fire are to the constant and genial glow 
 of summer. Of this passion the poet makes the hero 
 and the heroine involuntary and helpless victims. It 
 was (he says) under the influence of an irresistible 
 charm that both were vanquished; but, while he tells 
 
28 THE HOITENSTA UFEN TIME. 
 
 their story as that of their fate, he by no means 
 describes it as a tragedy. Their errors are told in 
 a light and humorous tone, of which a few words 
 may serve as an example: — 'Women' says Gottfried, 
 'are all the true daughters of Eve'; 'she broke the 
 first commandment ever given, and simply because 
 it was a commandment. She might gather as she 
 pleased all the fruits and flowers of Paradise, with 
 only one exception, and it is my firm belief she 
 would never have tasted that if it had not been for- 
 bidden'. This is but a tame example of the author's 
 liveliness. As he left the story unfinished, it has 
 been suggested that he might, had he lived longer, 
 have atoned for its levity by appending a moral; 
 but he was too good an artist to be guilty of making 
 such a breach of continuity between the beginning 
 and the end. 
 
 In contrast with the unreality of sentiment found 
 in other romances of the time, the story of Tristan 
 and Isolt is marked by earnest passion, and it may 
 be described as modern in its tone, though it was 
 the favourite love-story of the Middle Ages. 
 
 Next to Gottfried may be named with respect to 
 style and versification the writer of hvein and several 
 other romances and legends. 
 
 Hartmann von Aue, who was living when Gottfried 
 wrote, died some time before 1220. It seems probable 
 that he joined one of the crusades. He was an edu- 
 cated man, and had, he tells us, one remarkable 
 talent: — 'he could read, without fatigue, any book 
 
THE IIOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 29 
 
 that ever was written'. His best story, with regard 
 to construction, is Iweiu, but the subject is not attrac- 
 tive. It contains, however, a remarkable episode of 
 a visit to an enchanted fountain, which, if space 
 could be found for it, might serve as a fair example 
 of the more fantastic romances of the time. A gro- 
 tesque passage in this episode coincides remarkably 
 well with one of the most startling results of modern 
 science — the derivation of man from a large and hir- 
 sute ape, armed with canine teeth, and once the in- 
 habitant of primeval forests. 
 
 Hartmann von Aue, in the episode referred to, 
 seems to have anticipated this modern theory of 
 evolution. He describes one of his knights (wander- 
 ing, of course, in quest of 'adventures') as coming 
 to a wide glade in the midst of a forest, and finding 
 here a herd of bisons and other formidable wild 
 animals living under the control of a primitive and 
 fearless 'herdsman'. His head, as large as a bison's, 
 is covered with a thicket of rusty or smoke-coloured 
 hair. The ears are long and hirsute, and a dense 
 stubble of bristles decks the chin. The mouth, 
 stretching from ear to ear, is armed with tusks as 
 formidable as those of a wild boar, and the nose is 
 broad and flattened like that of a bison. For cloth- 
 ing this primitive creature wears only two raw hides 
 —one in front and the other behind — and he grasps 
 a heavy club with one of his mighty paws. Hart- 
 mann thus humorously goes on with his strange, 
 fantastic story: — 
 
30 THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 
 
 'The monster there without a name 
 
 Rose from his seat and toward me came, 
 
 Across the glade within the wood, 
 
 Till near me, face to face, he stood. 
 
 "We both stood silent; then I spoke, 
 
 And thus, with fear, the silence broke: — 
 
 "Sir!— let your name be what it may — 
 
 Are you for war or peace to-day"? 
 
 Said he: — "If you come here to fight, 
 
 I'm ready, or if not, 'tis right; 
 
 Leave me alone in this wild glade 
 
 And you've no cause to be afraid". 
 
 More boldly then said I to the Elf: — 
 
 "Pray, Sir, what may you call yourself"? 
 
 "Use your own eyes!" said he, "and scan 
 
 My face; I call myself a man". 
 
 "What is your business, work, or trade"? — 
 
 "I tend these cattle in the glade". 
 
 Said I: — "they're wild! Have you no fear"? 
 
 Said he: — ''I am their master here; 
 
 With coaxing words or cudgel tough, 
 
 I regulate them when they're rough; 
 
 But now, Sir, 'tis your turn to say, 
 
 What led you to my place to-day". 
 
 "I'm riding forth", said I, "to fight 
 
 With any man who's call'd a knight". 
 
 "Ha"! said the herdsman, if 'tis so, 
 
 I can point out your way to woe, 
 
 And more — you'll not have far to go"'! 
 
 Hereupon the primitive herdsman gives directions 
 for finding 'the enchanted spring', and assures the 
 knight that there he will meet with an adventure 
 perilous enough to try all his valour. This promise is 
 amply fulfilled in the sequel. 
 
THE HOIIENSTAUFEN TIME. 31 
 
 That 'Hartmann' (as his contemporary, Gottfried, 
 said) 'could tell a story in words as clear as crystal', 
 may be seen in the well-known tale, 'Der arme 
 Heinrich'. It tells how a nobleman, Heinrich, was 
 miraculously cured of leprosy. If the gross impro- 
 bability of the tale might be pardoned, its simplicity 
 and pathos would win admiration. Heinrich, in his 
 despair, retires into solitude and finds a lodging in 
 a mean farm-house, where dwell two of his poorest 
 tenants. Their young daughter has heard a strange 
 story of the only means by which the landlord might 
 be restored to health. The wise men of Salerno 
 (noted in the middle ages for its school of medicine) 
 have declared that, if a maiden would freely sacrifice 
 her life for him, the leper might be healed. Thus 
 the tale is concluded: — 
 
 The maiden, having heard the story, retired to 
 think of it, dreamed of it all night, and thought of 
 it, day after day, until a marvellous resolution fol- 
 lowed her meditation. 'She would die for Heinrich'! 
 
 'Child'! said the mother; 'you little dream what it 
 is to die! — what it is to leave all we love here, and 
 go to lie alone in a cold grave'! To persuade her 
 parents to consent, the maiden talks of the vanity 
 of life, and the certainty of sorrow for one born in 
 such a low condition as her own. "If all that is 
 said of heaven be true", says she, "there can be no 
 loss, surely, in going early to dwell there with a 
 Divine Friend, 
 
32 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 "Whose home no wants, no cares assail— 
 "With hunger there no children wail; 
 None perish there from winter's cold; 
 Years never make the angels old; 
 And none can take their joys away; 
 "While here your twelve months' scanty gain, 
 Hard earned by all your toil and pain, 
 May perish in a single day". 
 
 She pleads so well, that another miracle follows — 
 her parents give their consent to her self-sacrifice! 
 They go with their child and the afflicted man to 
 Salerno. There the leper suddenly repents of his 
 extreme love of life when he sees the fearless maid 
 ready to devote herself. 'The sacrifice shall not be 
 offered'! Heinrich exclaims. On his way home he 
 is miraculously cured, and, at the same time, made 
 twenty years younger. At home he calls together 
 his friends, tells them how he has been healed in 
 mind as in body by the maiden's devotion, and then 
 introduces her as his betrothed. The simple pathos 
 of the story is far better than the writer's choice of 
 a subject. 
 
 ANTIQUE ROMANCES. 
 
 Three writers, whose works may represent all the 
 romances founded more or less on ancient history, 
 may here be briefly noticed. 
 
 Heinrich von Veldeke wrote (before 1200) a senti- 
 mental love-story, partly borrowed from a French 
 romance, which again was indebted to some passages 
 in Virgil's epic poem. 
 
THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 33 
 
 Lamprecht, who was a priest, wrote near the close 
 of the twelfth century the romance Alexander, which 
 was partly borrowed from a French story and from 
 Quintus Curtius. It is by no means deficient in bold 
 invention and luxuriant imagery. In proportion as 
 the author's inventions become more and more im- 
 probable, he asserts more and more loudly that he 
 is writing down nothing more than plain matters of 
 fact. For one example, the wonderful episode of the 
 'flower-nymphs' in an enchanted wood is here and 
 there interrupted by a parenthesis, to assure us of 
 the writer's perfect veracity. The following lines 
 give a summary but not a strict translation of the 
 episode: — 
 
 'We entered here a shady wood, 
 Where trees of spreading foliage stood, 
 And twined their branches so together, 
 As to shut out the sultry weather. 
 Below, cool fountains bubbled out, 
 And, winding playfully about, 
 Moistened the mossy roots, and then 
 Together flowed into a glen 
 Beside the pleasant wood, and here 
 Was spread a lake as crystal clear. 
 
 Shining birds, with tuneful throats, 
 Cheered the forest with their notes; 
 And on the mossy turf there grew 
 Large rose-buds, beautiful to view — 
 Some as white as drifted-snow; 
 Others had a ruddy glow. 
 We gazed with wonder there, beholding 
 Each its fragrant leaves unfolding; 
 
 5 
 
34 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 For out of every flower-cup there 
 Stepped a maiden young and fair, 
 Rosy as evening skies, and bright 
 In youth and joy as morning-light! 
 
 The tale seems marvellous, indeed, 
 And yet 'tis true, and all who read 
 May every word as fact receive; 
 For why should I their faith deceive? 
 
 Among the forest-trees they played, 
 And danced together on the glade; 
 And when these fairy-damsels sung, 
 Within the wood their carols rung 
 More tunefully than any bird, 
 Or instrument we ever heard; 
 And lulled by their melodious strain, 
 "We all forgot our toil and pain: 
 Our life was like a pleasant stream, 
 Or like a sweet, enchanting dream; 
 We longed for ever there to stay — 
 Alas, that joys should pass away! 
 
 Our forest-brides, who rose from flowers, 
 Faded with the fading bowers; 
 Buds that were so bright in May, 
 Died when summer passed away; 
 And, like the flowers that once were bright, 
 Our fairies faded from our sight: 
 'Mid withered leaves the breezes sighed, 
 The crystal fountains all were dried, 
 The merry birds were dead or banished, 
 And all our forest-pleasures vanished!' 
 
THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 35 
 
 Lamprecht, though seduced and led far away from 
 truth by 'the flower-nymphs', remembers, at last, 
 that he is a priest, and concludes his romance with 
 an excellent moral lesson. 'Alexander', whose greed 
 and ambition 'are insatiable as hell', having con- 
 quered all the world, arrives at the gates of heaven, 
 and intends to take that fortress by storm! But 'an 
 old man' comes forth from 'the kingdom of heaven'. 
 He assures the great conqueror that heaven is not 
 to be won by arms, and advises him to devote his 
 ambition to a task far greater than any he has yet 
 undertaken; the task of conquering — himself. 
 
 Konrad von Wurzburg, who lived in the latter 
 part of the thirteenth century, was a very fertile 
 verse- writer, who boasted that his poetical furor 
 knew 'no bounds'. He could not have said anything 
 more correct or more severe of his own genius or 
 talent. He wrote an interminable epic 'the Trojan 
 War', of which we are hardly disposed to say more 
 than that it contains sixty thousand verses. Here 
 ancient heroes appear as knights of the middle ages; 
 Christians fight very bravely for the Greeks, and 
 the followers of Mohammed, for some strange reason 
 or another, fight on the side of the Trojans. 
 
 Another epic must be briefly noticed here before 
 our attention is turned to lyrical poetry. The story 
 of 'Reynard the Fox' was reproduced in two ver- 
 sions in the course of the twelfth and thirteenth 
 centuries; but it was by no means in accordance 
 with the taste then prevalent. In its best form, as 
 
 5* 
 
36 THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 
 
 in its whole character and tendency, it belongs to 
 the fifteenth century. A volume would be wanted 
 to tell the whole history of this remarkable epic 
 which must be more distinctly noticed in a sub- 
 sequent chapter. 
 
 THE MINNESINGERS. 
 
 The lyrical poetry of the Hohenstaufen Time has 
 been sometimes included under the collective title 
 'Miuneliedcr' (love songs); but this title can hardly 
 be correctly applied to all the lyrical poetry of the 
 thirteenth century. Though love (or a sentimental 
 respect for women) was their favourite theme, the 
 'Minnesingers' sang also of the beauty of the earth 
 and the skies in spring and summer, and sometimes 
 freely expressed their thoughts on such topics as 
 morals, politics and religion, while their other themes 
 included, the dance, the tournament, patriotism, the 
 crusades, and laudation bestowed on princes and 
 other patrons of poetry. With lyrical poems called 
 ' Minnelieder' may be classed also several poems on 
 religious themes. 
 
 Walther von der Vogelweide was born of poor 
 parents, and, in early life, chose the career of a 
 wandering troubadour, a dependant on the patronage 
 of courts. The belief that he joined one of the 
 crusades is founded on some passages in his lyrical 
 poems, especially on one including the following 
 lines: — 
 
THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 37 
 
 'Ah me! — my years have pass'd away 
 Like dreams that fade at dawn of day. 
 I see, once more, my native ground, 
 And wonder, as I look around; 
 For now I seem a stranger here 
 Where many faces once were dear. 
 My playmates all are gray and old; 
 The land itself seems drear and cold; 
 They've fell'd the trees on yonder hill; 
 The river flows beside it still. 
 Is this the land I lov'd so well ? 
 AVas this my home? — I cannot tell. 
 The water flows on , as of yore ; 
 All else is gone. Ah me! for evermore. 
 
 Ah me! — the world, when first 'tis seen, 
 
 Is rosy, gay with flowers, and green; 
 
 But when old age is coming on, 
 
 And friends and pleasures all are gone, 
 
 Ah! — then the world, that seem'd so bright, 
 
 Is sad as death and dark as night. 
 
 One consolation nosv remains: — 
 
 To combat, on yon holy plains, 
 
 Not for bright gold, nor for renown, 
 
 But for an everlasting crown; 
 
 For absolution, for release 
 
 From all my sins; for rest and peace. 
 
 May I but tread that sacred shore! 
 
 Then will I say, "'tis well"! and sigh "ah me" no more. 
 
 In another lyric Walther speaks as if he were 
 present in the Holy Land: — 
 
 'Now I live without a care; 
 For all I've long'd for I behold. 
 The Holy Land, of which elsewhere 
 Such wonders have been truly told, 
 
38 THE 110 HEN ST A UFEN TIME. 
 
 Lies all spread out before me there; 
 And I may tread the path which God, 
 In human form, so often trod'. 
 
 The minstrel's voyage to Palestine was most prob- 
 ably an imaginary voyage; but we have good reason 
 to believe that he travelled rather widely in Central 
 Europe. Inventing now and then new stanzas and 
 their appropriate tunes, he wandered (as Words- 
 worth says): — 
 
 . . . 'on from hall to hall, 
 Baronial court or royal; cheered with gifts 
 Munificent, and love and ladies' praise; 
 Now meeting on his road an armed knight, 
 Now resting with a pilgrim by the side 
 Of a clear brook; beneath an abbey's roof 
 One evening sumptuously lodged; the next 
 Humbly in a religious hospital; 
 Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell'. 
 
 The minstrel did not gain riches by his travels; 
 but died as he had lived, poor, though it is supposed 
 that he lived for some time as private tutor with a 
 prince, and, in later years, resided on a small estate 
 given to him by the emperor Friedrich II. The pre- 
 cise time of the poet's death can hardly be told; 
 but it is clear that he began to sing about the close 
 of the twelfth century, and his melodies were ended 
 most probably in the second or third decade of the 
 thirteenth. He knew and revered as a teacher old 
 Reinmar, the Minnesinger, who died about 1200, and 
 of whom his pupil said; — 
 
THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 39 
 
 'Thy death itself I less deplore 
 Than this — thy songs are heard no more'! 
 
 These lines, like others, refer to the degenerate 
 tone of the later Minnesingers and especially to the 
 frivolity of the odd and coarse ' Minnelieder' intro- 
 duced by Nithart and others, to whom Walther 
 refers in the following energetic lines: — 
 
 'Ye sing! — like frogs that, all the night, 
 In their own croaking find delight. 
 O that your noise were hush'd! — Her song 
 The nightingale might then prolong. 
 Ye sing! — if singing that ye call — 
 May ye be driven from court and hall, 
 And sent far down, to charm the swains 
 From whom were stolen all your strains'. 
 
 Walther's lyrical poems have a strong impress of 
 nature and sincerity, and, as we may fairly guess, 
 reveal the minstrel's own character. The simplicity 
 of the thoughts, or rather sentiments, expressed in 
 several songs, telling of the beauty of woods and 
 fields in spring and summer, is connected with the 
 fact that such songs were often written as studies 
 in new and rather difficult forms of versification. In 
 the following, for one example, only two rhymes are 
 used in the two stanzas, each containing five lines: — 
 
 'Winter has killed all the flowers in the vale; 
 Forest and field are all chilly and pale; 
 Not a bird's note can be heard in the gale. 
 Soon may our girls go to play in the dale, 
 Listen, at eve, to the nightingale's tale! 
 
4 o THE I-IOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 Might I but sleep all the winter away! 
 Why should I wake to see, day after day, 
 "Winter in icy and snowy array? — 
 Crown'd with a wreath of white, blossoming spray, 
 Come, O victorious, beautiful May'! 
 
 In another song the stanza is too difficult to be 
 strictly imitated in a translation:— 
 
 Mid the grass new flowers are springing, 
 All the woodlands round are ringing, 
 While melodious birds are singing, 
 Hailing smiling, dawning May. 
 You may ask, "can Heaven bestow 
 Aught that's fairer than the show 
 All around us here to-day"? — 
 One that's fairer still I know. 
 
 Let that fair One, hither wending, 
 Graceful, kind and condescending, 
 Loveliness with beauty blending, 
 Cast a smile on me to-day; 
 When I see that beauteous maid, 
 Dawn appears, the stars all fade, 
 And the loveliest flowers of May 
 All are cast into the shade. 
 
 It is not easy to represent fairly in a few trans- 
 lations the union of playful humour and heartiness 
 with a naiveti not without grace found in the poet's 
 songs. The following may, however, serve as a 
 specimen of his light and playful style: — 
 
 'Fair ladies! welcome me to-day! 
 And you shall hear a truthful lay. 
 I've "told some stories" in my time, 
 But now — I give my creed in rhyme. 
 
THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. -\ 1 
 
 I come ray heart's true faith to tell; 
 
 If you will hear, 
 
 I have no fear 
 Lest I should fail to please you well. 
 
 Fair ladies all! 'tis not for pay 
 I tell you all my creed to-day; 
 The truth is worth far more than gold, 
 And you'll believe it when 'tis told. 
 So when my truthful song is done, 
 
 Pray, do not frown! 
 
 Look kindly down! 
 And all the gold I want is won. 
 
 Some other lands have pleased me well, 
 But here may I for ever dwell! 
 In quest of beauties far away, 
 I've been beyond the Rhine astray; 
 Now all I've learned shall be confess'd, 
 
 And here I vow — Heaven, hear me now! — 
 Our German ladies are the best! 
 
 Our men, 'tis true, have virtues rare; 
 But German maids are angels fair! 
 'Tis here a knight is sure to find 
 A lady true and pure and kind: 
 With that I close a truthful song. 
 
 Pray, do not frown! 
 
 Look kindly down! 
 And may I live to praise you long! 
 
 In other songs devoted to the praise of good 
 women the mediaeval singer places domestic virtue 
 far above beauty and speaks of Minne in the first, 
 highest and purest meaning of the word. 'If devoted 
 to one worthy of it', says he, 'then such an affection, 
 
 6 
 
42 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 even where it cannot be returned, serves to ennoble 
 a man's life. His affection for one teaches him to 
 be gentle, kind and generous towards all'. The 
 poet describes himself as by no means handsome, 
 and expresses a contempt of praise bestowed on men 
 for their exterior advantages. And he is no dreamy 
 and abject idolater of feminine beauty, but affirms 
 that it is too often worn as a thin mask over bad 
 passions. Grace and amiability, he tells us, live longer 
 and exert a deeper influence than any external 
 charms. On this subject Walther is in perfect 
 accordance with the doctrine of another minnesinger, 
 Reinmar von Zweter, noticeable chiefly for his praise 
 of good wives. 'A true wife', says Reinmar, 'is as 
 precious as the Gral seen by Parzival in the castle, 
 and she is, at once, a woman and an angel'. The 
 saying recalls Wordsworth's lines: — 
 
 . . . a creature not too good 
 For human nature's daily food, 
 And yet a spirit too, and bright 
 With something of an angel light. 
 
 Walther's didactic verses may be briefly noticed; 
 for here poetry is made subordinate to earnest teach- 
 ing. In his political views he was a Ghibelline; but, 
 when speaking without reference to the controversy 
 of his time, he declares himself a true Catholic. The 
 poem already mentioned, in which he supposes him- 
 self to have arrived in Palestine, gives, in a bold, 
 poetic style, a summary of the Apostles' Creed. 
 
THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 43 
 
 Resignation, rather than any hope of a reconciliation 
 of religion with practical life, characterises several 
 meditative poems, of which the following is an 
 example : — 
 
 I sat one day upon a stone, 
 And meditated long, alone. 
 While resting on my hand my head, 
 In silence to myself I said: — 
 'How, in these days of care and strife, 
 Shall I employ my fleeting life ? — 
 Three precious jewels I require 
 To satisfy my heart's desire: — 
 The first is honour, bright and clear, 
 The next is wealth, and -far more dear — 
 The third is Heaven's approving smile'. 
 Then, after I had mused awhile, 
 I saw that it was vain to pine 
 For these three pearls in one small shrine; 
 To find within one heart a place 
 For honour, wealth, and heavenly grace; 
 For how can one, in days like these, 
 Heaven and the world together please ? 
 
 The best of the Minnelieder may be praised for 
 their chaste and refined tone, while others supply 
 grounds for unfavourable representations of moral cul- 
 ture in the Hohenstaufen Time. There can be no doubt 
 that the praise and the censure are well founded. There 
 must be shadows in any true picture of chivalry and 
 its poetry. The lower class of the Minnelieder are 
 represented by several of the more humorous and 
 playful songs composed by Nithart and his followers. 
 
44 THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 
 
 Nithart von Reuenthal was a knight who lived 
 in the first half of the thirteenth century. He was 
 lively and fluent in his versification, and gave a new 
 interest to his songs by introducing comic scenes 
 from rustic life and telling his own adventures at 
 village festivals. In several instances his humour is 
 more to be commended than his taste. Walther, 
 as we have noticed, referred to Nithart's innovations, 
 when he spoke of 'low comic ballads that ought to 
 be sent back to the boors from whom they were 
 borrowed'. Nithart gives a dramatic interest to his 
 songs; but his plots have little variety. He begins 
 a song with a few notes on fine weather, and then 
 lightly sketches his rural scenery. It is May time; 
 the linden-trees are putting forth fresh leaves; the 
 meadows are golden with buttercups, and the village 
 maidens come out to dance. A venerable rustic 
 makes her appearance, entreating her wilful daughter 
 to stay at home and work in the garden. The 
 mother scolds and threatens; but the girl trips away 
 to join the dancers. In another song, the girl and 
 her mother have changed their parts, and we have 
 a livelier comedy. It is now the old dame who, un- 
 conscious of age and infirmity, is seized with an 
 irresistible passion for dancing. In vain the girl 
 speaks of gray hairs and a becoming sobriety. The 
 maiden must now stay at home, and the old mother 
 trips away to the dance. Nithart had, probably, a 
 lively style of singing and recitation that gave effect 
 to such songs as these. 
 
THE HOHENSTAUFEN TIME. 45 
 
 An absurd caricature of chivalry is found in the 
 effusions of the eccentric knight Ulrich, whose so- 
 called memoirs have been supposed to have some 
 importance with respect to the history of culture 
 and morals. 
 
 Ulrich von Lichtenstein, a knight of Steiermark, 
 who died at an advanced age about the time 1277, 
 has been called a 'German Don Quixote'. He was, 
 however, utterly destitute of the good sense often 
 displayed by that knight- errant. Ulrich, whose 
 credulity and folly should make him an object of 
 pity rather than ridicule, indited an odd romance 
 {Frauendiensf), which some historians and critics 
 have — perhaps too hastily — accepted as a veritable 
 autobiography. Its absurdity makes it incredible, 
 except on the supposition that the hero was so 
 weak and credulous that he could hardly be con- 
 sidered responsible for his conduct. He tells us that, 
 when only twelve years old, he devoted his life to 
 the chivalrous service of a noble lady who, at that 
 time, was twice his own age. She never asked for 
 his services, and never thanked him for them; but 
 made him a butt of ridicule and, at last, subjected 
 him to a practical joke so degrading that he will 
 not tell us what it was. 'If I described it', he says, 
 every honest man would sympathize with my vexa- 
 tion'. To vindicate the honour of the lady (which 
 had never been questioned) he rode forth at one time, 
 as he says, 'disguised as Venus', and tilted against 
 all knights who would accept his challenge. In an- 
 
4 6 
 
 THE HOHENSTA UFEN TIME. 
 
 other high, fantastic expedition, he represented 'king 
 Arthur', restored to life in order to revive a decayed 
 chivalry. He seems hardly ever to have enjoyed one 
 lucid interval, and when seventy years old, he had 
 not repented of his folly! If his romance must be 
 accepted as a true autobiography, its strangest feature 
 appears to be, that the hero's wife, with whom he 
 lived on good terms when he stayed at home, seems 
 to have made no protest against his absurd expedi- 
 tions. His book called Frauendienst would hardly 
 deserve notice, if it had not been described as a 
 source of information respecting the moral' culture 
 of the thirteenth century. 
 
THE MASTER-SINGERS 
 
 AND 
 
 THEIR TIMES. 
 
Ihe Hohenstaufen Time was a bright dawn soon 
 hidden in clouds, a promising Spring followed by no 
 summer; no harvest. The chief causes of the decline, 
 which began even in the thirteenth century, are 
 found in political events; especially in the degra- 
 dation of the nobility. 
 
 It would be a dreary task to trace, through the 
 fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the decay of all 
 that was pure and noble in chivalry. The popular 
 literature of this period has the highest importance 
 with reference to the history of social culture; but, 
 taken as a whole, it is a literature in which the 
 lover of art and poetry finds little that is pleasing. 
 
 One of the contrasts existing between English and 
 German literary history is seen in the long time of 
 dulness that, in Germany, followed the poetry of the 
 Hohenstaufen Time. In England the nearest likeness 
 to it is found in the period that followed the death 
 of Chaucer and ended with the laureateship ofSicELTOx. 
 It should be noticed, however, that German poetical 
 
 7 
 
50 THE MASTER-SINGERS. 
 
 literature, in its lower as in its higher developments, 
 has maintained an intimate union with the life of 
 the people, such as can hardly be traced throughout 
 the history of English literature. When have we 
 had a poetry, either sacred or secular, exerting a 
 power like that of German Psalmody in the sixteenth 
 centuries? — What effect on the people had all the 
 refinement, wit and rhetoric of our poets in 'the 
 Augustan Age'? — On the other hand, German poetic- 
 al literature, in the time of its deepest degradation, 
 has some importance, either as closely connected 
 with the history of culture, or as a confession of the 
 want of culture. The 'Times of the Master-Singers' 
 abound in interest for the student of history. 
 
 The decay of poetry that so soon followed the 
 Hohenstaufen Time was attended by a growth of 
 popular didactic literature, which was generally 
 written in verse. One of the earlier books of this 
 class is 'Ereidank's Advice', which, without good 
 authority, has been ascribed to Walther von der 
 Vogelweide. Another, 'der IVinsbecke' , also written 
 in the thirteenth century, contains the advice given by 
 an aged father to his son. The tone is high and 
 chivalrous. This little book was followed by a femi- 
 nine counterpart, giving the admonition of a mother 
 addressed to her daughter. It is not as good as the 
 old man's advice. 
 
 A more popular didactic work, oddly entitled 'The 
 Runner', was written by Hugo von Trimberg, rector 
 of a school near Bamberg in 1260 — 1309. He has all 
 
THE AL ISTER-SINGERS. 5 1 
 
 the sourness of an overworked and ill-paid school- 
 master, to which he adds the bitterness of an author 
 who has lost the whole manuscript of a work on 
 which he had bestowed great care. Hugo's severe 
 lectures are relieved, here and there, by the insertion 
 of some amusing fables. He declaims against the 
 waste of time in reading such romances as 'Parzival' 
 and ' Tristan', of which he says (very plainly) 'they 
 are full of lies'. In other passages he gives proof 
 of some modesty and self-knowledge, as where he 
 says: — T am like Balaam's ass, speaking to warn 
 sinners of the error of their way'. Hugo denounces 
 all classes of society except the peasantry. After 
 all his attacks on the Church, we are surprised to 
 find that he wished to die within her bosom: — 
 'Wherever my book travels', says he, 'I trust my 
 readers — especially women — will subscribe each a 
 penny towards masses for the release of my soul'. 
 
 Satire and burlesque of an extreme character soon 
 competed with the popularity of didactic verse. In 
 'Salomon and Morolf the wise king of Israel has a 
 controversy with a clown respecting the virtues of 
 women. — The fool takes the part of advocatus diaboli, 
 and wins the victory. But an insurrection of the 
 king's wives follows, and, in obedience to their de- 
 mand, the fool is condemned to be hanged. The 
 king gives him the privilege of selecting the tree on 
 which he will be hanged. Accordingly the execu- 
 tioners lead the fool through the Valley of Jehosha- 
 phat, to the Mount of Olives, all the way down to 
 
 7* 
 
52 THE MASTER-SINGERS. 
 
 the Dead Sea, and into Arabia; but nowhere can 
 he find a suitable tree on which to be suspended. 
 The result is, that the king pardons the fool. 
 
 As the minnesingers sometimes gained money by 
 their songs, it was inevitable that their example 
 would be followed by men of lower degree; ballad- 
 singers, who travelled from one village to another, 
 and frequented fairs. Between this class and the 
 higher there existed several gradations, so that the 
 best of the wandering" singers of ballads might 
 hardly be distinguished, by their style and choice 
 of subjects, from minstrels patronised at courts. Of 
 the numerous stories ascribed to one of the ballad- 
 singers, Der Stricker, several supplied materials for 
 jest-books compiled in later times. 
 
 There is something grievous, but at the same time 
 ludicrous, in the degeneracy of the wandering min- 
 strels of the fourteenth century. 
 
 Regenbogen, one of their representatives, was 
 brought up as a smith; but, 'urged', as he says, 
 'by a love of poetry' — more likely, by a dislike of 
 hard work — he chose the life of a ballad-singer. 
 The times were unfavourable, and he was a dis- 
 appointed man. Unlimited competition injured the 
 trade of rhyming, and the market value of verse 
 fell very low. 'My noble patrons must soon pay me 
 better', says Regenbogen, 'or I shall go back to the 
 anvil'. Another rhymer, Stolle, is emphatic in his 
 condemnation of the king, Rudolf, who would not 
 pay money for verses. 'The king', says Stolle, 'is 
 
THE MASTER-SINGERS. 53 
 
 an honourable man; but he will not spend. He is 
 rich, no doubt, in all virtues; but he will not scatter 
 his money. Sing - or say what you will in his praise, 
 this must be always added — he gives us nothing'. 
 It is a hard, unpoetic fact that the development of 
 lyric poetry was interrupted in the days of Rudolf 
 by a want of funds. 
 
 Halb Suter deserves notice as one of the superior 
 ballad-singers of the fourteenth century. He seems 
 to have been one of the combatants at the battle of 
 Sempach, of which he made a vigorous and popular 
 ballad. Thus he tells how the Swiss hero, Arnold 
 von Winkelried, made a gap in the Austrian ranks: — 
 
 Then 'Ha'! said Winkelried, 'my brethren, every one, 
 I'll make for you a road, and thus it shall be done; 
 If Switzerland hath need, a Switzer's heart shall bleed; 
 To break their close array, I give my life to-day'. 
 
 The foemen's spears he grasped with both his arms, and pressed, 
 
 All in a bundle bound, their poiDts upon his breast; 
 
 And so he made a way for the Switzers on that day, 
 
 As he had truly spoken; for the Austrian ranks were broken. 
 
 In the course of the fifteenth century the love of 
 rhyming was spread among the people like an epi- 
 demic. The Minnesingers of the thirteenth century 
 had left mostly unnoticed the lives of the common 
 people, and now the people had their revenge in 
 instituting a literature all their own. Versification, 
 out of fashion at courts, was now patronised by 
 smiths, bakers, potters, weavers, and tailors. — All 
 
54 THE MASTER-SINGERS. 
 
 had their songs, celebrating their several mysteries. 
 'There was hardly any class in society that did not 
 meddle with versification. . . . Doctors prescribed in 
 verse; topographies and histories of towns were 
 written in verse'. But the art of rhyming was not 
 altogether entrusted to the care of individuals. It 
 had its cooperative stores and unions. Special guilds 
 for the composition and recitation of verse were 
 established at Mayence, Ulm, Nurnberg, and several 
 other towns. 
 
 These were the singing-schools or guilds of the 
 Master-Singers. All their rules and ceremonies are 
 well known; for the Singing-School at Nurnberg was 
 maintained until 1770, and another at Ulm was not 
 finally closed until 1839. 
 
 The motives of the versifying weavers at Ulm 
 might screen their homely manufactures from ridi- 
 cule. Their purport was generally moral, and they 
 afforded a harmless recreation. The shuttle would 
 fly more lightly, while the weaver hummed over his 
 verses and his new tune, prepared for the next 
 meeting of the Singing-School. Sunday comes, ar.d 
 a board suspended in the church announces that 
 'the Master-Singers will hold a meeting in their 
 school in the evening', or in the church at the close 
 of the afternoon service. Sometimes, on festive 
 occasions, the members and their friends are assem- 
 bled in the town-hall. In the most prominent place 
 three umpires are seated, and in a large oaken chest, 
 placed beside the chief umpire, the properties of the 
 
THE MASTER-SIXGERS. 55 
 
 society are deposited. These consist of gold and 
 silver chains, which have been worn by successful 
 canditates. The chief umpire opens the meeting by 
 reciting some passages — often taken from the Bible 
 — which have been selected as themes. 
 
 Several compositions are sung, and faults are 
 noticed. Perhaps a plagiarism is suspected, and here- 
 upon reference is made to a ponderous volume con- 
 taining the notation of tunes that have already 
 gained prizes. At last, one candidate is declared 
 victorious. Thereupon the president opens the oaken 
 chest, and takes out a chaplet, which he places on 
 the head of the victor, while round his neck he 
 hangs a silver chain. Gloriously arrayed in these 
 decorations, the victor goes to recite his verses at a 
 meeting in some neighbouring town, and vanquishes 
 all the versifying- weavers or shoemakers there 
 assembled. 
 
 The king of all the Master-Singers was Hans 
 Sachs, whose monument now stands in the old town 
 of Niirnberg-; but his name belongs to the sixteenth 
 century. Before we leave the fifteenth, 'the Ship of 
 Fools' (1494), a satire written by Sebastian Brandt, 
 must at least, be named. It was so popular that ten 
 editions were sold in the course of about twenty 
 years, and it was translated into English, French and 
 Latin. 
 
 As is well known, the burlesque, epic fable of 
 'Reynard the Fox' is the best poetical work of the 
 fifteenth century, to which, however, it by no means 
 
56 THE MASTER-SINGERS. 
 
 exclusively belongs. Its origin may be traced as far 
 back as the seventh century. The Franks, as early 
 as that time, had fictions in which bears, wolves, 
 and foxes were changed into men; but these old 
 stories of which the heroes were animals had not 
 originally any didactic or satirical purport. The 
 people of primitive times were, in some respects, 
 children. For them there was an attractive mystery 
 in the lives of the wild beasts of the forest. Children, 
 we all know, will listen eagerly to the adventures 
 of the wolf, the bear, and the fox; but will turn 
 away, grieved that a good story should end, when 
 we come to the moral. The Franks put no moral 
 purpose into their old story of the wolf, his friends, 
 and his foes. Isengrim, the wolf, was their leading 
 hero, but his place was usurped by the fox, in- later 
 times, when men admired cunning more than strength. 
 The first makers of the fiction sympathised with the 
 reverses of fortune to which both men and animals 
 are liable, and, as a means of expressing their sym- 
 pathy, endowed the beasts of the dark old forests 
 with a human understanding and the gift of speech. 
 Latin versions of some parts of the story were made 
 by monks in the tenth and eleventh centuries, and 
 received then some didactic elements. The oldest 
 known German version of 'Reynard the Fox' was 
 compiled from a French original by Heinrich der 
 Gltchezare, a native of Alsace, who lived in the 
 latter half of the twelfth century. A fragment is 
 all that remains of his work, which was soon super- 
 
THE MASTER-SINGERS. 57 
 
 seded by another version. The story does not seem 
 to have been much noticed in Germany during the 
 thirteenth century; but it found a better reception 
 abroad and was popular in the Netherlands, where 
 a good version in prose appeared in 1479. No. Eng- 
 lish translation of this prose story was printed by 
 Caxton in 1481. The improved versified history of 
 'Reynke de Vos', founded on the prose edition of 
 1479, and written in Low German, appeared at 
 Lubeck in 1498, and passed through many editions. 
 It has been ascribed, with some probability, to 
 Hermann Barkhusen, a printer at Rostock, and may 
 be regarded as the standard version of the epic. 
 This was translated into German hexameters by 
 Goethe in 1794. 
 
 Any fair analysis of this well-known epic fable 
 would far exceed our limits. As one example of its 
 humour may be noticed the admirable stratagem of 
 'the last dying speech and confession' by which 
 Reynard makes his escape from the gallows. Like 
 Titus Oates, he gives dark hints that he has full 
 knowledge of a deadly plot against the king: — 
 
 ' There was a plot — with death so near, 
 I'll tell it all; for now 'tis clear 
 That, to bring foes to tribulation, 
 I'd never risk my soul's salvation — 
 There was a plot against the throne, 
 And, with the deepest shame, I'll own, 
 Of all the traitors, that the first 
 Was my own father, and the worst; 
 
58 THE MASTER-SINGERS. 
 
 Out of his treasure he would pay 
 The villains hired the king to slay, 
 And, when I stole it, loss of pelf 
 So vexed him that he hanged himself. 
 
 These insinuations serve their purpose; the queen 
 longs to know all about the treasure, while the king 
 wishes to have information of the plot against his 
 life. Reynard is reprieved, and, in meek triumph, 
 comes down from the scaffold. Then follows another 
 long series of impositions associated with admirable 
 audacity. As an ill-used subject, Reynard gains 
 royal sympathy, and becomes eminently pious. 
 
 The grim yet jocose and laughter-loving humour 
 of the fifteenth century gave rise to a series of 
 comic, burlesque and bitterly satirical stories far 
 too numerous to be noticed here, and it reached a 
 climax in the opening of the sixteenth century, 
 when Thomas Murner wrote his extravagant bur- 
 lesque called 'the Great Lutheran Fool'. In this 
 satire the author introduces Luther as commander- 
 in-chief of a large army marching in three divisions. 
 The infantry carry a flag with the word 'Gospel' 
 conspicuously displayed; the banner of the cavalry 
 has the inscription 'Freedom', and the baggage have 
 for their motto 'The Truth'. As they march along, 
 they boast of their exclusive possession of these three 
 flags; but Murner declares, that all the three ban- 
 ners carried by the insurgents have been stolen. 
 'The evangelical flag', he says, has been the property 
 of the faithful for more than fifteen hundred years. 
 
THE MASTER-SINGERS. 59 
 
 'The truth' belongs to no individual man, but to the 
 whole congregation of believers, and Christian 'free- 
 dom' is understood only by Catholics. Luther leads 
 on his forces to destroy churches and monasteries, 
 but Murner and his friends offer a stout resistance. 
 A hard fight is followed by a truce and by Murner's 
 marriage with one of Luther's daughters ! The leader 
 of the faithful is, however, disappointed in matrimony, 
 and soon divorces his wife. Hostilities are resumed 
 and continued until the death of Luther makes an 
 end of the war. He is buried with contempt, and 
 Murner, with great delight, acts as conductor at a 
 'concert of cats' music', vigorously performed at the 
 grave of the reformer! 
 
 Beyond this climax of satirical furor we are not 
 disposed to proceed. It is a relief to turn away from 
 Murner's extreme ferocity to the genial good humour 
 found in so many stories written by Hans Sachs, 
 'the king of all the Master-Singers'. If we leave 
 out of consideration the hymns produced for the 
 services of the Church during the sixteenth century, 
 and if we understand the word poetry in its lower 
 acceptation, then Sachs may be fairly called 'the 
 poet of his times'. The homely, practical and prosaic 
 view of life; the love of satire, the comic humour, 
 not without coarseness; the self-assertion of the boor 
 and the townsman, in opposition to the nobility: — 
 all these later medieval traits are collected in the 
 writings of Hans Sachs; but his own racy style and 
 good humour place him above his predecessors. 
 
6o THE MASTER-SINGERS. 
 
 Hans Sachs was born at Niirnberg in 1494, and 
 was educated at the Latin School in his native town. 
 When he had served his time there as apprentice to 
 a shoemaker, he started on his 'years of travel', and 
 wandered about in the South of Germany. The 
 time employed by Sachs in making- shoes, from 1511 
 to 1516, could hardly have been considerable; for in 
 that interval he visited towns too numerous to be 
 mentioned; exercised his rhyming talent in many 
 singing" schools, and was for some time employed in 
 the service of the emperor. Having returned to his 
 native place, Hans married and -started as a master 
 shoemaker; but found time to write more than six 
 thousand pieces in verse, of which many are nar- 
 ratives, partly jocose, partly didactic, in which he 
 describes popular morals. He died at an advanced 
 age in 1576. His best pieces are his comic and di- 
 dactic stories. In his 'legends' there is some irre- 
 verence, but it is associated with a good intention. 
 In one, for example, he tells us that 'St. Peter' was 
 once tempted to think he might be able to make 
 improvements in the government of the whole world. 
 Meanwhile a peasant girl comes to him and com- 
 plains, that she has to do a day's work and also to 
 take care of a young goat. St. Peter undertakes the 
 custody of the animal, which soon makes its escape: — 
 
 'All day, beneath a scorching sun, 
 The good apostle had to run 
 Till evening came ; the goat was caught, 
 And safely to the master brought. 
 
THE MASTER-SIXGERS. 61 
 
 Then, with a smile, to Peter said 
 
 The Lord: 'Well, friend, how have you sped? 
 
 If such a task your powers has tried, 
 
 How could you keep the world, so wide'? — 
 
 Then Peter, with his toil distressed, 
 
 His folly, with a sigh confessed; — 
 
 'No, Master! 'tis for me no play 
 
 To rule one goat, for one short day; 
 
 It must be infinitely worse 
 
 To regulate the universe'. 
 
 Two departments of poetry must be named as 
 exceptions to the general prevalence of dulness and 
 satire in the long" period which we have briefly re- 
 viewed. We refer to the best of 'the People's songs' 
 and to the hymns written for the services of the Church. 
 The 'People's songs and lyrical ballads' — produced in 
 great abundance during the times of the Master-Singers 
 — were not written_/i?r the people, but were produced 
 by unknown authors who belonged to the people. Of 
 these true songs several of the best sugg-ested, not only 
 the general tone, but the style as well as the melody of 
 some of the best hymns written during the sixteenth 
 and seventeenth centuries. For example, the old 
 song Tnsbruck, I now must leave thee', gave rise 
 to the hymn 'O world! I now must leave thee', and 
 this again was followed by Gerhard's evening-hymn, 
 beginning with the line, 'Now all the woods are 
 sleeping'. The influence of 'the people's songs' sur- 
 vived all the dreary versification of the seventeenth 
 century. They were recommended by Herder, were 
 studied by Goethe, and greatly aided the revival of 
 poetry in the eighteenth century. 
 
62 
 
 THE MASTER-SINGERS. 
 
 The second exceptional class of poetry is perhaps 
 still more remarkable; for it includes all the best 
 hymns written for the services of the Church. The 
 hymns of the sixteenth century are well known to 
 English as well as to German readers. All the 
 dreary events of the seventeenth century could not 
 suppress the strains of Christian poetry uttered by 
 such men as Heermann, Rinckart, Neumark and 
 Gerhard. 
 
 Opitz should at least be named here; for, in the 
 time 1624 — 39, he greatly improved the forms of 
 poetry; but this is almost all that can be said of his 
 works. His immediate followers — always excepting 
 the later hymn-writers already noticed — were mostly 
 versifiers. 
 
Klopstock. 
 
In order to appreciate fairly the work of a man's 
 life, we must know something of his own times and 
 of the preceding age. The 'Messias' is no longer 
 read; but the author's name will ever hold a pro- 
 minent place in the history of German Literature 
 and Culture. A brief reference to that history may 
 indicate some characteristics of the times when 
 Klopstocic was hailed as an epic poet deserving a 
 place on a level with Homer and Milton. 
 
 A long time of dulness had hardly passed away 
 when, in 1748, the first three cantos of the 'Messias' 
 appeared. In the seventeenth century, Opitz intro- 
 duced a better style of writing verse, and excellent 
 hymns were written for the services of the Church. 
 The study of English Literature produced good 
 results in the eighteenth century; but they were 
 
66 KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 more apparent in prose than in verse. Gottsched, 
 the arch-critic of his time, deserved praise for putting 
 down 'the Second Silesian School,' alias, the school 
 of bad taste. Another critic, Bodmer, deserved 
 higher praise. He made a distinction between verse - 
 writing and poetry, while he commended the power 
 and freedom of English poetry, and endeavoured to 
 restore to life the best productions of the Hohen- 
 staufen period. Such services to national literature 
 must not be forgotten, though they were mostly 
 confined to theory. Bodmer was awaiting the arri- 
 val of the poet who would convert the new poetical 
 theory into a reality, when suddenly Klopstock 
 appeared — 
 
 Bright 'as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky'. 
 
 For several young versifiers who were his 
 cotemporaries some diminutive term kinder than 
 'poetaster' might be found. They studied the rules 
 of versification and introduced improvements in the 
 forms of poetry; but their themes were too often 
 trite sayings on 'friendship', 'wine' and 'the beauties 
 of nature', and in all their variations there was but 
 little variety. 
 
 Neither the current poetical literature, nor the 
 prevalent creed, or rather doctrine, of the age could 
 afford aid to a young poet's inspirations. 'Ration- 
 alism', imported from England, had reduced religion 
 to a code of common-place ethics. Nothing is said 
 here of the truth or untruth of that 'old rationalism'; 
 
KLOPSTOCK. 67 
 
 but it may be asserted that it was not poetical. It 
 was as clear as any frosty day in winter, and as 
 cold. It could supply neither faith as a basis for 
 epic, nor enthusiasm as a source of lyrical poetry. 
 There may be found, even in the hymns written by 
 that good man Gellert, some traces of the prosaic 
 tone prevalent in his time. His devotional poems, 
 though good in their own style, do not express the 
 faith and fervour of an earlier psalmody. These 
 notices may indicate some characteristics of the time 
 when the earlier cantos of the 'Mcssias' appeared. 
 
 Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock, born (2. July 1724) 
 at Quedlinburg, enjoyed the advantages of a good 
 classical training at Schulpforte, one of several Saxon 
 schools endowed with the funds of suppressed con- 
 vents and called 'the Princes' Schools'. He studied 
 theology at Jena and Leipzig, 1745 — 6, and, about 
 that time, became acquainted with and recognized 
 the value of, some parts of the old Saxon epic 'der 
 Heliand' ('the Saviour'). When the poet went to 
 Leipzig, a literary union called 'the Saxon School' 
 had been formed there, including Rabener, the mild 
 satirist , Ebert , who translated Young's ' Night 
 Thoughts', Gartner, the founder of the union, and 
 other young men. The friendship of these men, 
 united by congenial tastes in literature, was one of 
 the most pleasing characteristics of the time. In a 
 journal called the 'Bremer Beitrdge', which served 
 as the organ of the 'Saxon School', the first three 
 cantos of the 'JUcssias' appeared anonymously in 
 
 9 * 
 
68 KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 1748; but the author's name was soon known. Bod- 
 mer declared, that the poet whose coming had long 
 been desired, had, at last, appeared, and young 
 Klopstock was hailed with an enthusiasm which, in 
 our own times, seems almost incomprehensible. 
 
 At Langensalza, where he was engaged as a 
 private tutor (1748), his ideal and unrequited love of 
 'Fanny' [Schmidt] supplied a theme for lyric verse, 
 but was hardly followed by any deep sorrow. The 
 heart but slightly wounded found consolation in 
 friendship (1750), when the poet visited Zurich and 
 stayed for some time with the critic Bodmer, one of 
 the heartiest of all friends of poets. In the follow- 
 ing year, the author of the 'Messias' received from 
 count Bernstorf an invitation to the court of Den- 
 mark. On his way to Copenhagen, the young poet 
 stayed for a while in Hamburg, and there met Mar- 
 garetha Moller — the 'Cidli' of his poetry — a woman 
 of congenial soul, to whom he was indebted for 
 his happiest years. He married her in 1754, and 
 her death (1758) was the one deep sorrow of his life. 
 A moderate pension liberated the poet from domestic 
 anxieties, and his quiet routine of life at Copenhagen 
 and Hamburg was varied by visits to his native 
 town and other places, including Karlsruhe, where 
 he stayed for some time (1776) with his friend the 
 Margrave of Baden. 
 
 In religion ,the writer of the 'Messias' was a man 
 of the old school. He loved the bible, and believed 
 in it as a record of the highest inspirations given to 
 
KLOPSTOCK. 69 
 
 mankind. He felt no sympathy with 'the enlightened 
 men' of Berlin; but in politics he had a childlike 
 faith in progress, and, therefore, hailed, in patriotic 
 odes, the American war of independence and the 
 early proclamations of the first French Revolution. 
 'Forgive me, O ye Franks!' he says, in one of these 
 odes, 'if I ever cautioned my countrymen against 
 following your example; for now I am urging them 
 to imitate you'. He was about sixty years old when 
 he wrote thus, but he lived long enough to find all 
 his hopes of a peaceful reign of freedom disappoint- 
 ed. As a reward for faith once reposed in promi- 
 ses of a speedily- coming Utopia, he was elected, 
 (1792) a member of the National Convention. It 
 should be added that loyalty and a love of rational 
 freedom were both asserted in his patriotic odes, as, 
 for example, in one where the poet says — with a 
 reference to Friedrich II — 
 
 'The patriot who loves freedom may revere 
 A father on the throne.' 
 
 The declining years of the poet's life were passed 
 in quietude at Hamburg, where (1791) he married a 
 widow, who had for some time been numbered among 
 his intimate friends. He could look back with pleas- 
 ure on the years of youth and middle life; for, 
 though he was not an ascetic pietist, his life had 
 accorded well with his own belief, that the practice 
 of a literary man should be in harmony with his 
 teaching. Klopstock had endeavoured to banish the 
 
7 o KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 notion of treating poetry as a plaything. For him 
 it was a sacred vocation, and he always remembered 
 that he had written the 'Messzas'. 
 
 After a long life, cheered by the society of many 
 good friends, he died at Hamburg, May 14, 1803, 
 and was buried under the shade of a linden-tree in 
 the churchyard of Ottensen, and close to the grave 
 of his first wife — 'Meta'. The great commercial port 
 did not neglect to pay funeral honours to the poet 
 who had so long been numbered with its citizens. 
 All the bells of Hamburg and Altona were tolling, 
 while more than a hundred carriages and thousands 
 of mourners followed the hearse. The elegies written 
 after the funeral were hardly as numerous as those 
 that bewailed the earlier death of Gellert. 
 
 All that is now generally known of Kxopstock 
 is, that he wrote the 'Messias', a poem once highly 
 praised and now cast into the shade. The change 
 took place partly during the author's life-time. The 
 beginning of the epic was a labour of love. A first 
 sketch, made at Schulpforte, was written out in prose 
 at Jena, and was, soon afterwards put into hexa- 
 meter verse. The subsequent progress of the work 
 was very slow. When ten cantos had appeared, 
 Goethe, then a boy, was one of the enthusiasts who 
 not only read the epic, but learned by heart some 
 passages, and his sister helped him in getting up 
 the furious dialogue between 'Satan' and 'Adrame- 
 lech'. 'We were delighted', says the poet, 'with the 
 violent reproaches which we thus learned to hurl 
 
KLOPSTOCK. y 
 
 against each other, and, whenever we had an oppor- 
 tunity, we exchanged, in our dramatic warfare, such 
 compliments as "monster" and "traitor"'.— On one 
 occasion, the father of these young aspirants in 
 tragedy was alarmed by the energy of their dia- 
 logue, of which he could not understand the purport. 
 The sister had reached a climax of declamation and, 
 speaking with suppressed tone and strong feeling, 
 thus addressed Wolfgang, who took the part of 
 'Satan': — 
 
 'Help me, I pray! I kneel, if you demand it, 
 Monster! before you — dark, offending traitor!' 
 
 There were other enthusiasts, at that time, who 
 could read the epic. Goethe tells us, that one of 
 his father's friends used 'to read through the first 
 ten cantos once in every year', in the week pre- 
 ceding Easter. The wonder is lessened when it is 
 added that he read hardly any other book. But in 
 1773, when the epic was at last ended, enthusiasm 
 had died away. It had become more and more 
 apparent that the author had written without a plan. 
 When he published the first three, he had made no 
 provision for filling with interest twenty long cantos 
 of hexameter verse. 
 
 The 'Messias' by no means represents all the 
 work of the author's life. His genius shines out 
 more clearly in his odes devoted to friendship, pa- 
 triotism and the adoration of God. Misled by his 
 patriotism, the poet made a series of failures in his 
 
72 KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 dramas, founded on legends of the old time of Her- 
 mann, and a similar criticism might be applied to 
 the dramas on themes taken from the bible. His 
 writings in prose are represented by the 'Re- 
 public of Scholars', a book directed, in part, against 
 the severity of criticism and, therefore, welcomed 
 by several young authors, including Goethe. 
 
 Klopstock's life and work should be estimated 
 in their union with the development of a national 
 poetic literature. Great changes in thought and 
 feeling took place during his life -time. The forms 
 in which his genius expressed itself have partly 
 become obsolete, but the spirit that inspired his 
 poetry is still living. How many other works, once 
 celebrated, have passed away since the 'Messias' 
 first appeared! During the time of the author's 
 youth, the critics Gottsched and Bodmer were enjoy- 
 ing a high reputation. When the epic was ended, 
 Herder was talking of 'a poetry in harmony with 
 the voices of the peoples and with the whole heart 
 of mankind'. One of his pupils reduced a part of 
 this vast theory to practice by writing 'Go'iz', a- 
 drama soon followed by other works of a sensational 
 class, fairly represented, at last, in Schiller's first 
 play, the 'Robbers'. Such were the changes that 
 took place while the author of the 'Messias' was still 
 in the prime of life. During the time of his green 
 old age, we find him still caring for literature, talk- 
 ing earnestly of poetry with -Wordsworth, and 
 commending Burger's versification. 
 
KLOPSTOCK. 73 
 
 Since 1803, changes too many and too important 
 to be named in these outlines have taken place in 
 the real as in the ideal sphere of man's life. The 
 spirit of the man who wrote the 'Mcssias' and assert- 
 ed the dignity and independence of literature is 
 living; but his writings are neglected. They are at 
 once laid aside and preserved; in a word, 'aufge- 
 hoben'. To young readers, however, the following 
 brief notices may, perhaps, be acceptable. 
 
 The most obvious defect in the epic is its want 
 of plot and action. The first three cantos are intro- 
 ductory. The fourth gives a narrative of the con- 
 spiracy against Jesus, and contains several long 
 speeches, which are eloquent, and express a heart- 
 felt devotion. The subsequent Trial and the Cruci- 
 fixion supply themes for the six cantos, 5 — 10. All 
 the remaining ten cantos are confined to the time 
 intervening between the Crucifixion and the Ascen- 
 sion. The events narrated are not enough to fill 
 with poetic interest twenty long cantos of hexameter 
 verse. To supply a want of action, long conversa- 
 tions of men and angels are freely introduced; but 
 neither angels nor men have any true individuality. 
 The best parts of the poem are its lyrical and 
 descriptive passages. The epic (so-called) may indeed 
 be fairly described as a series of conversations and 
 descriptions with some fervid, lyrical interludes. 
 Similes are very freely introduced, and, though often 
 bold and original, are sometimes too far extended, 
 as in the passage where Satan comes to tempt Judas. 
 
74 KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 The approach of the fiend is thus compared to the 
 coming of a pestilence: — 
 
 'So, at the midnight hour, a fatal plague 
 
 Comes down on cities lying all asleep. 
 
 The people are at rest; or here and there 
 
 A student reads beside his burning lamp, 
 
 And, here and there, where ruddy wine is glowing, 
 
 Good friends are waking; some, in shadowy bowers, 
 
 Talk of their hopes of an immortal life — 
 
 None dreaming of the coming day of grief . . . 
 
 It is well conceived , that envy, the basest of all 
 passions, is represented as the traitor's motive. A 
 dream presents to Judas a false vision of rich, earthly- 
 domains to be divided among the favoured followers 
 of the Master. Then the traitor's own allotment is 
 described as — 
 
 'A narrow, desolate tract of hills and crags, 
 Wild and unpeopled, overgrown with briars; 
 Night, veiled in chilly, ever-weeping clouds, 
 Hangs o'er the land, and in its barren clefts 
 The drifted snows of winter linger long; 
 There birds of night, condemn'd for aye to share 
 That solitude with thee, flit through the gloom 
 And wail among the trees with thunders riven. 
 That desert, Judas, is to be thine own!' 
 
 When the traitor has conceived his design and 
 has resolved to execute it, the triumph of the 
 tempter is thus described: — 
 
 — ' With a silent pride, 
 Satan looked down upon him. O'er the flood 
 So towers some dreadful cliff, and from the clouds 
 Looks down upon the waves, all strewn with wrecks 
 And corpses' . . . 
 
KLOPSTOCK. 75 
 
 Bold similes are also introduced in the more sub- 
 dued passages, as in the narrative of the journey to 
 Emmaus, after the crucifixion. The mourning dis- 
 ciples meet a Stranger who converses with them and 
 kindly, yet with energetic words, reproves their 
 doubts and fears: — 
 
 'His words were like a storm that, while restrain'd, 
 Stirs not the far recesses of the wood; 
 There in deep glades the pale-green shadows sleep, 
 For clouds have not yet blotted out the sun. 
 Thus for a time; but soon with greater power 
 The Stranger speaks'... 
 
 'So through the forest blows 
 The storm, with all its strength in every blast; 
 Now bend the trees, with quivering boughs all bend 
 Before the gale that drives on clouds of thunder 
 And urges wave on billow o'er the ocean.' 
 
 The rest of the canto from which the last quo- 
 tation is taken may be referred to as containing, 
 here and there, some pleasing traits of description 
 associated with expressions of pious feeling. But if 
 isolated passages of descriptive power and lyric 
 enthusiasm were more numerous, they could not 
 make the 'Mcssias' an epic worthy of its theme. 
 The author failed where every poet, however great, 
 must fail. The facts of the evangelical narrative can 
 admit no additions, while the thoughts transcend all 
 poetry. Profound humiliation united with a calm 
 assertion of boundless power; predictions, called 
 dreams, fulfilling themselves in defiance of the world; 
 
76 KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 kingdoms, empires, religions and philosophies fading 
 away before the presence of One who was 'despised 
 and rejected of men':— here are wonders that can 
 never be made more marvellous by any array of 
 mythological imagery. Epic poetry demands a union 
 of idea and form; in other words, it must express 
 thoughts in action and external show, such as may 
 captivate the attention of readers. But the theme 
 chosen by Klopstock is the greatest possible anti- 
 thesis of idea and form. As it has, hitherto, defied 
 all the efforts of reasonings to bring it down to the 
 level of common-place history, so it asserts itself as 
 independent of all such decorations as epic poetry 
 can supply. In a word, the Christian Religion is 
 spiritual and therefore practical. It is no more a fit 
 subject for epic poetry than for controversy; but 
 will evermore supply themes for the highest lyrical 
 poetry — the poetry of the heart. This is the depart- 
 ment of literature in which Klopstock was most 
 successful. 
 
 The poet's lyrical works include several Christian 
 hymns, and a number of more elaborate odes, written 
 in alcaic, choriambic and other antique metres and 
 without rhyme. The favourite subjects of the odes 
 are mostly friendship, patriotism, and adoration of 
 Creative Power. In 'several odes, contemplations of 
 nature serve to introduce passages of fervid thanks- 
 giving, like those found in the Hebrew Psalms, to 
 which the poet was, more or less, indebted for in- 
 spiration, in several stanzas like this — 
 
KLOPSTOCK. 77 
 
 'Roar, Ocean! to proclaim His praise, 
 
 Sing, rivers! as ye flow; 
 Ye forests, bow! Ye cedar-trees, 
 
 Your lofty heads bend low!' 
 
 We cannot, for a moment, compare with such 
 hymns as were written in the seventeenth century 
 Klopstock's hymns intended apparently for use in 
 public worship. There is greater power in the odes 
 of adoration which Lessing described as 'seraphic', 
 but they are sometimes too long, and many passages 
 are subjective. The poet refers too often to his own 
 feelings, though the reference mostly expresses a 
 profound humiliation. He too frequently confesses 
 that he knows not what to say, as in the following 
 stanza: — 
 
 'When I would sing of Thee, Most High! 
 
 "Where shall the theme begin? — where end? 
 What angel can the thoughts supply 
 
 That should with tones of thunder blend ? ' 
 
 The other stanzas of the ode consist mostly of a 
 long simile in which the poet compares his own 
 presumption with that of a mariner lost in an 
 attempt to explore an unbounded ocean. Here the 
 German poet and a Persian mystic meet, and both 
 are possessed by one idea, when they speak of One 
 before whom 'the nations are counted as less than 
 nothing and vanity'. In concise energy of expression 
 Jelaleddin has the advantage in this couplet: — 
 
 'Earth, water, air and fire — Lord, in thy presence, none 
 Asserts itself; but all, in fear, lie down as one.' 
 
78 KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 Among the odes devoted to friendship, there may- 
 be found — besides some weak, sentimental speci- 
 mens—several of a higher character; but their merits 
 are so closely united with their antique metres that 
 a fair translation is hardly possible. The following 
 version of an ode entitled 'Early Graves' may give 
 the thoughts and,, perhaps, the tone of the original: — 
 
 'Welcome, O moon, with silver light, 
 
 Fair, still companion of the night! 
 O friend of lonely meditation, stay, 
 While clouds drift o'er thy face, and pass away. 
 
 Still fairer than this summer-night 
 Is young May-morning, glad and bright, 
 When sparkling dew-drops from his tresses flow, 
 And all the eastern hills like roses glow. 
 
 O Friends, whose tombs, with moss o'ergrown, 
 
 Remind me, I am left alone, 
 How sweet to me, ere you were called away, 
 Were shades of night and gleams of breaking day!' 
 
 Of several odes of which love is the theme, it 
 has been very truly said, 'they deserve the highest 
 praise for their pure and ideal treatment of the sub- 
 ject'. That 'highest praise' has been thus briefly 
 expressed: — : Klopstock and Wi eland were the anti- 
 theses of each other'. 
 
 The patriotic odes expressed a genuine enthu- 
 siasm, and all their inversions of sentences and sus- 
 pensions of meaning did not prevent them from 
 
KLOPSTOCK. 79 
 
 going straight to the hearts of the people. Closely 
 united with these odes are others in which the poet 
 sings the praise of his own native language. His 
 services in the development of its resources in verse 
 were important, and helped to introduce a new style 
 of translation from Greek and Roman poets. He is 
 almost too proud of his own tongue. He did not 
 know all that such a scholar as Grbiji could say in 
 favour of the English language. 
 
 Little or nothing has been said of Klopstock's 
 humour. He could, however, sometimes write play- 
 fully, as may be seen in his poem on the pleasures 
 of skating or, as he calls them, 'the joys of De- 
 cember'. The conclusion — a contrast of theory and 
 practice — -seems to have been suggested by Horace 
 in his epode on rural life. A few lines, given in 
 the form of a free translation, may indicate the 
 humorous conclusion of the little poem called 'The 
 Fire -side': — • 
 
 "Now, leaving the fire on the hearth to expire, 
 "We go forth in the night, and, with steel on our feet, 
 We are daring and fleet, while the sound of our flight 
 Makes the echoes all wake, round the hard -frozen lake, 
 Where, filled with delight, we pity the wight 
 Who sits yawning at home by the fire." 
 
 'So speaks an Idler, snugly dreaming 
 
 Before a wood -fire burning clearly, 
 While from the punch-bowl, near him steaming, 
 
 Arise the fumes he loves so dearly. 
 The "joys of winter" he relates, 
 While rusting hang his idle skates,' 
 
8o 
 
 KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 The enthusiasm that, in the middle of the 
 eighteenth century, hailed Klopstock as one of the 
 greatest of epic poets, has passed away. His piety 
 and virtue, as well as the circumstances of his times, 
 conspired to cast a halo around his name. Amid the 
 cold imitative verse-writing of the period, his first 
 work appeared as the result of high inspiration. 
 Poetry had already improved its style, but it wanted 
 heart and meaning, when Klopstock made it, at 
 once, Christian and national, while he gave more 
 variety to its forms. 'He created', says Herder, 'a 
 poetry of the heart, to take the place of a poetry 
 of wit and fancy'. 'He was great', says another 
 critic, 'in his thoughts of nationality, freedom, love, 
 friendship and religion'. 
 
WlELAND. 
 

 Wieland is a writer whose name still holds an im- 
 portant place in the history of German Literature, 
 while his works, excepting his epic poem 'Oberon', 
 are now almost forgotten. They have been praised 
 mostly with regard to the merit of an easy and 
 fluent style; while their purport has been censured 
 by critics who believe that true poetry and pure 
 moral culture should be united. For readers who 
 study the history of literature and culture, such 
 works as 'Musarion' and 'Agathon', though now 
 called obsolete, have still some interest, as affording 
 evidence of tastes prevalent in the time when Wieland 
 won his reputation. 
 
 Christoph Martin Wieland, the son of a Lutheran 
 pastor, was born (1733) in a village near Biberach. 
 Under his father's care, he received a good primary 
 
84 WIELAND. 
 
 education, and afterwards continued his studies at 
 the school of Kloster Bergen (near Magdeburg) and 
 at Erfurt and Tubingen. In the years 1749 — 52, he 
 sketched for himself the outlines of all that wide 
 and superficial knowledge of polyhistory which is 
 found in his writings In 1752 he went to Zurich, 
 there stayed for some time with his friend Bodmer, 
 and afterwards was engaged, for about five years, 
 as a private tutor in two Swiss families. During this 
 time, he wrote rather extensively and in a sentimen- 
 tal, unreal tone, on religious subjects. At Bern, 
 where he lived in 1759, Wieland was for some short 
 time acquainted with Julie Bondeli, well known as 
 one of Rousseau's disciples, and a sentimental friend- 
 ship seemed likely to end in marriage; but his suit 
 was rejected, and this disappointment was, no doubt, 
 a lucky accident in his career. 
 
 A long passage of prose followed all the poetry 
 of Wieland's youthful years. During the interval 
 1760 — 69, he fulfilled the duties of town- clerk at 
 Biberachj and there married a homely, domesticated 
 woman with whom he lived to enjoy thirty-four years 
 of a comfortable existence. The prose of the nine 
 years at Biberach was relieved by frequent visits to a 
 neighbouring mansion at Warthausen, the residence 
 of Count Stadion. Here all the elegant French tastes 
 and manners of the time, the sciolism called 'en- 
 lightenment' and the epicurean teaching called 'philo- 
 sophy', were united for the seduction of Wieland, 
 and the result of their combined attractions was a 
 
WIELAND. 85 
 
 marvellous change of character. Wieland's tastes 
 and talents were perverted. The pious youth in 
 whom old Bodmer had hoped to find a second 
 Klopstock, came forth as the writer of sceptical 
 and epicurean stories. The results of this second 
 course of education at Warthausen are found in the 
 greater part of Wieland's imaginative writings: — 
 'Don Sylvio' (1764), Agathon' ('67), 'Musarion' ('68), 
 'The New Amadis' ('71) Aristippus' (1802), and others 
 that may be left unnamed. He began the new style 
 at Warthausen, and he maintained it even in the 
 years when he might be called old. 
 
 In 1769 Wieland accepted the professorship of 
 philosophy at Erfurt, where he remained until 1772. 
 The duchess Anna Amalia of Sachsen-Weimar then 
 invited him to Weimar where, until 1774, he was 
 engaged as tutor of the young princes Karl August 
 and Constantin. When his elder pupil had attained 
 majority, Wieland received a pension with elevation 
 in social position. All the rest of his life may be 
 briefly described as a time of domestic repose pro- 
 tected from ennui by a literary productivity that 
 could find no termination save in death. He estab- 
 lished and conducted 'the German Mercury', a review 
 that had a great success, (1773 — 89) and was followed 
 by the 'New German Mercury' (1790 — 95). Soon after- 
 wards, he began 'the Attic Museum' (1796 — 1801) 
 which was followed by the 'New Attic Museum' 
 (1802 — 10). Meanwhile he wrote, in prose and verse,, 
 tales didactic (in his own way) or fantastic, and too 
 
86 WIELAND. 
 
 numerous to be named here. His writings (collected 
 in 1818 — 28) fill fifty-three volumes. When fairly con- 
 trasted with all that he had to tell, his literary in- 
 dustry was not merely German; it was enormous. 
 In his later years, he wrote on with unwavering- 
 perseverance, though the popularity won by Aga- 
 thon' had for ever passed away. Readers of a pre- 
 ceding generation, who had once regarded it as their 
 duty to read 'Agathon', had ceased to live. The 
 poetical young men of the new generation were 
 divided into two classes. On one side were the sen- 
 sational writers oddly called 'the Sturm and Drang 
 men'; on the other side, Klopstock's followers, or 
 the men of 'the Hainbund'. Both classes disliked or 
 despised Wteland. 'He had no original genius; he 
 was no poet'. This was the censure pronounced by 
 young innovators, men described (by themselves) as • 
 'sound healthy children of nature' — 
 
 ... 'as free as nature first made man, 
 When wild in woods the noble savage ran!' 
 
 The censure pronounced on Wieland by the 
 'Hainbund men' was more severe; for it had respect 
 to the moral rather than to the literary faults of his 
 writings. The young poets, when assembled to pay 
 honour to their master (Klopstock), burned a portrait 
 of Wieland and used one of his books ('Idris') for 
 lighting their pipes. 'Death to Voltaire and to Wie- 
 land'! was one of the toasts drunk at this festival. 
 Such expressions of dislike failed to disturb the epi- 
 curean repose of Wieland at Weimar. There placed 
 
WTELAND. 87 
 
 in easy circumstances, and surrounded by rivals and 
 friends, with whom he lived on good terms, he main- 
 tained his literary activity to an advanced age, 'and 
 died in 1813. His domestic character was amiable, 
 and his address was so conciliatory that he avoided 
 all quarrels with Herder! 'Of all the literary men in 
 Weimar', it was said 'that Wieland was the only 
 one not envious of Goethe's superiority'. This asser- 
 tion, though too extensive, is partly confirmed by the 
 kind memorial written by Goethe soon after the 
 decease of his friend. In order to qualify, in some 
 degree, the praise so freely bestowed in that me- 
 morial, we should remember that Goethe and 
 Wieland had been accustomed to meet each other 
 'as brother masons' in the Amalia Lodge at Weimar. 
 It should also be noticed that Goethe, in his youthful 
 days, had read with delight some of Wieland's stories. 
 Wieland, in several of his writings, makes such 
 a free use of irony, that we are often left in doubt 
 respecting his intention. If we accept as serious 
 many passages in his more questionable stories, we 
 must come to the conclusion, that one of the most 
 singular of all fixed ideas had possession of his mind. 
 He seems to have believed that a tendency to ascetic 
 doctrine and practice was the prevalent error of his 
 own times! To counteract that supposed tendency, 
 he, in the most deliberate and prepense style, advo- 
 cates a doctrine and a practice that may be very 
 mildly described as 'epicurean'. For his coolness 
 and deliberation, he is quite unique as an erotic 
 
88 WIELAND. 
 
 author. If he is ever earnest, it is in warning his 
 readers of the unhappy tendencies of Pietism. He 
 could not forgive the teachers who led him to study- 
 in a severe school during his youth, and the object 
 of several of his works is to expose the error of 
 that school. In his poems, 'Musarion', 'the Graces' 
 and 'Lamented Love', he repeats, again and again, 
 his censure of ascetic notions of virtue. In the last- 
 named of these poems, Cupid is expelled from heaven, 
 and the Graces go with him; but the place is found 
 so dull without them, that they are soon urged to 
 return. 'Musarion' (1768) is less prolix than some of 
 Wieland's early works. Goethe read it with delight 
 when he was hardly twenty years old. It tells the 
 story of a youth who, by severe early discipline, is 
 led to retire from society, but soon finds out that he 
 is not well qualified for a hermit's life. In 'The New 
 Amadis' the difficulty of finding wisdom and beauty 
 united in one person is playfully described, and the 
 hero, after a vain search for such perfection, marries 
 a plain and intelligent wife. This conclusion, how- 
 ever dull, is the most edifying part of the story, of 
 which some details are treated with great licence. 
 In 'Agathon', a romance in prose, the writer is 
 severe, but only against severity, and again de- 
 nounces the stern doctrines impressed on his memory 
 in early life. These are now represented by the 
 teachings of an antique philosophy. Agathon, a 
 Greek youth, is educated at Delphi, and afterwards, 
 lives at the court of Dionysius, where he learns to 
 
WIELAND. 89 
 
 regard as impracticable all the moral theories of his 
 early teachers. 
 
 Wieland's best and most artistic work — 'Oberon', 
 a romantic poem — has its scenes in the East and in 
 Fairy Land. Three distinct stories are well united 
 so as to form a whole; for each depends on the 
 others. The adventures of the hero and the heroine 
 — Huon and Rezia — are skilfully blended with the 
 story of the quarrel and the reconciliation of Oberon 
 and Titania, and the whole plot, though complicated, 
 is made clear. Goethe said: 'As long as gold is gold, 
 and crystal is crystal, Oberon will be admired'. On 
 the other side, severer critics have described the 
 poem as fantastic and destitute of strong interest. 
 The author, it is said, treated mediaeval and roman- 
 tic legends and fairy tales in a superficial and ironical 
 manner, and gained his popularity by assuming a 
 light, mock-heroic style. 
 
 In his antique romance 'The Abderites* (1774), 
 Wieland made no pretence of describing life in 
 ancient Greece, but employed an assumed antiquity 
 as a veil for light satire on the petty interests and 
 foibles of provincial life. The Abderites are people 
 ironically styled wise; they erect a fountain, with 
 costly sculptures, where there is no water, and place 
 a beautiful statue of Venus, of life size, on a pedestal 
 eighty feet high, 'so that it may be well seen by 
 all travellers coming towards the town'. One of the 
 best parts of the story describes the theatrical tastes 
 of the Abderites. The reader is introduced to their 
 
go WIELAND. 
 
 theatre when the 'Andromeda' of Euripides is repre- 
 sented as an opera, and with a text modified 'to suit 
 the music and the singers'. The composer has given 
 free tickets to all his relatives, who applaud every 
 part of his work. The tenor, who takes the part of 
 Perseus, is cheered so loudly that he loses the key, 
 forgets the melody, and wins applause again by sub- 
 stituting an aria from the 'Cyclops'. The soprano, 
 Eukolpis, represents Andromeda, and when bound 
 to the rock and exposed to the anger of the Nereids, 
 repeats her sad monologue thrice, in order to intro- 
 duce again and again some florid passages 'like the 
 notes of a nightingale'. 'Whatever she has to ex- 
 press — , grief or anger, hope or fear — the nightin- 
 gale's trills must always be introduced and are sure 
 of winning an encore'. 
 
 The long account of the great law-suit at Abdera 
 is the most amusing part of the story, and is as 
 good as anything written by Wieland. He tells us 
 that, in Abdera, there was only one surgeon-dentist. 
 He had an extensive practice in the neighbourhood, 
 and travelled, in a lowly fashion, from place to place. 
 On one occasion, he hired an ass and its driver to 
 carry his small baggage across a wide heath. It 
 was a hot and bright summer's day; there was nei- 
 ther tree nor bush to cast a foot of shade anywhere, 
 and the weary surgeon-dentist was glad to sit down 
 and rest a while in the shadow cast from the figure 
 of the ass. Against this appropriation of a shade 
 the driver, who was also the owner of the ass, made 
 
WIELAND. 91 
 
 a protest, to the effect, that he had sold the services 
 of the ass and his own; but that nothing had been 
 said in the bargain about any use of the shadow! 
 The dentist must, therefore, either come out of 
 the shade, or pay something extra for its use. 
 As he refused to do so, a law-suit followed; the best 
 lawyers of Abdera were employed on each side; 
 both the claimant and the defendant were strongly 
 supported by their respective friends, and the whole 
 population of the town was soon divided into two 
 parties, styled respectively, Asses' and 'Shadows'. 
 So bitter was their enmity, that an Ass' would not 
 sit down at the same table with a 'Shadow'. The 
 conclusion may be found in the twentieth volume of 
 Wieland's collected works. 
 
 Both the praise and the blame bestowed on 
 Wieland may easily be reduced to a summary. It 
 must be confessed that he was inspired by no lofty 
 ideas of a poet's mission. The duty of a poet, as 
 he understood it, was to amuse his readers, and to 
 fulfil it he must be, in the first place, conciliatory; 
 he must adapt both his subject and his style to the 
 fashion of his times. The taste of readers in the 
 higher classes of society was still French when 
 Wieland began to write fictions. German literature 
 must be changed, in order that it might be intro- 
 duced to courts and to the higher circles. Wieland 
 saw the necessity of this change, and while he wrote 
 with gracefulness and vivacity, he extended greatly 
 the range of topics found in light literature, and 
 
92 WIELAND. 
 
 treated them in a style adapted to the tastes of the 
 upper classes. For them the enthusiasm and the 
 Christian sentiment of Klopstock were tiresome, and 
 they complained, not without cause, of his pompous 
 and intricate style. No faults could be found in 
 Lessing's style; but the great critic was a close 
 thinker and wished to make his readers think. This 
 was in itself intolerable, and, moreover, he had the 
 fault of refusing to write on such topics as the aris- 
 tocracy cared for. Wieland understood their preju- 
 dices, and wrote to suit them. He had been educated 
 under the influence of pietism; but he liberated him- 
 self from its restraints, and became as free in the 
 treatment as in the choice of subjects. This change 
 in both style and purport took place so suddenly 
 that it excited surprise. To use Lessing's words— 
 ' Wieland 's muse made a sudden descent from heaven 
 to earth'! It may be added, that success was won 
 by this bold transition. 
 
 On the other side, Wieland's contributions to the 
 culture of a literary style must not be forgotten. 
 Many of his cotemporaries, including Herder and 
 Goethe, were indebted to him for examples of lively 
 and fluent writing. He extended the culture of Ger- 
 man literature in the southern states, and enlarged, 
 for many readers, the boundaries of their imaginative 
 world. The censure that he misrepresented life in 
 ancient times is hardly called for, as he never pro- 
 fessed to write fictions correct in their archaeological 
 details. He used antique places and names, in order 
 
WIELAND. 93 
 
 to gain freedom for the exercise of imagination and 
 for the expression of such playful satire as is found 
 in his story of Abdera. 
 
 The writings of Klopstock, Lessing and Wieland 
 unite the literature of the eighteenth with that of 
 the nineteenth century. Klopstock expressed one 
 great idea — that of a union of Christianity with a 
 national poetry, and if he failed to realise it, the 
 failure, was nobler than any commonplace success. 
 Lessing developed the ideal of a national literature, 
 founded on a union of poetry and speculation, and 
 expressed in artistic forms. Wieland, by the variety 
 of his subjects and the clearness and fluency of his 
 diction, disting-uished himself from the crowd of minor 
 authors who lived in his times. 
 
Lessing. 
 
ihe title of 'a literary reformer' is hardly high 
 enough for Lessing. He gave to German Literature 
 more than improvements of form. He found it imi- 
 tative and feeble, as Gottsched (the critic of the time) 
 had said it ought to be. It was a time when a nar- 
 row rationalism prevailed in poetry as in other de- 
 partments. Bodmer, though he was a better critic 
 than Gottsched, recommended didactic fables as high 
 specimens of poetic art, 'because they combine the 
 wonderful with the useful'; it is marvellous to read 
 of animals talking, and when they give us good ad- 
 vice, we have 'poetry' as Bodmer once defined it! 
 Lessing was not pleased with such a lowly definition; 
 but in accordance with it, Gellert, Lichtwer and 
 Peeffel wrote many instructive fables. Excepting 
 Klopstock, the verse- writers of the time were not 
 
 13 
 
9 8 LESSING. 
 
 ambitious in their aims. Having but little to say, 
 they sometimes said it neatly; but many of their so- 
 called poems were mere exercises in versification, 
 and their themes were too often worn topics and 
 sentiments derived from French and English sources. 
 Some prosaic treatises in verse, on such subjects as 
 'the Irrigation of Meadows' and 'the Rights of Rea- 
 son', were produced in this period. 
 
 Lessing assigned to the fables their proper sub- 
 ordinate place; he exposed the error of praising de- 
 scriptive poetry as 'a kind of painting in words', 
 and he refused to ascribe any high value to formally 
 didactic verses, however good their purpose might 
 be. While he admired the high spirit and the na- 
 tional tone of Klopstock's poetry, the truthful critic 
 could see the weakness of its declamatory style and 
 the want of art in the epic. 
 
 It is of Lessing as the author of 'Nathan' and 
 other dramas, and as a critical writer on poetry that 
 we have to speak. To describe his whole career — 
 all his work as a polemic writer and his relations 
 with the rationalism prevalent in his time — would 
 lead us far beyond our limits. 
 
 Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, the son of a Lutheran 
 pastor, was born (1729) at Kamenz. His studies, 
 commenced in a classical school at Meissen, were 
 continued at Leipzig ('46), where his reading was very 
 extensive. Here, however, he gave offence to his 
 father by neglect of theological studies and by a 
 love of theatrical amusements. The Leipzig theatre 
 
LESSING. 99 
 
 had been raised to some respectability by the patron- 
 age of Gottsched, the critic, and under the manage- 
 ment of the popular actress Caroline Neuber. Dur- 
 ing his residence here, Lessing, who was about 
 twenty years old, found recreation in the theatre 
 and wrote several dramatic pieces, such as 'the 
 Young Pedant' and 'the Freethinker'. These are 
 named only as the playful sallies of youth. His 
 means of subsistence were reduced almost to zero, 
 when he accepted an invitation from a friend (Mylius) 
 and went to Berlin. Here, in a garret near the 
 Nicolai churclryard, he began (in 1748) his career as 
 a critic in art and literature. One of his first essays 
 was a review of the three cantos of Klopstock's 
 epic, then recently published. This critique was 
 followed by some papers on the history of the 
 drama ('50) and by translations, done for booksellers, 
 at such prices as failed to supply decent clothes for 
 the writer. His circumstances were slightly improved 
 when he found more regular work in writing a liter- 
 ary supplement to a newspaper. After taking his 
 Magister degree at Wittenberg ('51), he returned to 
 literary work in Berlin and attracted notice and 
 some respect (not unmixed with fear) by an able 
 review of Lange's translation of Horace. In the con- 
 troversy that followed, Lessing showed his power of 
 combining sound erudition with the attractions of a 
 clear and lively style that had no trace of pedantry. 
 In 1753 — 60 Lessixg resided mostly in Leipzig and 
 in Berlin, where he was elected a member of the 
 
 13* 
 
ioo LESSING. 
 
 Academy ('60). Soon afterwards, he gained an 
 appointment as secretary to the Governor of Silesia 
 and went to live at Breslau. His time there was 
 mostly occupied by the duties of his office, and, in 
 other respects, his life was hardly like that of a 
 book-worm. A report was spread that he had for- 
 saken literature. But, during the five years at Bres- 
 lau, he produced 'Minna von Barnhelm', the first 
 German comedy including a national interest. Its 
 background is supplied by the events of the Seven 
 Years' War, and its purport is conciliatory. Tell- 
 heim, the hero, is a Prussian officer who is engaged 
 in levying war contributions in a poor district of 
 Saxony, and who pities and spares the people, for 
 whom he pays money out of his own resources. 
 After the conclusion of peace, he is accused of dis- 
 honest dealings with, the enemy, is prosecuted, and 
 falls into poverty and military disgrace. His conduct 
 has, however, won more than the admiration of 
 Minna, a Saxon lady, to whom he has been be- 
 trothed during the war. She now comes forward to 
 aid him; but he will not allow her to share in his 
 disgrace and poverty. Minna endeavours to change 
 his resolution, at first by reasonings, but, afterwards, 
 by the stratagem of pretending to be in needy cir- 
 cumstances and in want of a defender. It is hardly 
 necessary to add, that her plot has a successful con- 
 clusion. It must be regretted that the author did 
 not write more dramas of this class. His next dra- 
 matic work was of another type. He had planned, 
 
LESSING. 10 1 
 
 before 1760, a tragedy on the old Roman story of 
 Virginia, a'nd this work, modernised and otherwise 
 changed, so as to serve a concealed purpose, ap- 
 peared as the tragedy of 'Emilia Galotti', in 1772. 
 Its scenes are laid in Italy; but the purport is an 
 exposure of the vices of a corrupt aristocracy, wher- 
 ever found. The style is laconic, realistic, and often 
 made powerful by condensation. Nothing can be 
 more painful than the conclusion. It is a repetition 
 of the old Roman tragedy, and 'the Prince' here 
 represents Appius Claudius. Goethe, who admired 
 the style and the construction of this drama, could 
 not sympathize with the dreadful, stern conclusion. 
 After his return from Breslau, Lessing published 
 his most celebrated critical Avork, 'the Laokoon'. It 
 is a fragment, and yet has been accepted as a 
 masterpiece of clear analysis. Its chief aim is to de- 
 fine the boundaries of poetry and painting. Soon 
 after the publication of this work the author went 
 to Hamburg, where he was engaged in writing a 
 journal having for its object the support of a national 
 drama. The project failed; for Lessing's criticisms 
 were too good to serve the immediate practical 
 interests of the theatre. The essays and reviews 
 written for the Hamburg theatrical journal were 
 collected and published in 1767 — 68. Here some of 
 the best specimens of true criticism are found. It 
 would be superfluous to add many words to all that 
 has been justly said in praise of the critic's style. 
 It is not a dress put upon his thoughts, but a 
 
102 LESSING. 
 
 medium so transparent that while we are reading, 
 we hardly ever think of it. 
 
 At last, a place affording some repose was found 
 for Lessing. He gained ('69) an appointment as li- 
 brarian at Wolfenbuttel, where the resources of a 
 large library gave full scope to his powers of re- 
 search. Here he married an amiable widow with 
 whom he had become acquainted at Hamburg. Her 
 death in 1778 was the greatest sorrow of his life. 
 
 The publication of some fragments written by 
 Reimarus, (one of the earlier of the Rationalist 
 divines) brought Lessing into the arena of a theo- 
 logical controversy by which his later years were 
 embittered. The immediate literary results of the 
 dispute are seen in the polemical letters entitled 
 'Anti-Goetze', so called because they were addressed 
 to a pastor named Goetz who resided at Hamburg. 
 More important though less direct results of the 
 controversy are found in the didactic drama 'Nathan' 
 and in the essay 'On the Education of Mankind'. 
 The claim of Lessing to the sole authorship of the 
 latter work has been disputed. Though it is remark- 
 ably concise, its purpose is far too extensive to be 
 fairly described within our limits. It was the author's 
 last work. His latest studies; his bereavement, 
 of which he said little though he felt it deeply; 
 the enmities excited by his last controversy :^- 
 all had an unfavourable effect on his health. 
 His cheerfulness and sociality declined, and, after 
 several attacks of illness, he died at Brunswick, 
 
LESSIXG. 103 
 
 in the 15*11 of February 1781. His character may be 
 read in his own letters. 
 
 Lessing's best works may be classified as critical, 
 didactic and dramatic. To the first class belongs the 
 'Laokoon' with its clear definition of poetry as dis- 
 tinct from painting. T should have no faith in my 
 theory', says Lessing; 'if I did not find it confirmed 
 by Homer's practice'. The critic then analyses the 
 epic style of the Iliad, and especially notices that, 
 while events are fully narrated, no long descriptions 
 are given of the objects connected with the story .... 
 A ship, for example, is mentioned as 'the black ship', 
 the 'hollow', or 'the well-rowed black ship'. Of the 
 stationary object Homer says no more; but when he 
 speaks of an action, or of a series of actions, con- 
 nected with a ship — such as rowing, embarking, or 
 landing — he tells its story so fully that, if a painter 
 would represent the whole, he must divide it into 
 five or six pictures. "When the poet would give us 
 a notion of Agamemnon's dress, he makes the king 
 clothe himself, putting on one g'arment after another 
 and, at last, grasping his sceptre. And how is the 
 sceptre introduced? — Does Homer try to paint, in 
 words, its golden studs and its carvings? No; he 
 gives its history, and tells us how it first came 
 from the forge of Vulcan; how it then shone in 
 the hand of Zeus, and was handed down by Hermes 
 to the warlike Pelops, and so, at last, came into 
 the possession of Atreus, the shepherd of his 
 people'. 
 
io 4 LESSING. 
 
 Such notes as the above, may indicate the cha- 
 racter of Lessing's theory of epic poetry. His con- 
 tributions to the criticism of the drama are not less 
 valuable. In his Dramaturgic (1767 — 68) he exposes 
 the errors of theorists who misconceived Aristotle's 
 doctrine of the three unities. He shows that the 
 unities of time and place were not always observed 
 by the best Greek dramatists, while he establishes 
 his own doctrines on the authority of Aristotle and 
 on examples taken from the Greek dramatists, and 
 from Shakspere and Calderon. He denounces imi- 
 tations of French models; but by no means speaks 
 altogether contemptuously of the French theatre. 
 Its best writers might have attained the highest 
 honours in tragedy, he says, if they had not regarded 
 them as already attained. Of French comedy Lessi'ng 
 writes with a full appreciation of its excellence. 
 
 These outlines give no adequate notion of the 
 grasp of thought, the wide research and the exten- 
 sive reading found in the works on which Lessing's 
 reputation is founded. An attempt to describe all 
 the effects of his critical writings, including the 
 Liter aturbriefe (1759—66), would lead us through a 
 considerable period in literary history. But one 
 characteristic of his writings should be noticed. In 
 all the work that seemed negative, his chief purpose 
 was to build or, at least, to prepare the ground for 
 future architects. If he wrote with scorn of many 
 feeble attempts in poetry, he called the attention of 
 readers to the surpassing genius of Shakspere, and 
 
LESSING. 105 
 
 while he denounced slavish imitation, he demanded a 
 profound respect for the great works of antiquity. 
 
 Was Lessing a poet? — If we reply, that 'he was 
 not a poet in the highest sense of the word', we 
 have his own authority to support our judgment. 
 But we would rather say, that such poetic power as 
 he possessed was depressed by the extreme culture 
 of a critical intellect. Lessing excelled in clear ana- 
 lysis. The highest poetry tells of a conciliation and 
 union that can never be explored by science. True 
 poetry knows nothing of such dry and dead abstrac- 
 tions as 'the subjective' and 'objective'; 'the finite' 
 and 'the infinite'; 'the spiritual' and 'the material'. 
 In all the highest or purest poetry we find, either 
 expressed or implied, a union of the world of thought 
 with the world of the senses. Outward things are 
 all words inspired by one all-pervading Spirit, and 
 all nature lives, thinks and feels with us. Stars, 
 rivers, flowers, trees — nay, even rocks and old, stony 
 ruins — are our friends, and have thoughts and feel- 
 ings which they reveal to the Poet in his inspired 
 moments. This is Poetry in the most exclusive and 
 definite sense of the word. 'Its antithesis' (as Words- 
 worth says) 'is not prose, but science'. It is hardly 
 necessary to add, that a great part of all the litera- 
 ture commonly included under the name 'poetry' 
 would be excluded by the closer definition of the 
 term; for even the greatest poets write, only here and 
 there, in their highest vein of inspiration, while some 
 parts of their works are made attractive by wit 
 
106 LESSING. 
 
 good sense, a clear and musical style, and other 
 qualities found in authors not commonly called poets. 
 In a word, the close definition that would exclude 
 Lessing from the list of poets would also exclude a 
 majority of all writers in verse. Whatever his poetic 
 power might be, it was suppressed or held in sub- 
 ordination by the superior development of his critical 
 intellect, and by his earnest didactic purpose. 
 His drama 'Nathan' affords the best proof of this 
 assertion. His own artistic judgment, if it had not 
 been controlled by an earnest wish to teach, would 
 not have commended such a prevalence of the didac- 
 tic element as we find in his drama, 'Nathan the 
 Wise' (i77gtr). It is, in fact, a plea for religious tole- 
 ration; but not for indifference. 
 
 The three leading characters — Nathan, an Israelite, 
 Saladin and a Templar — are bound together by the 
 ties of friendship. The whole purport of the drama is 
 given in the story of 'The Three Rings', of which 
 the following is a translation: — 
 
 THE THREE RINGS. 
 
 Nathan. In the oldest times, and in an eastern land, 
 There lived a man who had a precious ring. 
 This gem — an opal of a hundred tints — 
 Had such a virtue as would make the wearer, 
 Who trusted it, beloved by God and man. 
 What wonder if the man who had this ring 
 Preserved it well, and, by his will, declared 
 It should for ever in his house remain? 
 
LESSING. 107 
 
 At last, when death came near, he called the son 
 Whom he loved best, and gave to him the ring, 
 "With one strict charge: — 'my son, when you must die, 
 Let this be given to your own darling child — 
 The son whom you love best — without regard 
 To any rights of birth.' — 'Twas thus the ring 
 Was always passed on to the best-beloved. 
 Sultaun! you understand me? 
 Saladin. Yea. Go on! 
 
 Nathan. A father, who at last possessed this ring 
 Had three dear sons — all dutiful and true — 
 All three alike beloved. But, at one time, 
 This son, and then another, seemed most dear, 
 Most worthy of the ring; and it was given, 
 By promise, first to this son, then to that, 
 Until it might be claimed by all the three. 
 At last, when death drew nigh, the father felt 
 His heart distracted by the doubt to whom 
 The ring was due. He could not favour one 
 And leave two sons in grief! How did he act ? 
 He called a goldsmith in, gave him the gem, 
 And bade him make exactly of that form, 
 Two other rings, and spare nor cost nor pains 
 To make all three alike. And this was done 
 So well, the owner of the first, true ring 
 Could find no shade of difference in the three. 
 And now he called his sons — one at a time — 
 He gave to each a blessing and a ring — 
 One of the three — and died — 
 
 Saladin. Well, well. Go on. 
 
 Nathan. My tale is ended.' You may guess the sequel: — 
 The father dies; immediately each son 
 Comes forward with his ring, and asks to be 
 Proclaimed as head and ruler of the house; 
 All three assert one claim, and show their rings — 
 
 14* 
 
io8 LESSING. 
 
 All made alike. To find the first, true ring 
 It was as great a puzzle as for us 
 To find the one true faith. 
 
 Saladin. Is that, then, all the answer I must have? 
 
 Nathan. 'Tis my apology, if I decline 
 
 To act as judge, or to select the ring, 
 
 The one, true gem, of three all made alike; 
 
 All given by one — 
 
 Saladin. There! talk no more of 'rings.' 
 
 The three religions that, at first, were named 
 Are all distinct — aye, down to dress, food, drink — 
 
 Nathan. Just so ! and yet their claims are all alike, 
 As founded upon history, on facts 
 Believed, and handed down from sire to son, 
 Uniting them in faith. Can we, the Jews, 
 Distrust the testimony of our race ? 
 Distrust the men who gave us birth, whose love 
 Did ne'er deceive us; but, when we where babes, 
 Taught us, by means of fables, for our good? 
 Must you distrust your own true ancestors, 
 To flatter mine ? or must a Christian doubt 
 His father's words, and so agree with ours? — 
 
 Saladin. Allah! — the Israelite is speaking truth, 
 And I am silenced — 
 
 Nathan. Let me name the rings 
 
 Once more! — The sons at last, in bitter strife, 
 Appeared before a judge, and each declared 
 He had the one true gem, given by his father; 
 All said the same, and all three spoke the truth; 
 Each, rather than suspect his father's word, 
 Accused his brethren of a fraud — 
 
 Saladin. What then? — 
 
 What sentence could the judge pronounce? — Go on. 
 
LESSING. 109 
 
 Nathan, Thus said the judge; — 'go, bring your father here; 
 Let him come forth! or I dismiss the case. 
 Must I sit guessing riddles! — must I wait 
 Till the true ring shall speak out for itself? — 
 But stay! — 'twas said that the authentic gem 
 Had virtue that could make its wearer loved 
 By God and man. That shall decide the case. 
 Tell me who of the three is best beloved 
 By his two brethren. Silent? — Then the ring 
 Hath lost its charm!— Each claimant loves himself, 
 But wins no love. The rings are forgeries; 
 'Tis plain, the first, authentic gem was lost; 
 To keep his word with you, and hide his loss, 
 Your father had these three rings made — these three, 
 Instead of one — ' 
 
 Saladin. "Well spoken, judge, at last! 
 
 Nathan. 'But stay,' the judge continued; — 'hear one word — 
 The best advice I have to give; then go. 
 Let each still trust the ring given by his father! — 
 It might be, he would show no partial love; 
 He loved all three, and, therefore, would not give 
 The ring to one and grieve the other two. 
 Go, emulate your father's equal love. 
 Let each first test his ring and show its power; 
 But aid it, while you test; be merciful, 
 Forbearing, kind to all men, and submit 
 Your will to God. Such virtues shall increase 
 Whatever powers the rings themselves may have. 
 When these, among your late posterity, 
 Have shown their virtue — in some future time, 
 A thousand thousand years away from now — 
 Then hither come again! — A wiser man 
 Than one now sitting here will hear you then, 
 And will pronounce the sentence — ' 
 
 Saladin. Allah! Allah! 
 
no 
 
 LESSING. 
 
 Nathan. Now, Saladin, art thou that 'wiser man?' 
 
 Art thou the judge who will, at last, pronounce 
 The sentence? — 
 
 (Saladin grasps Nathan's hand, and holds it to the end of 
 the conversation.) 
 
 Saladin. I the judge? — I'm dust! I'm nothing! 
 
 'Tis Allah! —Nathan, now I understand; 
 The thousand thousand years have not yet passed; 
 The Judge is not yet come. I must not place 
 Myself upon His throne! 
 
Herder. 
 
iiilL 
 
 _xi 
 
 I 
 

 ERDEHJ 
 
 In the days when Herder was young, literary men 
 (especially those who cared for poetry) belonged 
 mostly to two schools — the broad and the narrow. 
 Nicolai, the critic and bookseller at Berlin, represents 
 the latter school; Herder the former. To the notions 
 of Nicolai and some of his friends the collective name 
 literary rationalism' has been applied. The term 
 is rather vague; but it indicates truly the fact, that 
 the tendency called 'rationalism', with regard to 
 religion, was also closely connected with general 
 literature, at the time when Herder first appeared 
 as a critic, or rather as an enthusiastic lover of 
 poetry. 
 
 There was nothing original in the earlier Ger- 
 man Rationalism. At first borrowed from Locke, 
 Shaftesbury, Hume, Voltaire and other foreign 
 
 i5 
 
it4 HERDER. 
 
 authors, it gained prestige at the court of Berlin; 
 other courts imitated Berlin, and from courts the 
 'new light' spread among the middle classes, including 
 many of the Lutheran clergy. Afterwards, Berlin still 
 remained the centre of 'enlightenment', and its chief 
 representative was Nicolai. It was to him that Lessing 
 once addressed a note containing these words: — 'All 
 the liberty you have at Berlin is to send to the market 
 your stupid jokes against religion'. 'The literary 
 rationalism' of the time prescribed narrow and 
 dogmatic rules of criticism, and was generally 
 negative and exclusive. Old German poetry of the 
 Hohenstaufen Time, Shakspere's dramas and Percy's 
 'Reliques of Ancient English Poetry' were all alike 
 condemned. Nicolai and his friends had some ap- 
 preciation of wit and comic humour and could admire 
 a satirical fable; but they maintained that poetry 
 (like religion) must be judged by the newly-discovered 
 criterion, 'common-sense'; everything that could not 
 be understood as readily as 'that 2 + 2 = 4' must be 
 denounced as superstition; morals may be taught in 
 verse, and poetry may do the work of catechisms; 
 but all expressions of faith, feeling or thought, 
 transcending Nicolai's own faculty of 'common-sense' 
 must be condemned as dreamery or nonsense. Against 
 all such rules as these, Herder was (next to Hamann) 
 the arch-rebel of the period. He was the head-master 
 of the broad school, and it is hardly too much to 
 say that he gave a new inspiration to German poetry 
 and philosophy. He did not lay down any precise 
 
HERDER. 115 
 
 rules; but he widened the boundaries of study and 
 communicated to others his own enthusiasm. 
 
 Johann Gottfried Herder, the son of a poor 
 schoolmaster, was born at Mohrungen, 25th. August 
 1744. After some time spent in the study of Surgery, 
 he went to Konigsberg (1762) where he studied 
 theology, heard Kant's lectures on philosophy, and 
 became acquainted with Hamann , who was one of 
 Kant's friends. 
 
 Of all the men whom the Berlin 'men of light' 
 called dreamers, mystics and hypocrites, Johann 
 Georg Hamann was the chief. His errors, as con- 
 trasted with the light of the period, were dark as 
 midnight. He still 'believed in a divine revelation', 
 and appealed, for proof of his belief, to his own 
 conscience and experience. He had been, as he 
 confessed, a sinner in his youth, and, when reduced 
 to extreme desperation (in London), had been saved, 
 as he declared, by reading the bible. He refused to 
 sacrifice feelings or even old traditions to hard logic, 
 cared little for either mental or moral philosophy, 
 and thought it a sad mistake to put any intellectual 
 theory in the place of faith. Lastly, he talked of 
 poetry as a kind of revelation far above all reason- 
 ings. This bold dogma was accepted by Herder; 
 but he, by no means, embraced the whole of the 
 creed asserted by Hamann, who went as far towards 
 the East as Nicolai went towards the West. In his 
 earlier life, Hamann, while engaged as the agent of 
 a commercial firm, had neglected his duties and 
 
 15* 
 
n6 HERDER. 
 
 involved himself in debt. His efforts to extricate 
 himself seemed deficient in energy, and Kant, as a 
 friend, wrote a mild letter of reproof. The reply 
 was odd and characteristic. The friendly tone of 
 Kant's letter was acknowledged, while the advice 
 given by one who was 'only a philosopher and a 
 moralist' was repelled. T am glad, however', said 
 Hamann, 'that my sins have led you thus to address 
 me; for I entertain a hope that your correspondence 
 with the sinner may end in your conversion to 
 Christianity'. 
 
 The notions derived by Herder ' from his inter- 
 course with Hamann led to a new theory of poetry. 
 The theory might seem vague as a whole, but in- 
 cluded such principles as these: — that poetic genius 
 must not be confined by any laws made by a small 
 critic like Nicolai; that imagination and feeling had 
 their rights, not to be suppressed by the newly- 
 deified 'reason' of the period; that religion and 
 poetry were closely allied, and, lastly, that true 
 inspiration might be found in the best of those 
 unstudied productions which Herder called 'the 
 people's songs of many lands'. On this last topic 
 the difference existing between the broad and the 
 narrow school was extreme. Herder devoted his 
 studies to the popular German poetry of the fifteenth 
 and sixteenth centuries, and to Percy's 'Reliques of 
 Ancient English Poetry', and then went on to collect 
 specimens of 'the people's songs' of all nations. To 
 cast ridicule on this new enthusiasm, Nicolai published, 
 
HERDER. 
 
 "7 
 
 in two small volumes, a collection of old 'people's 
 songs', with a burlesque title, made still more ridi- 
 culous by its antiquated spelling: — 'A fine little 
 Almanack, full of fine, genuine, and amusing people's 
 songs, merry ballads and doleful murder- stories, as 
 sung by Gabriel Wunderlich, for some time ballad- 
 singer at Dessaw, and edited by Daniel Seuberlich, 
 cobbler at Riszwuck on the Elbe. Published by 
 Friedrich Nicolai; Berlynn and Stettynn. (1777 — 78.)' 
 During the years 1764 — 69, Herder was engaged 
 as a teacher and preacher at Riga and travelled for 
 some time in France and Germany. In 1770 he went 
 to Strassburg and became acquainted with Goethe, 
 who was there concluding his studies in law. Of this 
 early friendship of Herder and Goethe the latter 
 gives a pleasant account in his ' Dichtung und 
 Wahrheit'. Here we find the most teachable young 
 poet of the day receiving instruction from one whose 
 genius is receptive rather than creative. The teacher 
 is a man with rounded features, dark eyes, and a 
 mouth of pleasant expression when he smiles. He 
 would be, on the whole, good-looking, but is suffer- 
 ing from a fistula in one of his eyes, for which he 
 is expecting to undergo an operation. He wears a 
 clerical dress, and too often speaks in the dictatorial 
 tone of a schoolmaster. He has had a hard struggle 
 with straitened circumstances and has been engaged 
 as a schoolmaster and a preacher; but his favourite 
 studies are poetry, literary history, and the history 
 of culture. It is one of his characteristics that, in 
 
n8 IJERDER. 
 
 his earnestness, he assumes an oracular tone which 
 he does not put aside, though talking now to no 
 ordinary student, but to young Goethe, one of the 
 original geniuses of the age. What is there that 
 the pupil has not studied? Besides Latin and Greek, 
 he reads French, knows something of Hebrew, and 
 has read books on pietism, mysticism, chemistry, 
 alchemy and the fine arts. Not long ago, he injured 
 his health by his efforts to master the art of etching 
 on copper. His genius requires concentration, but 
 Herder advises him to devote himself to the study 
 of the popular poetry of all nations! 'What we 
 want', says Herder, 'is a poetry in harmony with 
 'the voices of all the peoples" and with the whole 
 heart of mankind. Our studies must be cosmopolitan 
 and must include the popular poetry of the Hebrews 
 the Arabs, the mediaeval Franks, Germans, Italians 
 and Spaniards, and even the songs and ballads of 
 half savage races. We must go back to the earliest 
 times to educate ourselves, so that we may write 
 poetry, not for a school, nor for a certain period, 
 but for all men and for all time'. — Such teaching is 
 rather vague, though Goethe listens to it with deep 
 interest; but when he asks for clear details he is not 
 satisfied. Herder wishes to stimulate rather than to 
 instruct his pupil. Several of Hamann's tracts; 
 dingily printed on bad paper, are lying on the table; 
 they have odd titles, such as Aesthetica in Nuce (1762), 
 and the Socratic Memorabilia (1759). When Goethe 
 has opened one of these tracts, and has tried to 
 
HERDER. 119 
 
 read it, he finds something that attracts attention, 
 but he cannot understand it, and begs his friend to 
 act as interpreter. Herder only laughs and says: — 
 'you must read on, and you will come at last 
 to the meaning'. 
 
 There can be no doubt that Goethe was aided 
 by Herder's lessons, however rhapsodical the style 
 might be. In the course of a few years, the pupil 
 had an opportunity of showing his respect for his 
 teacher. Herder, after leaving Strassburg, was for 
 some time engaged as a chaplain at Biickeburg, and 
 then went to Gottingen, where he hoped to gain a 
 professorship. He soon obtained a more favourable 
 position (1776), when he was recommended by Goethe, 
 and received from Karl August of Saxe-Weimar an 
 appointment as chaplain to the court and superintend- 
 ent of the church district of Weimar. During the 
 years 1776 — 1803, when Goethe and Herder were 
 neighbours, their friendship gradually declined. The 
 cause is generally ascribed to Herder's irritable 
 temper. It has been said, that he could not well 
 bear the presence of a superior, and that he never 
 laid aside entirely the schoolmaster's tone in which 
 he used to give lectures on poetry to his young 
 pupil at Strassburg. The publication of the 'Xenien' 
 widened the distance between the two authors, and 
 other causes conspired to keep them apart. When 
 Herder found, as he believed, a want of moral 
 earnestness in Goethe's works, he regarded them 
 with diminished admiration, while he could overlook 
 
120 HERDER. 
 
 all the faults of Jean Paul, with whose tendencies he 
 sympathized. 
 
 Herder's domestic life was, on the whole, happy, 
 though it was by no means a day without clouds 
 and changes of weather. These would be hardly 
 worth naming here, if they did not serve to in- 
 troduce an anecdote characteristic of the time when 
 a kind of worship was paid to literary men. Herder's 
 own wife, Caroline, was one of the most devoted 
 admirers of his genius, though her patience was now 
 and then tried by his temper. Sometimes, we are 
 told, a domestic storm would be followed by several 
 days of separation and dismal silence. Then Caroline 
 would enter Herder's study, take up one of his own 
 works and read effectively one of the best passages. 
 At the conclusion she would say: — 'the man who 
 wrote that is a divine genius, and whatever he has 
 said or done, he must be forgiven'. This per- 
 formance was, of course, soon followed by a perfect 
 reconciliation and days of household sunshine. 
 
 Extensive studies, the clerical duties belonging 
 to the offices of Superintendent and President of the 
 Consistory, and endeavours for the promotion of 
 education, supplied work for Herder during the later 
 years of his life. His aims were noble; but his 
 efforts were spread over a. field of study too exten- 
 sive to be well cultivated by one man. In contrast 
 with such an ideal as he held in view, he might 
 well regard his own life as a failure. His later 
 years were clouded with melancholy, and, after all 
 
HERDER. 121 
 
 his extensive studies and contributions to literature, 
 he often sighed, 'Ah, my wasted life'! When lying 
 on his death-bed, he said to his son: — 'Suggest some 
 great thought to stir my soul'. These words were 
 chosen as the motto of one of Jean Paul's ideal 
 stories. Herder died in 1803. A tablet sacred to 
 his memory had for an inscription the three words: — 
 'Life, Light, Love'. They have a reference to a 
 few words in a parable written by Herder on the 
 creation of man: — 'then Life animated the dust; 
 Lig-ht beamed on the human face divine, and Love 
 chose his heart for her still home'. 
 
 Herder's writings in prose treat mostly of the 
 subjects: — literary history and criticism, education, 
 theology, and the philosophy of history. In the 
 'Ideas for a Philosophy of the History of Mankind' 
 (1784' — 91) he suggested the aims and gave the out- 
 lines of that comprehensive study. The work con- 
 tains many important thoughts and some fine, 
 enthusiastic passages, written in a style that may be 
 defined as half prose, half poetry. Like other writers 
 (including Comte) who have treated of the same vast 
 theme, Herder maintains that the first form in which 
 philosophy, or a general theory of life, appeared, was 
 religion; but he does not (like some later authors) go 
 on to talk of an extinction of religion as a necessary 
 result of 'evolution'. On the contrary, he predicts 
 that religion will be the final form to which philo- 
 sophy will be reduced. One of the writer's aims is 
 to induce from the theory of evolution an argument 
 
 16 
 
i22 HERDER. 
 
 in favour of the soul's immortality. We may name 
 here, as one of the best and clearest specimens of 
 Herder's style, an essay on the theme: — 'Our 
 most refined are our most enduring pleasures'. 
 
 Of the sermons written by Herder the few that 
 have been published are plain and practical. The 
 author here wins our respect by making literary 
 decoration subordinate to his earnest desire to teach. 
 His writings on Education (or the Science of Didac- 
 tics) deserve the same praise. In his school-lectures, 
 collected under the title 'Sophron', he points to a 
 solution of our present educational problem, 'the 
 conflict of studies'. The solution may be found, as 
 the author suggests, when we care more for the 
 educative quality than for the quantity of instruction. 
 We may trace Herder's influence in some of the 
 best of recent books on the science of education. 
 
 Herder's most important poetical work is 'the 
 Voices of the Peoples' (1778), a series of free trans- 
 lations of popular songs and ballads, including 
 specimens culled from the North, the North- West 
 and the South of Europe, with old German and 
 Scandinavian songs, and some examples of poetry 
 found among half-savage tribes. This work, of 
 which the tendency was directly opposed to that of 
 Nicolai's 'fey net, kleyner Almanack', served to awaken 
 a cosmopolitan taste in imaginative literature. This 
 tendency was developed by the brothers Schlegel 
 and other scholars, and is still one of the chief 
 intellectual characteristics of the German people. 
 
HERDER. 123 
 
 Herder was the herald of that 'World's Literature' 
 of which Goethe hailed the advent. 'National litera- 
 ture', said he, is of little importance; for the age of 
 a world-literature is at hand, and every one ought 
 to work to accelerate the coming of this new era'. 
 Another contribution to the study of 'the world's 
 literature', is found in Herder's book on 'the Spirit 
 of Hebrew Poetry' (1782). It called the attention of 
 readers to this remarkable fact — that, on account of 
 its connection with theology, the sublime and marvel- 
 lous poetry of the Hebrew people had been less 
 estimated as poetry than it might have been, if 
 studied apart from any theory of inspiration. In the 
 above-named, and in several other works, having 
 the same general purpose, Herder suggested a new 
 and genial treatment of literary history as closely 
 united with the history of culture. The idea, which 
 has been ably developed by the brothers Schlegel 
 and later writers, was first introduced by Herder. 
 This was, indeed, his great work. He gave to Ger- 
 man literature its tendency towards universality. 
 
 To estimate the importance of such a work, with 
 regard, not only to poetry but also to the interests of 
 civilization, would be a task far exceeding our limits. 
 It may, however, be noticed, that Herder's idea has 
 greatly widened our notion of writing history, especi- 
 ally universal history. Tales of dull politics and battles 
 will not now suffice as substitutes for a story of the 
 world's life. Instead of pragmatic historians, we want 
 men who will forget themselves, live in the spirit of 
 
 16* 
 
i2 4 HERDER. 
 
 the periods they attempt to describe, and then call back 
 again to life the ages that have passed away. There 
 is a moral interest in this new direction given to 
 historical studies, for it may tend towards the pro- 
 motion of peace. The most quarrelsome times and 
 peoples have been such as have had the least know- 
 ledge of, the least sympathy with, other ages and 
 nations. 
 
 Herder's original poems are less important than 
 the free versions of poetry already described. Among 
 these 'the Cid' (or the Champion), which makes the 
 nearest approach to originality, is a cycle of ballads 
 telling the adventures of the Spanish hero Rodrigo 
 Diaz. To this well-known poem the vignette pre- 
 fixed to our chapter refers. Several 'myths' and 
 'parables' show Herder's love of allegory and his 
 desire to unite poetry with ethical teaching. One 
 of the shortest may here be given, as a specimen 
 of the style already described as a mixture of prose 
 and poetry: — 
 
 THE CHILD OF MERCY. 
 
 When the Almighty would create man, He called together 
 before his throne a council of the highest angels. 
 
 'Create him not'! — So spoke the Angel of Justice: — 'he will be 
 unjust towards men, his brethren; he will be hard and cruel in his 
 treatment of those who are weaker than himself. 
 
 'Create him not'! said the Angel of Peace: — 'He will saturate 
 the earth with human blood. The first-born of the race will slay 
 his brother'. 
 
 'Thou mayst create him after thine own likeness, and stamp on 
 
HERDER. 125 
 
 Ms countenance the impress of truth; yet he will desecrate with 
 falsehood even thine own Sanctuary'. — So said the Angel of Truth. 
 
 And they would have said more. But Mercy, the youngest and 
 dearest child of the Eternal Father, stepped to the throne and 
 kneeled before him. 
 
 'Create him'! she prayed: — 'create him in thine own image, and 
 as the favoured object of thy benevolence. When all others, thy 
 ministers, forsake him, I will still be with him, will lovingly aid 
 him , and make even his errors conduce to his amelioration. I will 
 touch his heart with pity, and make him merciful to others weaker 
 than himself. When he goes astray from the way of truth and 
 peace, when he transgresses the laws of justice and equity, the 
 results of his own errors shall lead him back to the right path, and 
 forgiving love shall convert him'. 
 
 Then the Father of Men created Man . . . 
 
 Remember thy origin, O Man! when thou art hard and unmerci- 
 ful. Of all God's attributes , it was Mercy that called thee into 
 existence. And still, for life and all that life includes, thou art 
 indebted to the love and pity that clasps the infant to the mother's 
 bosom. 
 
 The world will not hear of 'potential great men' 
 — men who 'might have been great painters or great 
 poets'. Yet we are tempted to think that Coleridge, 
 if he had not been buried in metaphysics, might 
 have written a finer poem than 'Christabel'. And 
 it seems probable that, if Herder's mind had been 
 less comprehensive, his genius might have been 
 more creative. But, whatever his rank may be, 
 when he is distinctly estimated as a critic, or as a 
 poet, or as a writer on the philosophy of history, it 
 may be safely asserted, that in the general aim of 
 all his life's work, he looked farther on and higher 
 than all the poets and other literary men who were 
 
126 HERDER. 
 
 his neighbours at Weimar. For what was that aim? 
 — Nothing less or lower than a union of practical 
 life with the highest culture and with religion. The 
 general purport of his writings on history, education 
 and religion cannot be given in a few precise dog- 
 mas, but serves to suggest such questions as these: — 
 'What is the use of an education that does not grasp 
 the whole man? What is the worth of our civilization 
 without a higher culture founded on religion? And 
 what is the worth of religion, if it has not power 
 to subdue this great, real world around us; power 
 to permeate and transmute into a nobler form our 
 common, practical, every day existence'? — The souls 
 of other men have been stirred by these great 
 thoughts; but they especially belong to Johanx 
 Gottfried Herder. 
 
Goethe. 
 
Vjoethe lived so long that he was acquainted with the 
 men of three generations. He began his studies in the 
 time of the Seven Years' War; he was writing his auto- 
 biography during the War of Liberation, and was study- 
 ing zoology when the July revolution took place. It is 
 obvious that here can be given only the outlines of a 
 life as remarkable for productiveness as for duration. 
 Johann Wolfgang Goethe, the son of parents 
 who belonged to the wealthy section of the middle 
 class, was born at Frankfurt am Main, 28th. August 
 1749. All the domestic circumstances in which he 
 passed his time of boyhood were happy, and his 
 mother was a very cheerful and genial woman. His 
 visits to the theatre and his intercourse with French 
 officers (during the occupation of Frankfurt) were 
 circumstances of some importance in his early edu- 
 
 17 
 
i30- GOETHE. 
 
 cation. When sixteen years old, he went to study- 
 law at Leipzig, but paid more attention to poetry 
 than to law. He had written a poem ('on the 
 Descent of Christ into Hades') before he went to 
 Leipzig, and during his three years at the university 
 he wrote 'besides lyrical poems' two light dramatic 
 sketches ('A Lover's Humour' and 'the Accomplices'). 
 These, it is said, were anonymously published in 1769, 
 but no copies of that date ha,ve been found. In 1768 
 Goethe, in ill health, returned home, and in 1770 went 
 to Strassburg to complete his law-studies. Again, 
 however, these held but a subordinate place in his 
 estimation. His attention was partly occupied with 
 chemistry and anatomy, and he was led by Herder 
 to study the poetry found in the Old Testament, in 
 Homer and Shakspere, and in 'the people's songs' of 
 the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Such studies 
 served in later years to educate the poet and to 
 place him far above the young men of his time, who 
 were loudly hailing - a coming revolution in literature. 
 These were 'the original geniuses', otherwise called 
 the men of 'Sturm und Drang', and to their class 
 Goethe, for some time after 1770, still belonged. 
 Innovation had attacked morals, manners, and 
 religion, and had invaded the realm of imaginative 
 literature. It was decreed, that the poetry of the 
 past age must be cast aside as a worn-out sort of 
 manufacture. 'It was made, not inspired', said the 
 critics of the times, and their judgment was con- 
 firmed by Goethe. All the young men of genius 
 
GOETHE. 131 
 
 were agreed, that what was now wanted was some- 
 thing new, wonderful, never dreamed of before in 
 the world! Such men as Lenz and Klinger under- 
 took to supply the poetry wanted for the future, 
 and wrote quite enough of it. Klinger wrote a wild 
 play called 'Sturm und Drang', and these two 
 words (meaning Storm and Pressure) were accepted 
 as the name of the period — also known as 'the time 
 of the original geniuses'. When they said that the 
 poetry of the old times 'was made, and not inspired', 
 they seemed to forget that their own was for the 
 most part neither inspired nor made. In several 
 instances their lives were as wild as their notions of 
 genius and poetry. 
 
 These young enthusiasts of the time were de- 
 lighted in 1773, when Goethe published his drama, 
 'Gotz von Berlichingen'. It realised the ideal 
 desiderated by 'the originals'. It was a national 
 drama, and the character of its hero was not too 
 remote from popular sympathies. The play was 
 written in defiance of the rules of the French drama, 
 and therefore was hailed by lovers of innovation. 
 On the other hand, Gotz gave offence to all admirers 
 of the French theatre, including the king, who spoke 
 of the new drama as 'une imitation detestable de ces 
 aboviinables pieces de Shakspeare\ A still greater 
 success followed the publication of the sentimental 
 romance, 'The Sorrows of Werther', in 1774. Some 
 parts of the work were founded on the writer's 
 experience, but were given in connection with 
 
 1 7 - 
 
i 3 2 GOETHE. 
 
 several fictitious circumstances. The public accepted 
 the story as a faithful biography, and, for a time, 
 the incidents were talked of as facts that had taken 
 place at Wetzlar. Travellers came to Wetzlar to 
 find some relics of the melancholy man who died for 
 love, and the landlord of an inn there raised a small 
 mound of earth in his garden, and, for a trifling 
 gratuity, exhibited it as 'the grave of the unfortu- 
 nate Werther'. All the blame of this extravagance 
 must not be 'cast on Goethe. His sentimental 
 romance was the effect of a literary epidemic, which 
 he afterwards treated with ridicule in his 'Triumph 
 of Sensibility'. In the years 1774 — 76, he wrote, 
 besides some parts of 'Faust' and 'Egmont,' several 
 satirical pieces, the plays 'Clavigo', 'Stella' and 
 'Claudine von Villa Bella,' and the operetta 'Erwin 
 and Elmire'. Meanwhile he found time to help his 
 friend Lavater in collecting portraits for his once- 
 famous and costly book on 'Physiognomy', and 
 made a tour on the Rhine. His associates on this 
 journey were Lavater, the mystic pietist, and Basedow, 
 the rationalist! Hamann and Nicolai should have 
 been with them; then the party would have been 
 complete as representative of a time when all sorts 
 of contradictions were thrown together. 'At an inn 
 at Coblenz', as Goethe tells, 'Lavater was busy in 
 explaining the apocalypse to a rural pastor, and 
 Basedow was attacking the orthodoxy of a dancing- 
 master', while the author of Gotz was quietly eating 
 a slice of salmon and a pullet. 
 
GOETHE. 133 
 
 'In 1775', as some authors have said, 'the youth- 
 ful period in Goethe's career was closed'. This 
 precise statement seems due to a love of systematic 
 writing; for it makes the poet's youth close with his 
 removal to Weimar. It is true, he was twenty-seven 
 years old when he received from the young prince 
 Karl August of Saxe-Weimar an invitation to his 
 court, and, soon afterwards, the poet was made a 
 member of the privy council; but at Weimar, in its 
 g-enial time, the cares of state were supposed to be 
 reconcileable with the playfulness of youth. For the 
 amateur theatre at Weimar, the poet wrote, not 
 only several slight dramatic pieces ('Lila', 'the Birds', 
 'Jery and Bately'), but also Tphigenia' in its first 
 form. It was acted in the duke's private theatre; 
 Goethe took the part of Orestes; Thoas and Pylades 
 were represented by von Knebel and Karl August; 
 a professional actress, Corona Schroter, took the 
 part of the heroine. The drama was greatly im- 
 proved and completely written in verse in 1786, when 
 Goethe was travelling in Italy. Apart from con- 
 siderations of popularity or fitness for theatrical 
 representation, Tphigenia' may be described as the 
 author's most artistic drama. All its parts are closely 
 united, its motives are clearly developed, and one 
 consistent tone of dignity and repose prevails from 
 the beginning to the end. But readers who expect 
 stirring incidents and loud passion in a play may 
 find the coldness of Greek sculpture, as well as its 
 repose, in this modern-antique drama. 
 
i 3 4 GOETHE. 
 
 Tphigenia' was followed by another drama, 
 'Tasso', at first written in prose (1780-81), and com- 
 pleted in iambic verse in 1789. Its general purport 
 was the extreme opposite of all that had been 
 believed in the wild days of 'Sturm und Drang', 
 'Tasso' represents the truth, that the highest genius 
 wants a moral as well as an intellectual education. 
 'A hundred times', says Goethe, 'I have heard 
 artists boast, that they owed everything to themselves, 
 and I have been often provoked to reply, "Yes, and 
 the result is just what might have been expected"'. 
 The central character of the drama, 'Tasso', represents 
 enthusiasm and genius, wanting education in the 
 highest sense of the word. The thoughts and 
 feelings of the poet take the place of external 
 incidents; in other words, the action of the drama is 
 intellectual and emotional. The three dramas — 
 'Egmont', Tphigenia' and 'Tasso' — were followed by 
 some inferior productions. In accordance with his 
 habit of putting into some form more or less 
 poetical all events that were parts of his own 
 experience, Goethe wrote several dramatic works 
 having reference to the political movements of the 
 age. In the Gross-Cophta (1789) he exposed the 
 corruption of the upper classes in France, and in the 
 'Citizen-General' (1793), he referred to the influence 
 of the French Revolution on men of weak and 
 imitative minds in Germany. An unfinished drama 
 entitled die Aufgeregten ('the Agitated', in a political 
 sense), published in 1793, expressed the writer's belief 
 
GOETHE. 135 
 
 that such an outburst of the lowest passions as had 
 occurred in Paris could never have been made possible 
 save by an extremely bad government. 'Eugenie', 
 or 'the Natural Daughter' (1801), a drama founded 
 on the memoirs of the princess Stephanie de Bourbon- 
 Conti, was intended to form the first part of a trilogy, 
 a circumstance that explains its slow progression and 
 want of dramatic effect. The whole design, of which 
 only a part was completed, would have included an 
 exposition of the writer's views of the Revolution. 
 To divert his attention from the miserable events of 
 the time, the poet, in 1793 and a part of the following 
 year, translated the old epic of 'Reynard the Fox'. 
 A work far greater in design and in power of 
 execution than any yet named appeared in 1790, when 
 'Faust' was published as 'a fragment'. There are 
 some poems that are as remarkable for the attractive 
 power of their subjects, as for their literary merits. 
 The master-thought of 'Prometheus Bound' might 
 have given success to a play written by a poet 
 inferior to ^Eschylus. Without a word to detract 
 from the poetic merits of Cervantes, it may be said 
 that the world-wide fame of his great romance is 
 partly owing to the happy choice of a subject. But 
 a theme of far wider and deeper interest — the myth 
 of Faust — haunted the mind of Goethe from youth 
 to old age. Had he treated the story with less 
 power, it might still have been successful; for, while 
 its form and many of its details are intensely German, 
 its interest is universal. It is founded on a fact — the 
 
136 GOETHE. 
 
 duality of human nature. 'Two souls', says Faust 
 'are striving in my breast; each from the other 
 longing - to be free'. In fact, 'the two souls' re- 
 presented in the play as Faust and his evil 'Com- 
 panion' (Mephistopheles) are one; but for poetic 
 purposes the light and the darkness are separated. 
 The mind that would liberate, refine, and even 
 consecrate nature is put apart from the brutal and 
 fiendish mind that would degrade and destroy nature, 
 and so we have on one side the man, Faust, and 
 on the other side the fiend, Mephistopheles. In the 
 exposition of the drama, Faust binds himself to his 
 own lower nature; in the development, he strives 
 more and more to liberate himself, and he at last 
 succeeds. As he rises towards freedom, the distance 
 between his own character and that of his 'Com- 
 panion' increases, until death makes the separation 
 perfect. On the other hand, the character of 
 Mephistopheles, as it is made more and more 
 distinct from that of Faust, becomes also more and 
 more darkly shaded. The fiend appears, at first, 
 as a cynical satirist, not without humour; but as the 
 story proceeds, he is described as a sorcerer and a 
 murderer. He is Satan, without any disguise, in the 
 midst of infernal revels on the Blocksberg, and, at 
 the close of the drama (the second part), his character 
 appears still worse, though this might seem impossible. 
 Faust, under the guidance of his 'Companion', is made 
 (but for a short time) to act as the slave of the 
 tempter, and it is contrived that, while in this mood, 
 
GOETHE. 137 
 
 he shall meet the heroine, Margaret, a representative 
 of nature herself in all her primeval innocence. Her 
 presence makes the contrast between Faust and his 
 bad 'attendant' more apparent. The latter becomes 
 more and more cynical. He has assumed the disguise 
 of a modern gentleman; but is detected at once by 
 his victim's intuition. A slight halt in the left foot 
 might be concealed, but his sneer betrays him to 
 Margaret's insight. She tells his character in a few 
 simple words: — 
 
 You see that he with no soul sympathizes; 
 'Tis written on his face — he never loved. . . . 
 Whenever he comes near, I cannot pray. 
 
 Faust, under the influence of these suggestions, 
 learns to abhor his evil genius, and, in a soliloquy, 
 expresses a longing to be freed from contact with 
 him: — 
 
 with this new joy that brings 
 Me near and nearer Heaven, was given to me 
 This man for my ' Companion ' ! — He degrades 
 My nature, and with cold and insolent breath 
 Turns Heaven's best gifts to mockeries! 
 
 Meanwhile, with a foreboding of coming sorrow, 
 Margaret, sitting alone at her spinning-wheel, is 
 singing— 
 
 My heart is heavy, my peace is o'er; 
 I shall find it never; oh never more! 
 
 Subsequent scenes in the drama blend together 
 the most discordant elements. The highest passion 
 
138 GOETHE. 
 
 and the lowest cynicism, ideal aspiration and the 
 coarsest materialism, mysticism and prosaic common- 
 place, ethereal, religious poetry, and profane cari- 
 cature: — all are strangely mingled. The highest 
 interest throughout belongs to the beautiful character 
 of Margaret. By the machinations of the demon, she 
 is surrounded with a cloud of guilt and disgrace. 
 Her mother, her brother, and lastly her own child 
 are destroyed, and of two of these crimes she has 
 been made an unconscious agent. Tormented by the 
 terrors of the guilt that belongs to others, she seeks 
 refuge in the cathedral, where she used to pray when 
 a child. There an Evil Spirit haunts her while the 
 tones of the organ and the choir, singing the Dies 
 irce, threaten condemnation: — 
 
 Evil Spirit. Ah, happier in her childhood's day, 
 Margaret in innocence would come to pray, 
 And, kneeling here, beside the altar-stairs, 
 With tiny book in hand, lisped out her prayers, 
 While thinking half of Heaven and half of play! 
 
 Would'st thou pray now for thine own mother's soul 
 Sent by thyself into her long, last sleep? 
 
 Margaret. Woe! Woe! 
 
 Were I but free 
 
 From these bad thoughts that follow me 
 And threaten me, where'er I go! 
 
 She is condemned to die. The sentence of death 
 has been passed upon her, when Faust comes, before 
 
GOETHE. 139 
 
 daybreak, to the prison, to snatch her away from 
 the sword of the executioner: — 
 
 Faust. 'Tis dawning, love! no tarrying; haste away! 
 
 Margaret. Yes, it grows light; it brings to me the day 
 That is to be my last! — and 'twas to be 
 The morning for my wedding! 
 
 Ah! see the crowd is gathering; but how still 
 The streets! the square! 
 
 It cannot hold the thousands that are there; 
 The bell is tolling; now they bind me fast, 
 They hurry me along; there shines the sword 
 To fall upon no neck but mine! — How dumb 
 All the world lies around me, like the grave! 
 
 Faust. Oh that I never had been born! 
 
 Mephistopheles. Away ! 
 You perish if you loiter now. See there! 
 My horses are shuddering in the chilly air; 
 The day is dawning — Come! 
 
 Margaret. What rises from the earth? — 'Tis he! 'Tis he! 
 How dares HE to come hither? — Drive him forth! 
 This is a sacred place; dares he to come 
 Hither for me? — 
 
 Faust. No; thou shalt live! 
 
 Margaret. Thou Judge of all! to Thee myself I give! 
 
 Mephistopheles. Come: or I leave you with her — 
 both to perish! 
 
 But this is a vain threat. The spirit who denies 
 and destroys has lost, for ever, his power over the 
 
i 4 o GOETHE. 
 
 soul of Margaret! — 'She is judged!' he exclaims, in 
 his fierce anger and disappointment ; but a voice from 
 above replies, 'she is saved'. 
 
 Our limits will not allow us to give more of 
 'Faust' than the central subject which gives meaning 
 and interest to all the wild diablerie found in other 
 scenes of this unique drama. Some passages were 
 written in 1774; others were added in 1777 — 80; the 
 first part was completed in 1806. The second, begun 
 in 1780, was completed in 1831, a few months before 
 the close of the poet's life. 
 
 During the years 1775 — 93, of which the literary- 
 work has been briefly noticed, Goethe had for some 
 time a considerable share in the cares of government, 
 and, in recognition of his services, he was raised to 
 the rank of nobility in 1782. After his return from 
 Italy (1788) his duties were made light, and he under- 
 took the superintendence of the theatre at Weimar 
 (1790). He accompanied the duke in the useless 
 campaign in France (1792), and was present at the 
 siege of Mayence in the following year. 
 
 In 1794 Goethe and Schiller were united by a 
 bond of friendship, which remained unbroken until 
 1805. Schiller came to Weimar in 1787, when 
 Goethe was travelling in Italy. In the following 
 year, Goethe gained for Schiller an appointment 
 (at first, without a salary) as professor of history at 
 Jena; but the two poets, though meeting now and 
 then at Jena, remained almost strangers to each 
 other until 1794, when Schiller started his literary 
 
GOETHE. 141 
 
 journal, 'die Horen', to which Goethe was a con- 
 tributor. In 1796 — 97 they were more closely allied 
 as writers of several series of epigrams, of which the 
 fourth — the 'Xenien' — was satirical, and some of the 
 best of Goethe's ballads appeared, about the same 
 time, in Schiller's new journal, the 'Musenalmanack' . 
 Meanwhile, the didactic romance, ' Wilhelm Meister's 
 Lehrjahre', was completed (1796). Its sequel, the 
 ' Wander jahre' , was one of the writer's latest works. 
 In 1798 the epic-idyll 'Hermann and Dorothea' 
 appeared. In this well-known poem a story of 
 domestic interest is united with events of national 
 importance. The characters are few and clearly 
 drawn, and one ruling thought, the triumph of love 
 and courage, is well developed. During the time 
 when Schiller's best plays were produced, Goethe 
 made no attempts in rivalry with his friend's 
 dramatic genius, but found amusement in translating 
 several French dramas by Voltaire and Diderot. 
 The death of Schiller in 1805 closed a friendship of 
 eleven years' duration— one of the most pleasing 
 episodes in the history of literature. 
 
 After Schiller's death, and in the time of national 
 gloom that followed 1806, Goethe, to beguile care, 
 wrote his autobiography and the ' Wahlverivandt- 
 schaften', a romance censured for its want of reserve 
 in describing the results of unhappy matrimony. 
 His own marriage (1806) afforded him no intellectual 
 companionship in his home. Some extreme represent- 
 ations have been made of the contrast there existing; 
 
i 4 2 GOETHE. 
 
 but they are not founded on any confessions made 
 by Goethe. After 1807 his connection with the 
 theatre was made a source of frequent annoyances; 
 but these might well seem trifles in such a time of 
 national degradation. For these were the days when 
 (if Falk's story may be received) Goethe wept with 
 indignation and talked of wandering 'as a ballad- 
 singer' about the land to complain of wrongs endured 
 by his friend, the duke. Other accounts ascribe to 
 him a want of sympathy with the political movement 
 of the time, and describe him as feeling himself 
 greatly honoured (1808) when he had an interview 
 with Napoleon. The poet might, however, without 
 any slavish feeling, treat with respect an able military 
 man, whom circumstances had then made (as Hegel 
 said) 'the centre of the political world'. A want of 
 recognizing merit in others is no sign of greatness. 
 
 In 1816 Goethe was left in domestic loneliness by 
 the death of his wife. His connection with the 
 theatre came to an end in the following year, when 
 it was proposed to introduce on the stage, at Weimar, 
 a very popular melodrama ('the Dog of Aubry') in 
 which a well -trained poodle had the chief part. 
 Goethe, as superintendent of the theatre, would not 
 give his consent to the proposed innovation, and 
 he was therefore compelled to resign his office! 
 During the years 1808 — 16, he published, besides some 
 additions to 'Faust' (1806), several contributions to 
 science, art and archaeology, and some stories, which 
 were afterwards inserted in the ' Wander jahrc\ The 
 
GOETHE. 143 
 
 results of his studies in osteology and the morpho- 
 logy of plants have been accepted as valuable; but 
 his 'Doctrine of Colours', has been generally rejected 
 by mathematical writers on optics. The 'West-East 
 Divan,' a series of poems introducing Oriental forms 
 of expression, was suggested by studies of Persian 
 poetry. 
 
 Two of Goethe's works, the second part of 
 'Faust' and the ' Wanderjahre' (as reconstructed in 
 1829), supplied literary occupation for his advanced 
 age. Of the former, several parts must still be 
 described as riddles that wait for a solution; but 
 one part is clear. Faust devotes himself to work 
 inspired by benevolence, and thus finally escapes 
 from his evil genius. A king whom Faust has 
 served gives him for his reward a wide waste of 
 land on the sea-shore, which he resolves to save from 
 devastation and to enrich with cultivation. It is not 
 for the sake of ambition or luxury, but for the victory 
 of industry that he labours on. In extreme old age, 
 he battles with the rude elements of nature to the 
 last, and then enjoys, in dying, a vision of future 
 results. In the more remarkable parts of the 
 Wanderjahre ('Years of Travel') we find anticipated 
 some of the social questions of the present times, 
 and their solution is described as taking place in an 
 imaginary Utopia planned by the author. Here 
 labour is educated and organized, and old guild-laws 
 for apprentices, journeymen and masters are revived, 
 with some modifications. Education is made physical 
 
i 4 4 GOETHE. 
 
 and industrial, as well as mental and religious, and 
 is founded on 'the three reverences'. The first has 
 for its object the supernatural world; the second, we 
 are told, finds expression in social relationships; the 
 last reverence in the presence of humiliation and 
 suffering is specially called 'the Christian Religion 
 which can never cease to exist'. These words and 
 others more remarkable on the same subject are 
 ascribed to one of the teachers in the educational 
 Utopia planned by Goethe. 
 
 The lyrical poetry written in the time of the 
 poet's old age has mostly a didactic tendency, and 
 sometimes reminds us that 'the night cometh when 
 no man can work'. But the poet still recommends 
 the culture of art, and his motto is 'remember to 
 live', even when his topics are mutability and death. 
 His age was, on the whole, genial and cheerful; but 
 a shade was cast over his thoughts in 1828, when his 
 friend Karl August died, and again in 1830, when 
 the poet's only son August (born 1789) died in Italy. 
 Not long before his own death, Goethe, by a visit 
 to Jena and its neighbourhood, recalled to memory 
 some of the most pleasing associations of his life. 
 He ascended the heights near Jena and thence looked 
 forth into the free expanse of heaven; then down 
 on the well -loved landscape. Of all the friends 
 whom, in his youth, he had known in the valleys 
 of the Ilm and the Saale, how few were still living! 
 Of friends who were older than himself only one — 
 Ludwig von Knebel, by whom the poet was intro- 
 
GOETHE. 145 
 
 duced to Karl August in 1774. 'I feel well here', 
 said Goethe, while resting on the height, and he 
 added — forgetting he was nearly eighty years old — 
 'we will often come up here again'! But that 
 promise was not fulfilled. Goethe died, at noon, 
 22nd. March, 1832. 
 
 No attempt can be made within our limits to 
 estimate all the literary work of the life thus briefly 
 described. Goethe wrote, in verse, lyric, epic and 
 dramatic poetry; in prose, novels and romances, 
 biography, criticism and contributions to science. 
 His extensive correspondence (with Schiller, Zelter, 
 Knebel, Jacobi, the Countess Auguste zu Stolberg, 
 Frau von Stein, and others) will supply abundant 
 materials for some future biographer. At some 
 future time, a life of Goethe may be written, so 
 complete as to be unique. But, first of all, the 
 documents already collected must be carefully in- 
 vestigated. Clearer light must be cast on several 
 parts of the history, including such romantic episodes 
 as are indicated by the names 'Lotte', 'Lili', 'Bettina' 
 and others. Already, this has been partly done. 
 No personal accusation is now suggested by the 
 first name, and it is clear that the poet was not 
 responsible for the odd romance invented by Bettina. 
 Still some problems remain unsolved. The attach- 
 ment to 'Lili', for example, has been described as 
 a poet's dream; yet it is said to have been, on 
 both sides, true and honourable. The brief epi- 
 sode of 'Friederike Brion zu Sesenheim' is one of 
 
146 GOETHE. 
 
 the most interesting passages in the poet's auto- 
 biography. 
 
 In several respects, Goethe left far behind him 
 traits belonging to the time of his earlier poetic 
 education; but he never forgot all the tendencies of 
 that age. He could not sympathize with the revolu- 
 tionary tone then prevalent in politics; but, with 
 regard to a reconstruction of society, he retained 
 some notions, at least vaguely like those professed 
 by the Illuminati and other unions in the eighteenth 
 century. He became a member of the order of 
 Freemasons (1780), and in several of his writings he 
 introduced the notion of spreading a new culture by 
 means of select unions or brotherhoods. The question 
 of Goethe's religious views is too extensive to be 
 treated here. It may be noticed, however, that in 
 his youth he was surrounded by the representatives 
 of rationalism, pietism and mysticism. If we accept 
 as his own the teaching of 'the Three Interpre- 
 ters' in the ' Wander jahre' , a declaration of his 
 religious doctrine may be found in that work 
 (book II. c. 1, 2). One trait in the sensational 
 poetry of 'the Sturm -und- Drang time' — its want 
 of reserve and refinement — may be found here and 
 there in Goethe's works. His taste for diablerie 
 may also be partly ascribed to early studies; but 
 his love of writing under a veil of mystery must 
 be called his own. It is found in his poem 'the 
 Mysteries' (1785) as well as in his latest work, the 
 second part of 'Faust'. 
 
GOETHE. 147 
 
 It must suffice here to refer briefly to differences 
 of critical opinions respecting" the merits of several 
 of Goethe's numerous writings. All critics speak as 
 with one voice when they would describe the beauty 
 of his lyrical poetry. It is natural, ideal and indivi- 
 dual, and in expression so perfect, that its native 
 beauty can hardly be reproduced in translation. For 
 a perfect version must precisely give the meaning, 
 with closely imitative metre and rhymes, and must 
 read as an original poem. The following selections 
 may serve to indicate, even within our narrow limits, 
 the variety found in Goethe's poetry. 
 
 SUNRISE. 
 
 In glimmering sheen the world is wrapt around, 
 
 A thousand carols through the woodland sound; 
 
 Along the dale the misty streaks are drawn, 
 
 Yet in the deepest gorge are signs of dawn; 
 
 The leafy twigs from misty clefts shine out; 
 
 On buds and blooms fresh pearls are dropt about; 
 
 Hue after hue gleams from the dusky ground, 
 
 And Paradise is opening all around. 
 
 Upward my glance! the mountain-peaks are glowing, 
 
 For us the signs of nearer daybreak showing; 
 
 They earlier enjoy the eternal light 
 
 That later beams upon our dazzled sight. 
 
 Now a, bright glance displays the mountain's green, 
 
 Now spreads the light 'till all the dale is seen, 
 
 And now the sun! and, blinded by the day, 
 
 With aching sight I turn myself away. 
 
 19" 
 
i 4 8 GOETHE. 
 
 So let the sun, unseen, behind me blaze, 
 
 While here I meet his fair, reflected rays; 
 
 Yon waterfall I see with new delight, 
 
 Burst through the rocky cleft, and from the height 
 
 Falling — a thousand streams at once outpouring, 
 
 Mid spray clouds over spray clouds lightly soaring. 
 
 How glorious, beaming through the misty air, 
 
 The changeful yet abiding rainbow there, 
 
 Now clear outshining, fading now away, 
 
 Lost for a moment in a cloud of spray! — 
 
 Well shows the varying bow our life's endeavour; 
 
 For ever changing and the same for ever! 
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 Tasso. O what a word my Princess speaks to me! 
 That "golden time" — ah! whither has it fled? 
 For which the heart so often yearns in vain! 
 When o'er the cheerful earth the sons of men 
 In joyous companies with freedom strayed; 
 When in the flowery field the ancient tree 
 Shaded the shepherd and the shepherdess; 
 When o'er the purest sands the Naiades 
 Guided at will the clear and gentle rills; 
 The harmless snake wound through the grass his way; 
 The daring fawn, by the brave youth attacked, 
 Fled to the wood, and every creature roaming, 
 And every bird that carolled in the air, 
 Proclaimed to men — 'Live freely as you please!' 
 
 Princess. My friend, the Golden Age has passed away, 
 And yet true souls can bring it back again; 
 Yea, to confess to you my firm belief, 
 That golden time of which the poets sing 
 Was never more a truth than it is now. 
 Or, if it ever was, 'twas only so 
 That it may always be restored again. 
 
GOETHE. 149 
 
 Still close together true congenial souls, 
 And share the joys of all this beauteous world. 
 But let me slightly change your law, my friend, 
 And let it be; — 'live truly, as you ought.' 
 
 Beauty is perishable: that alone 
 
 You seem to honour; all that can endure 
 
 Is dead for you, without that transient charm. 
 
 If men could only learn to know and prize 
 
 All the dear treasury of love and truth 
 
 The bosom of a woman can enfold; 
 
 If true remembrance might renew past joys; 
 
 If but your glance, which seems at times so keen, 
 
 Could pierce the veil that age or sickness casts 
 
 O'er beauty; if you could but love repose — 
 
 Then happy days might soon for us appear 
 
 And we should celebrate our golden time.' 
 
 THE ARCHANGELS' SONG. 
 Raphael. 
 With pace of thunder rolls along 
 
 The Sun, in concord never ending 
 Still chanting a primeval song, 
 
 With tones from all the planets blending; 
 The Angels from the glorious sight 
 
 Derive their power and inspiration, 
 And all the wondrous works are bright 
 
 As in the morning of creation. 
 
 Gabriel. 
 There rolls the earth — so swift and bright! — 
 
 Alternate day and night attend her, 
 As out of gloom of awful night 
 
 She wheels into celestial splendour; 
 
i 5 o GOETHE. 
 
 While foams the sea — broad waves upthrowing 
 On rocky barriers deep and strong — 
 
 And rocks and billows, onward going, 
 Are carried with the spheres along; 
 
 Michael. 
 And tempests blow, in emulation, 
 
 From sea to land and o'er the main, 
 And form, through all their perturbation, 
 
 A circling, energetic chain; 
 While there, afar loud thunders roar 
 
 And desolating lightnings play, 
 We see, O Lord, whom we adore, 
 
 The calm transitions of thy day. 
 
 The Three Archan&els. 
 Though no one comprehend Thee may, 
 
 The vision gives us inspiration, 
 And bright as the Primeval Day 
 
 Are all the glories of creation. 
 
 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 'What notes of music sweet and clear 
 
 Beyond the portal ring! 
 Go, boy, and call the singer here!' — 
 
 The boy soon tells the king: — 
 'It is a minstrel old and gray' — 
 'Then say he's welcome here to-day, 
 
 And let the old man enter'. 
 
 'Hail! ladies fair and noble knights, 
 Who here assembled shine, 
 
 As in a sky where stars their lights 
 In splendour all combine. 
 
GOETHE. 151 
 
 In such a heaven of light and grace 
 Be closed mine eyes! 'tis here no place 
 For gazing round in wonder. 
 
 He closed his eyes, and then with might 
 
 His song their spirits stirr'd. 
 The men look'd bold; with still delight 
 
 Fair dames the music heard; 
 And, when the last note ceased to ring, 
 'Give to the minstrel', said the king, 
 
 'A golden chain for guerdon'! 
 
 'Nay, give to me no chain of gold! 
 
 Let that reward the knight, 
 'Mid swords and broken lances bold, 
 
 Who turns the foe to flight; 
 Or let the lord who has the care 
 Of all affairs of state to bear 
 
 That golden burden carry. 
 
 'I sing as gladly as a bird 
 
 Pours out a merry lay, 
 And when my soul with joy is stirr'd 
 
 I want no better pay; 
 But, might I pray for aught, I'd say: — 
 Fill with your dearest wine, to-day, 
 
 For me one golden beaker'. 
 
 They gave the wine; he drank it up: — 
 
 'Heaven bless this regal hall 
 Where of such cheering wine a cup 
 
 Is deem'd a bounty small! 
 When you are glad, remember me, 
 And may you all as thankful be 
 
 As I am for my guerdon'. 
 
152 
 
 GOETHE. 
 
 EVENTIDE. 
 Hush'd now is every wild bird's lay 
 In the day's calm close ; 
 The trees are all asleep; how still 
 
 Is the light green leaf on the topmost spray! 
 And, list as you will, you hear not a trill 
 In the woodland lone. 
 O wait, my soul! and soon, repose 
 Like this will be your own. 
 
Schiller. 
 
Ochiller is the poet of liberty. This, alone, might 
 say little; for of all vague words 'liberty' is vague 
 in the superlative degree. In its lowest use, it means 
 anarchy; in its highest, a man's union with the 
 State of which he is a member. Schiller, in his first 
 play, used the word liberty in the former sense; but 
 his best works develop the true idea of positive 
 freedom. This was his aim, not only in poetry, but 
 also in his theoretic writings. Their chief character- 
 istics may all be traced to one fact, as their common 
 source — Schiller was, at once, an earnest theorist 
 and a poet; he made use of his imaginative power 
 and his command of language as means of education. 
 From his philosophical essays, as well as from his 
 best poems, there shines forth a noble ideal of a 
 poet's mission. He was eminently an ideal poet; yet 
 
i 5 6 SCHILLER. 
 
 he was more practical than grave, egotistic politicians 
 who despised his idealism. 
 
 Johann Christoph Friedrich (von) Schiller was 
 born at Marbach, situate on the Neckar, ioth. Novem- 
 ber, 1759. His father, a lieutenant in the army of 
 Wiirtemberg , held an appointment as park-keeper 
 at 'the Solitude', a country-seat, where the Duke of 
 Wiirtemberg, in 1770, established a military academy, 
 which, in 1775, was removed to Stuttgart. In this 
 school the young poet received his education. Here 
 he read Goethe's drama, 'Gotz', with other German 
 plays and some translations from Shakspere. He 
 thus found solace in a world of imagination — con- 
 trasted with the dull routine of life at school. The 
 severity of discipline at this school has been described 
 in exaggerated terms. It has been said, for instance, 
 that imaginative literature was treated as contraband; 
 but we find that, on the duke's birth- day (1780), 
 Goethe's play, 'Clavigo', was performed by the 
 students, and that Schiller took the part of Clavigo. 
 In 1779 the duke conducted an examination of the 
 academy, when Goethe and his friend Karl August, 
 duke of Weimar, were present. For Schiller the 
 result of that examination was a disappointment. 
 He had spent about seven years at the school, and 
 hoped to gain liberty, at the close of the year 1779,, 
 when it was thought advisable that his studies should 
 be continued during another year. In this time (1780) 
 he completed his first tragedy 'The Robbers'. It 
 was a wild, dramatic rhapsody, and might be classed 
 
SCHILLER. 157 
 
 with the sensational poetry of 'Sturm tind Drang'; 
 but it was vigorous in declamation and revolutionary 
 in its tendency. These qualities were the chief 
 causes of its remarkable popularity. 
 
 After leaving the school, Schiller, who had but 
 slightly studied medicine, gained an appointment, 
 with a mean salary, as medical assistant in one of 
 the duke's regiments at Stuttgart. But the thoughts 
 of the young surgeon were mostly devoted to win- 
 ning success by 'the Robbers', and as he could find 
 no publisher to accept the play, he printed it at his 
 own cost. The wild tragedy was first acted at 
 Mannheim, and with such success as made the poet 
 forget or despise both medicine and all military 
 regulations. He left his patients at Stuttgart, and, 
 without asking for leave of absence, went to Mann- 
 heim , to • enjoy there the popularity of his own work. 
 For this offence he suffered a fortnight's arrest. Soon 
 afterwards, discussions on the merits of the play led 
 to some rather silly disputes on politics, and, on 
 this occasion, the duke gave orders to the effect, 
 that 'Schiller should write no more plays', but 
 should confine his studies to medicine. The poet, 
 believing that dramatic authorship was his true 
 vocation, then resolved to make his escape from 
 Stuttgart. Accordingly, his plan was soon concerted, 
 and, attended by one faithful friend (Andreas 
 Streicher), Schiller left Stuttgart (17th. September, 
 1782). When he arrived at Mannheim, he was but 
 coldly received by the superintendent of the theatre. 
 
158 SCHILLER. 
 
 All the poet's hopes of success were founded on his 
 manuscript play 'Fiesco'; but the manager disliked 
 this new drama, and would hardly believe that it 
 had been written by the author of 'the Robbers'. 
 Wishing to place himself at a greater distance from 
 his former patron, Schiller soon left Mannheim and 
 went to Frankfort. On the journey his strength was 
 exhausted, and he lay down to rest in a wood, while 
 his faithful friend, Streicher, watched over him. 
 They soon left Frankfort, where Schiller tried in 
 vain to sell some manuscript poems, and was left in 
 almost destitute circumstances. The travellers next 
 found a more obscure retreat in a village (Oggers- 
 heim), where Schiller wrote a part of his third play 
 (' Louise Miller in'), in a miserable chamber, while the 
 damp wind of November was blowing through a 
 crazy window patched with paper. Here Streicher 
 was compelled to leave his companion in distress, 
 who, dressed in a light coat and destitute of winter 
 clothing, was carrying all his worldly goods in a 
 small portmanteau. He now gladly availed himself 
 of an invitation which he had received from a lady — 
 Frau von Wolzogen — the mother of some young men 
 who had been fellow-students with the poet at Stutt- 
 gart. In her house at the lonely village of Bauer- 
 bach, near Meiningen, he found welcome shelter 
 during the winter of 1782-3, and there completed his 
 third drama. In 1783 he gained a small salary by 
 his services as poet to the theatre at Mannheim. 
 At Mannheim, in 1784, the two plays 'Fiesco'' and 
 
SCHILLER. 159 
 
 'Louise Miller in' (otherwise called 'Kabale und Liebe') 
 were acted — the latter with success — and the poet 
 delivered, in the same year, an eloquent lecture in 
 favour of his theory, that the theatre might be made 
 a moral, educational institution. Meanwhile, he had 
 written some parts of his fourth play, 'Don Carlos'. 
 His own ideal theory of the drama was not realized 
 at Mannheim. Several disagreeable circumstances 
 led him to resign his connection with the theatre 
 in that town, and he next endeavoured to support 
 himself by establishing a dramatic journal, 'The 
 Rhenish Thalia'; but of this only one part was 
 published. He was thinking of forsaking literature, 
 and of devoting his attention to law-studies, when 
 he received aid from one of the best of friends — 
 Korner, the father of the young poet who fell in 
 the war of liberation. Wherever the name of 
 Schiller is known, that of Christian Gottfried 
 Korner will not be forgotten. It was by the aid of 
 this friend that the poet was enabled to live and 
 pursue his studies in the neighbourhoods of Leipzig 
 and Dresden, from 1785 to 1787, when he went to 
 Weimar. Here he was kindly received by Herder 
 and Wieland. Goethe was then travelling in Italy, 
 but, soon after his return, gained for Schiller an 
 appointment (at first, without any salary) as professor 
 of history at Jena. There was no remarkable kind- 
 ness in this action; Goethe was, at that time, no 
 admirer of Schiller's writings, of which 'the Robbers' 
 had the widest reputation. For several years after 
 
160 SCHILLER. 
 
 their first interview (1788), the two poets, though 
 meeting now and then at Jena, remained personally 
 strangers to each other. 
 
 In May 1789, Schiller began his course of lectures 
 on history. Jena, in an earlier time, had been noted 
 for its poor professors and riotous students. Amus- 
 ing - stories were told of students 'in the good old 
 times'; of their scanty wardrobes; of their dressing 
 up one old professor so as to make him like a scare- 
 crow, and of their duels fought in the market-place, 
 close to the town-hall, where the magistrates were 
 sitting. Some slight traces of these manners re- 
 mained in Schiller's time. He might well feel 
 anxious about the reception of his first lecture; for 
 he was modest enough to believe, that his own 
 knowledge of history hardly equalled what might be 
 found among the students. His fears were, however, 
 soon dissipated; the lecture-room engaged for his use 
 was found too small; the largest hall 'in Jena was 
 crowded, and the students gave a serenade to cheer 
 the new professor. This popularity, founded partly 
 on Schiller's reputation as the poet of liberty, natur- 
 ally declined in the course of a few years. Mean- 
 while, during the years 1785 — 89, Schiller's first 
 enthusiastic notions of freedom had been moderated 
 (or we might rather say transmuted), and had found 
 a nobler form of expression in 'Don Carlos', his 
 fourth drama, which was completed in 1787. The 
 poet's historical studies supplied the materials for 
 his works, 'The Revolt of the Netherlands' and a 
 
SCHILLER. 161 
 
 'History of the Thirty Years' War'- After his 
 appointment at Jena, he devoted not a little of his 
 time to Kant's philosophy, and endeavoured to unite 
 it with a theory of poetry and art. The results are 
 found in the 'Letters on ^Esthetic Education', and in 
 the essays, 'On Grace and Dignity', 'On the Sublime', 
 and 'On Naive and Sentimental Poetry'. These and 
 other studies at Jena were now and then relieved 
 by holidays spent at Rudolstadt, where the poet 
 became acquainted with Charlotte von Lengefeld, 
 whom he married in 1790. He had now obtained a 
 small salary and had hopes of improving his circum- 
 stances. But his happiness was interrupted in 1791 
 by a failure of health, which compelled him to seek 
 repose in a visit to Carlsbad. The expenditure 
 caused by loss of health led to painfully straitened 
 circumstances, from which he was rescued by two 
 generous friends — the prince Holstein-Sonderburg- 
 Augustenburg and Count Schimmelmann. From 
 these two friends Schiller received annually, for 
 three years, an income (about £200) which placed 
 him in easy circumstances, and enabled him to spend 
 the greater part of the year 1793 — 94 in Suabia, among 
 the familiar scenes of his boyhood. There he visited 
 Heilbronn and Stuttgart, and stayed for some time 
 with his parents at Ludwigsburg near Stuttgart. In 
 1794, while Schiller remained in Suabia, the duke of 
 Wiirtemberg died. The poet, standing by the grave 
 of his first patron, spoke of the deceased in respect- 
 ful terms, hardly to be reconciled with some old 
 
1 62 SCHILLER. 
 
 stories of the tyranny exercised in the duke's military 
 academy. Schiller's political views were no longer 
 represented by 'the Robbers'. Meanwhile the fame 
 of that play had won him the title of 'citoyen frangais', 
 granted by the National Convention (in 1793) to the 
 author, who, in the diploma, is strangely called 
 'Mr. Gilles'. It may be presumed that, at the time 
 when this honour was conferred, no one in Paris 
 knew the fact that Schiller, in 1792, meditated 
 writing and sending to Paris 'a defence of Louis the 
 Sixteenth'. The poet — like many other men — had 
 dreamed of an Utopia to be founded on negation in 
 Paris; but from this dream he was soon awakened. 
 As early as 1794 he said: — 'The French Republic 
 will fall into anarchy, and anarchy must end in sub- 
 mission to a despot, who will extend his sway over 
 the greater part of Europe'. 
 
 In 1794 Schiller issued the prospectus of his new 
 literary journal, 'die Horen', and in the following 
 year Goethe and Schiller, who were then united by 
 a firm bond of friendship, planned the 'Xenien', a 
 series of satirical epigrams which appeared in 
 Schiller's new journal, the Musenalmanach, in 1797. 
 The allied poets — now converted into satirists — 
 gained, at the time, more fame by these epigrams 
 than by their better writings, and were respected, 
 because they were feared. Among all the literary 
 men who were offended by the Xenien the most 
 respectable was Herder. 
 
 Schiller's finest ballads — each inspired by some 
 
SCHILLER. 163 
 
 noble idea — were mostly written in the years 1797 — 8, 
 and in 1799 his most elaborate drama ' Wattenstein' 
 was completed. The poet went to reside in Weimar 
 in 1800, and, in the same year, wrote the drama 
 'Maria Stuart', which was soon followed by 'the 
 Maid of Orleans', (1801). ' Wallenstein' had been 
 received with enthusiastic applause at Weimar, but 
 greater honours were bestowed on the author when 
 'the Maid of Orleans' was first performed at Leipzig 
 (1801). He had to walk home from the theatre on 
 a path left for him between two dense masses of the 
 people, who stood with heads uncovered to pay him 
 honour. The motive of his drama deserved such 
 respect. Schiller was already hailed as the poet of 
 national freedom, though he had not yet written his 
 most popular play. In the following year he was 
 raised to the rank of nobility, and, in the winter, 
 received modestly the homage paid to him by 
 Madame de Stael, during her visit to Weimar. As 
 Goethe was indisposed at the time, his friend was 
 called upon to exercise his slight ability in French 
 conversation, in order to entertain 'the most fluent, 
 vivacious and controversial of all talkers' — so the poet 
 described his visitor. In the same year Kotzebue, 
 the playwright, then living at Weimar, made some 
 arrangements for a showy, theatrical coronation of 
 Schiller as poet-laureate. The performance (of which 
 the sole object was to annoy Goethe) was intended 
 to take place in the town-hall at Weimar; but 
 Schiller did not like the scheme. The prospect 
 
i6 4 SCHILLER. 
 
 of receiving homage from Kotzebue was by no 
 means exhilarating. 
 
 An experiment that could hardly be called a suc- 
 cess was made when Schiller introduced the antique 
 Greek chorus in 'the Bride of Messina' (1803). This 
 drama was followed by 'Wilhelm Tell' (1804), in 
 which the poet gave free expression to his thoughts 
 on national freedom. The enthusiastic reception of 
 the drama, when first played at Berlin, was but the 
 beginning of a general and long-continued success. 
 The enthusiasm was not confined to theatres, but 
 spread, as with electric energy, among the people, 
 and was powerful in alliance with other agencies that 
 had their issue in the war of liberation. 
 
 The success of the poet's last completed drama 
 led to a proposal, that he should accept, with some 
 increase of his income, an appointment in connection 
 with the theatre at Berlin, and to gain this place, 
 Schiller paid a visit to Berlin in May, 1804. But, 
 though he was then only forty-four years old, his 
 health was rapidly failing. He had been an invalid 
 for several years, and this fact makes his success in 
 literature more remarkable. His consciousness of 
 warfare between mind and body is reflected in 
 several ot his letters. In one he exclaims: — 'Miser- 
 able man! with thoughts and hopes soaring to the 
 heavens, yet tied down to this clod of earth; this 
 tiresome clock-work of the body!' — In another letter 
 he writes: — 'Now that I have established in my mind 
 such principles of art that I might do something 
 
SCHILLER. 165 
 
 great and good, my physical constitution is threatened 
 by decay. Well; if it must be so — if the house must 
 fall to ruins — I have rescued from the fall all that 
 is worth saving'.— The disease (pulmonary consump- 
 tion) left for the sufferer one consolation — unclouded 
 clearness of intellect, While the body was sinking, 
 the mind was ever active. During the last few 
 months of his life, Schiller wrote a beautiful masque 
 and some parts of a tragedy. He was, in fact, 
 dying when he wrote, in April 1805, some passages 
 in 'Demetrius'. In the following month his life's 
 work was ended. On the night of the 7th of May, 
 the servant watching by his bed heard him reciting 
 several lines from the drama upon which his mind 
 was still engaged. The next day, when his sister-in- 
 law asked him how he felt, he answered, 'Better and 
 more cheerful'. As after a cloudy day there comes 
 a short season of splendour before sunset; so the 
 character of the dying man shone forth between the 
 clouds of delirium and the darkness of death. Schiller 
 died in the afternoon, gth May, 1805. His life was 
 short; but it was a life, not a sleep. He had devoted 
 himself to a great object, to win a high place among 
 poets and intellectual heroes; he used the means of 
 attaining this end; he studied long; he esteemed his 
 vocation more than his life — and he gained his object. 
 Schiller's works may be classified as belonging 
 respectively to three periods in his short life: — youth, 
 middle life, and the last decennium. The stormy 
 passions of youth are represented in 'the Robbers'. 
 
1 66 SCHILLER. 
 
 The praise and the censure once bestowed on this 
 crude drama were alike unbounded. "If Germany is 
 ever to have a Shakspere, here he is!" said one 
 fanatic. "If I might create a world", said another 
 fanatic, "on the condition that 'the Robbers' should 
 appear in that world, I would not create it"! The 
 want of dramatic truth and moral sobriety, of which 
 the first play is an example, may be found also in 
 'Fiesco', as in 'Kabale und Liebe'. These three plays 
 must be judged as the crude productions of youth. 
 A time of transition in the author's moral education 
 gave rise to his fourth drama, 'Don Carlos'. The 
 story of 'Don Carlos' departs widely from historical 
 facts, and is founded mostly on a French work by 
 Saint-Real, which is little better than a romance. 
 The Marquis of Posa is an entirely fictitious charac- 
 ter, invented to give expression to the poet's own 
 sentiments on civil and religious liberty. In a long 
 conversation (Act. iii. scene 10) Posa delivers, without 
 interruption and in the presence of Philip II. of 
 Spain, a series of lectures on the evil effects of 
 tyranny. This is a gross improbability. 
 
 After the completion of this fourth drama, the 
 author, during some years of his middle life, became 
 more and more reflective, and devoted his studies 
 mostly to history and philosophy. He returned to 
 poetry in 1794, wrote his finest ballads (1797 — 8), and 
 completed his most elaborate dramatic work 'Wallen- 
 stein' in 1799. Of all his works this has the most 
 extensive and imposing design. Some important 
 
SCHILLER. 167 
 
 questions have been suggested by the poet's choice 
 of a subject. How could any plot in which Wallen- 
 stein was the chief agent be made, in all respects, 
 clear? — After completing 'Wallenstein', the poet 
 selected as the subject of his next drama another 
 difficult historical character — 'Maria Stuart'. Her 
 imputed guilt is implied, but is cast into the shade 
 by sympathy with her sorrows; while the unhappi- 
 ness of her later years is represented as a penance 
 patiently endured. The motive of Schiller's next play 
 deserved success. He endeavoured to defend the 
 character of 'the Maid of Orleans' against the satire 
 of Voltaire in La Pucelle. The poet could believe 
 what 'the philosopher' could not imagine; that hatred 
 of oppression may, without fraud, assume the charac- 
 ter of inspiration. Historical probability is on the 
 side of Schiller, but it must be regretted that he 
 partly contradicted his own design by inventing an 
 attachment existing between the heroic maiden and 
 an Englishman — the Enemy of France! Why should 
 such a weakness have been thought possible? In the 
 'Bride of Messina' are found some passages of 
 splendid diction; but the endeavour to introduce in 
 this drama the form of the antique Greek Chorus is 
 a failure. The indistinct notion of fate expressed in 
 some parts of the drama suggested some deplorable 
 'fate-tragedies', written by Werner, Milliner and 
 Grillparzer. 
 
 During his last decennium Schiller wrote all his 
 best works, including his 'Ballads*. In these a desire 
 
168 SCHILLER. 
 
 to teach is harmonized more or less perfectly with 
 the laws of poetic art. In the comparatively few 
 poems written during the reflective period of middle 
 life, a didactic tendency prevails. Here we find in 
 'the Artists', and (in a less degree) in 'the Gods of 
 Greece', traces of an endeavour to unite poetry and 
 philosophy. To that endeavour may be ascribed the 
 partly didactic tone of several other poems. Goethe's 
 ballad, 'the Minstrel', is a perfect ideal expression 
 of contentment, but does not contain one didactic 
 line. If Schiller had written that ballad, he might 
 have added a stanza to make the purport clearer. 
 His didactic tone is heard, but not without the 
 attendant music of true poetry, in 'the Eleusinian 
 Festival', 'the Walk', and 'the Song of the Bell'. 
 These are all intended to teach, while they charm 
 the reader. In Goethe's best poems art and nature, 
 thought and its symbol, are united, fused and welded 
 together. In Schiller's poetry, there is strife between 
 the thought and its symbol. The idea, as if dis- 
 contented with its incorporation, asserts itself in an 
 abstract form. The poet first fixes his attention on 
 some noble thought, and then proceeds to find 
 imagery for its expression; but, after all his en- 
 deavour, the thought is left too often abstract, as 
 if too pure to be incorporated. The poet is not 
 contented with his vocation as a poet; he wishes to 
 analyse and systematise his thoughts, and he has an 
 earnest desire to teach. One of his chief doctrines 
 is to the effect, that the study of art may give aid 
 
SCHILLER. 169 
 
 in our moral education. Goodness and beauty live 
 in union, he tells us; therefore, the study of beauty 
 may lead to a love of goodness. 
 
 While quiet and studious readers might be pleased 
 with the poet's aesthetic theory, his popularity, at 
 the close of his life, was chiefly won by his drama 
 'Wilhelm Tell', in which he expressed his latest and 
 best ideas of national freedom. He had cast aside 
 the errors of his youthful time. At that time other 
 young men had talked of Utopia coming from Paris; 
 and students at universities had planted 'trees of 
 liberty'. Schiller also dreamed in his youth. In his 
 later years, he was a true enthusiast in the service 
 of true freedom. He had seen the errors of a vapid 
 cosmopolitanism, and had learned that good- will for 
 men of all nations must have its centre at home, and 
 be united with a supreme care for national honour. 
 His later works maintain the doctrine that virtue, 
 patriotism, and true freedom are inseparable. The 
 idea of liberty, pronounced, at first, so crudely in 
 'the Robbers', was more and more purified and 
 ennobled, as it passed through other forms of ex- 
 pression, until, at last, it shone forth in 'Wilhelm 
 Tell'. The acclamation with which the play was 
 received can hardly be understood by English 
 readers; for what did the poet say for national 
 freedom? — Nothing more than what had been said 
 before. But the question should be rather— When 
 did he say it? — In 1804. A want of union had 
 destroyed all hopes of liberty. In Prussia men were 
 
170 
 
 SCHILLER. 
 
 resting under the shadow of a name — Friedrich II.; 
 but the spirit of the king had left the land. There 
 were men who called themselves patriots; but their 
 plans had no practical value. Others were easily 
 made apostates, and there were enthusiasts who, 
 even then, had hardly awakened from their dreams. 
 In this apparently hopeless time, Schiller produced 
 his 'Wilhelm-Teir — a prophecy of coming liberation. 
 One serious objection has been made to the plot. 
 The tyrant falls by assassination. It should be 
 remembered, however, that the play assumes the 
 truth of the whole story of 'Tell and Gessler', as 
 told by the old chronicler Etterlin. The third act 
 and the fifth are evidently intended to justify the 
 action of the fourth. As Etterlin tells us, Gessler 
 was an inhuman monster, and the play must be 
 judged with reference to the old tradition of 'Tell's 
 shot'. The spirit of the whole drama is expressed 
 in Stauffacher's oration (Act II. Scene 2) at the 
 gathering of the Swiss in Riitli. Here the leaders 
 of the people are assembled, at night, on a plot of 
 land surrounded on all sides but one by rocks and 
 trees. A lake shines in the background, and in the 
 distance snowy peaks glisten in moonlight. In this 
 scene the patriot Stauffacher gives us the poet's own 
 latest and best ideas of national freedom. 
 
 STAUFFACHER'S ORATION. 
 We make here no new 'Bund' to-night, my friends! 
 It is the old, old 'Bund' of our fathers' time 
 "We renovate. Mark that, confederates! 
 
SCHILLER. 171 
 
 Lakes may divide us; mountains rise between us; 
 Still we are all one race — all of one blood — 
 We're all the sons of one dear Fatherland. 
 
 Auf der Matter. All of one blood! Ay; and we've 
 
 all one heart! 
 [All the people shout; meanwhile grasping one another's hand.] 
 We are one people! We will act as one. 
 
 Rosselmann. Our union with the empire was our choice! 
 That's written down by Kaiser Friedrich's hand. 
 
 Stauffacher. Ay, we are free! — As free men we would serve: 
 We would be loyal; there must be a judge, 
 So that when strife begins, it may be ended, 
 And, therefore, our forefathers, for this soil, 
 Which was their own — won from a wilderness — 
 Paid homage to the Emperor, the lord 
 Of our own German and of foreign lands; 
 But it was paid by men whose rights were safe 
 Within the realm; they gave their lives to guard 
 The realm that over them had spread its shield. 
 
 Melchthal. Service on other terms is fit for slaves. 
 
 Stauffacher. The land is ours; it is our own creation! 
 By our own labour, those old gloomy forests, 
 That once were lairs for wolves and bears, were felled, 
 To make space for our homesteads, and the brood 
 Of the old dragons that, among the swamps 
 Lurked, or, with venom swollen, issued forth 
 For prey, were all destroyed; the dense, gray fogs 
 That hung o'er fenny pastures were dispersed; 
 The rocks were rent asunder; over chasms 
 Were flung these bridges, to make safe the way 
 For passengers; — ay, by a thousand claims, 
 The land is ours for ever! — Shall we bear it, 
 That this, the creature of a foreign lord, 
 
 22* 
 
172 
 
 SCHILLER. 
 
 Shall here insult us on our own free soil? — 
 Is there no help for us? Must we bear this? — 
 
 \_A great commotion takes place among the peopled] 
 No! — there's a limit to the tyrant's power. 
 When men, oppressed, can find no aid on earth, 
 To rid them of their burden, then they rise; 
 The people rise; they stretch their hands to heaven, 
 And thence fetch down their old, eternal rights; 
 Their rights, all — like the everlasting lights 
 There shining in the heavens — unchangeable, 
 Imperishable as the stars themselves! — . 
 Then nature's own primeval rule returns; 
 Man stands in battle, ready for the foe. 
 'Tis our last means; but, when all others fail, 
 "We draw the sword! — The best of all life's boons 
 We will defend! — In front of this our land 
 And of our wives and children, here we stand! 
 
 TELL'S SHOT. 
 Walther Tell (the son) stands under u. linden-tree '; the apple is 
 placed on his head. Tell (bends the cross-bow and places a bolt in 
 the groove). 
 
 . . . . Make clear the way there! 
 Stauffacher. Tell! you will never venture it — O never! 
 See! your knees tremble, and your hand is shaking. 
 
 Tell, [lowering the cross-bow."] All swims before my sight — 
 
 Landvogt! O spare me this! — Here is my heart — 
 \_He bares his breast.] 
 Call here your horsemen; let them tread me down — 
 
 Gessler. Your life is safe, when_ I have seen this shot- 
 What! — Men say you fear nothing, Tell; your hand 
 Can hold the rudder firm against the storm, 
 As well as bend the bow. No tempests daunt you 
 When you would aid the Switzers. Help them now! 
 Ay, in one moment save yourself and all! 
 
SCHILLER. 173 
 
 [Tell, in an agony of doubt, and with hands quivering, looks 
 first at the Landvogt, then to heaven ; then suddenly takes from the 
 quiver another bolt. The Landvogt watches Tell's movements."] 
 
 Walther Tell. Shoot, father! I am not afraid — 
 
 Tell. I must! 
 
 [Tie collects himself and takes aim.~\ 
 
 Rudenz. [stepping forwards^ 
 Landvogt, no more of this!— You cannot mean it; 
 'Twas but a trial of the man's submission, 
 And now your end is gained; your purpose, urged 
 Too far, must contradict itself; the bow 
 Too violently strained asunder snaps— 
 
 Gessler. Pray, save your words 'till they are wanted, sir. — 
 
 Rudenz. But I will speak, sir! and without a fear — 
 The emperor's honour and the government 
 That you would make detestable, for me 
 Are sacred still, and, fearless, I declare 
 This is not Albrecht's will! — his people here 
 Shall not be made your victims! — I deny 
 Your warrant for an act like this — 
 
 Gessler. How dare you! — 
 
 Rudenz. The Emperor is my lord, and you are not — 
 I'm free-born, like yourself, and I will match 
 Myself against you in all warlike virtue; 
 "Were you not here to represent the king 
 (Whose name I reverence, even when 'tis abused), 
 I'd throw my glove down for you; you should give 
 Account to me for words that you have spoken — 
 Ha! you may call your followers. I am not 
 Defenceless like these people; I've a sword — 
 Let any man come near me! — 
 
 Stauffacher [shouts.'] The apple has fallen ! — See ! — 
 
 Rosselmann. The boy's alive! 
 
i 7 4 SCHILLER. 
 
 Walther Tell, {leaping towards his father and bringing the applet] 
 See, father, here's the apple!— I was sure 
 You would not shoot at Walther — 
 
 [Tell stands, for some moment, bent forwards, as if still 
 following the bolt's flight; then steps on quickly to meet the boy, lifts 
 and embraces him; then sinks helplessly on the ground. The by- 
 standers look on him with sympathy^ 
 
 Leuthold. There was a shot! — Switzers will talk of that 
 To the latest times — 
 
 Rudolph. Ay! while these mountains stand 
 
 On their foundations men shall talk of that! 
 
 [He gives the apple to Gessler.] 
 
 Gessler. By Heaven! the apple's split! — A master's shot 
 Was that! . . . 
 
 Ha, Tell!— 
 
 Tell, [steps towards Gessler.] Vogt, what command you now? 
 
 Gessler. You had another bolt there — Yes; I saw it — 
 What was your meaning ? 
 
 Tell [embarrassed^ Sir, it is our custom. 
 
 Gessler. No, Tell!— that reply 
 
 Will not suffice — there was a. meaning in it; 
 Speak out! your life is safe; I pledge my word — 
 What was that second bolt to do ? — 
 
 Tell. My lord, 
 
 My life is safe, you say— then hear the truth: — 
 If I had chanced to hit the boy, this bolt — 
 [He draws forth the bolt and looks fiercely at the Landvogt.] 
 Should have pierced through your heart! — aye; for I'm sure 
 I should not then have missed my mark! — 
 
 Gessler. Enough ! 
 
 Your life is safe; I gave my word for that — 
 And, now I know your temper, I'll be safe 
 
SCHILLER. 175 
 
 From such a marksman! you shall spend your life 
 Down in a prison, where neither sun nor moon 
 Shall ever shine upon you more! — Away! 
 Come hither, men! and bind him fast! 
 
 [Gessler's followers bind Tell.] 
 
 THE DEATH OF GESSLER. 
 
 [Scene: — The narrow pass of Kiissnacht. On the rock Tell 
 appears, armed with a cross-bow.] 
 
 Tell. Now, to defend my children and my wife 
 I'll spend this bolt. "When last I drew the string, 
 'Twas with a faltering hand, to strike the apple 
 From my boy's head — then, while I prayed in vain 
 That I, a father, might be spared that trial, 
 I made » vow (within my secret breast 
 Breathed deeply — God was witness of that vow) 
 That the next target for my bolt, O Gessler! 
 Should be thy heart! And now the vow I made 
 In that dark moment of infernal pain 
 Shall be fulfilled: it was a sacred oath. 
 
 [A Marriage Procession, accompanied with music, winds through 
 the defile. . . . Armgart, a poor woman, comes with her children, 
 
 and occupies the entrance of the pass ] 
 
 Friesshardt. Make clear the path! Away! The Landvogt comes! 
 
 [Tell retires. 
 Armgart. The Landvogt comes! 
 [Gessler, attended by Rudolph, enters on horseback.'] 
 Gessler [to Rudolph']. 
 Say what you will, I am the Emperor's servant, 
 And all my care is to obey his wishes. 
 He did not send me to this stubborn land 
 To soothe these people. No! the question now 
 Is this — who shall be ruler; prince or peasant? 
 
1 76 SCHILLER. 
 
 Armgart. Now is the moment! Now I press my claim! 
 
 [She approaches Gessler. 
 
 Gessler. I did not bid the people to bow down 
 Before the Hat, that I might laugh at them — 
 No; but to bend the sinew in their neck, 
 "Which would not bow before their rightful lord; 
 I placed the Hat there, in the road by Altdorf, 
 To keep in their unwilling minds the truth 
 That I am master, and must be obeyed. 
 
 Rudolph, And yet the people have some ancient rights. 
 
 Gessler. "We have no time to talk about them now: 
 There are more serious interests at stake. 
 The Emperor's house must flourish: what the father 
 Began so well, the son must now complete. 
 This people is a stone upon our path — 
 And — once for all — they must submit! 
 
 [Armgart kneels in Ihe way before Gessler. 
 
 Armgart. Mercy, lord governor! Hear my petition! 
 
 Gessler. "Woman, how dare you thus obstruct the pass? 
 
 Armgart. My lord! my husband in a dungeon lies — 
 All his poor orphans scream for bread. Have mercy! 
 Have pity, governor, on our distress! 
 
 Rudolph. "What is your name?— who is your husband, woman? 
 
 Armgart. He was a peasant on the Rigi mountain, 
 And mowed, for life, the scanty grass that grows 
 Over the mouths of fearful chasms and sides 
 Of rocks, where even wild cattle dare not climb. 
 
 Rudolph [to Gessler\. Good Heaven! a poor and miserable life! 
 I pray you let this wretched man be free: 
 "Whatever his transgression may have been, 
 His life is a sufficient punishment. 
 
 [To Armoart. 
 You shall be heard; but this is not the place: 
 Apply to us when we arrive at Kiissnacht. ' : '■ 
 
 Armgart. No, no! I will riot move, sir, frpffl lliis spot 
 Until my prayer is granted. Free my husband! ' > 
 
SCHILLER. 177 
 
 Six moons have o'er his dungeon passed away, 
 And still he lies there, asking for a trial. 
 
 Gessler. Woman, no more of this. Make clear the path! 
 
 Armgart. Justice for me, my lord! You are our judge! 
 The servant of the Emperor and of God: 
 Perform your duty. If you have a hope 
 That heaven may listen to your prayers, hear mine! 
 
 Gessler. Away, I tell you! This audacious people! 
 
 [Armgart seizes the reins of his horse. 
 
 Armgart. No, no, sir! I have nothing now to lose. 
 You go not through this narrow pass until 
 My prayer is heard! Ay, you may knit your brow, 
 And roll your eyes in anger — I care not. 
 I tell you that we are so wretched now, 
 We care not for your fury! 
 
 Gessler. Woman, move! 
 
 Or over you I soon shall find a way. 
 
 [Armgart seizes her children, and throws herself with them on 
 the path before Gessler.] 
 
 Armgart. Ride on, then! Here I lie with all my children. 
 Now trample on us with your iron hoofs! 
 It will not be the worst deed you have done. 
 
 Rudolph. Surely the woman's mad! 
 
 Armgart. For years you've trodden 
 
 Upon the Emperor's people in this land. 
 I'm but a woman; if I were a man, 
 I would do something better — not lie here 
 Down in the dust before you. Now ride on! 
 
 \The music of the wedding-party is heard. 
 
 Gessler. Where are my servants? Call my followers 
 To drag this wretched creature from the path; 
 Or I may act too rashly, and repent. 
 
 Rudolph. Your followers are all detained, my lord; 
 A marriage-company obstructs the way. 
 
 2 3 
 
i;8 
 
 SCHILLER. 
 
 Gessler. I see it — I have been too mild a ruler; 
 The people grow audacious in their talk! 
 They are not tamed and fettered as they shall be; 
 It shall be otherwise — I swear! I'll break 
 Their obstinate will and bend their spirit down; 
 A new law shall be published in the land; 
 I will subdue them! — 
 [A bolt strikes him. He places his hand on his heart and 
 speaks faintly."] 
 
 — God! have mercy on me! — 
 Rudolph. My lord! What is it? Whence came that? O God! 
 Armgart. He falls! — He dies! — The governor is slain! 
 Rudolph has dismounted and hastens to support Gessler.] 
 Rudolph. What sudden horror this! — my lord, 'tis death — 
 Call for God's mercy! pray! your time is short. 
 Gessler. That was Tell's bolt! — 
 
Jean Paul. 
 
 23 « 
 
1 hree literary movements that might be called re- 
 volutionary took place in Germany, in the time from 
 1770 — 1830. The first subsided in the classic time of 
 Goethe and Schiller; the second was excited by the 
 men of the Romantic School, in 1800 and some 
 following years; the third (of which a later chapter 
 may tell something) took place in 1830, or near that 
 time. Jean Paul has been sometimes classed with 
 the men of the second revolution, chiefly because he 
 made a very free use of irony and rejected rules of 
 composition. But, in fact, he belongs to no class. 
 He had no prototype, and he has had no true fol- 
 lowers. It has been said, that he is fully appreciated 
 only by German readers; but their opinions have 
 differed widely respecting his merits. Readers who 
 admire his genial humour and fertility of fancy have 
 
i8 2 JEAN PA UL. 
 
 given him a place among the poets who have written 
 in prose; others, who view beauty of form as an 
 essential part of poetry, have assigned to him an in- 
 ferior position. The halo that once surrounded his 
 name has been fading away since his death, and, in 
 the present realistic age, his writings no longer 
 awaken enthusiasm. In 1800 and about that time, 
 many readers esteemed Jean Paul greater than Goethe 
 and Schiller. 
 
 Johann Paul Friedrich Richter (commonly called 
 Jean Paul), the son of a poor schoolmaster, was born at 
 Wunsiedel (in the principality of Baireuth) 21st. March, 
 1763. His father afterwards lived as a pastor in two 
 villages near Hof, and here, in the Saale valley, 
 young Richter learned to love rural seclusion and 
 gained his knowledge of humble life. Left in poverty 
 by his father's death (1779), he, with difficulty, gained 
 some education at Hof, and then continued his studies 
 at Leipzig. Here he mastered no science thoroughly, 
 but his reading was extensive and multifarious. He 
 read indeed almost every book that he could borrow, 
 and as he was too poor to collect a library, he 
 endeavoured to provide for himself a substitute for 
 a library. This was done by writing an extensive 
 series of excerpts from books in all departments of 
 literature. A considerable part of this work was 
 done at Hof and at Leipzig, and the industrious habit 
 was continued in later years. Natural history, bio- 
 graphy, travels, political history, collections of anec- 
 dotes, romances, reviews, sermons, with scientific and 
 
JEAN PAUL. 183 
 
 philosophical books: — all were made to contribute 
 to Jean Paul's immense collection of excerpts, which 
 were here and there interspersed with original pas- 
 sages. The papers thus accumulated were tied up in 
 bundles, classified, bound and enlarged from time to 
 time, until they filled several chests. All this literary- 
 luggage was carried wherever the author made 
 his abode, and served as a crude and undigested 
 heap of materials out of which were constructed all 
 the worst parts of Jean Paul's writings! His satires 
 written in Leipzig were suggested by reading Swift 
 and Hippel, and had no success. Accordingly, he 
 'closed', as he said, 'the vinegar-manufactory' (1788). 
 His next book, 'the Invisible Lodge', partly founded 
 on his own experience, was written while he was 
 endeavouring to support himself, first as a private 
 tutor, and afterwards as a schoolmaster in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Hof. This work first made the name 
 'Jean Paul' known in literature; but a wider fame was 
 suddenly won in 1794, when the romance 'Hesperus 
 appeared and was hailed by many readers as a genial 
 and original production. To this book the hermit 
 and schoolmaster at Hof was indebted for his intro- 
 duction to literary society at Weimar. There he was 
 kindly received by Herder; but neither Goethe nor 
 Schiller could accept 'Hesperus' as a classic, poetical 
 work. They called the new author, with reference 
 to his rococo style, 'a tragelaph', or a wild forest-man. 
 The visit to Weimar was followed by a year 
 passed in Leipzig, and in 1800 Richter went to Berlin, 
 
i8 4 JEAN PAUL. 
 
 where, in the following year, he married. Meanwhile 
 his first successful work had been followed by several 
 others, and wherever he went, he was surrounded 
 by a circle of admirers, including several imaginative 
 and enthusiastic women. His wife, a quiet and do- 
 mestic person, was not selected from that circle. 
 After living for some time at Meiningen and Coburg, 
 where he found some friends among the higher classes, 
 Richter, in 1804, went to Baireuth, and resided there 
 until the close of his life. In 1808 he received a 
 small pension, which, added to the profits of his 
 writings, enabled him to live in modest but com- 
 fortable circumstances. He passed his time mostly 
 as a literary hermit, but was by no means without 
 the solace of friendship. His ordinary course of 
 existence was as quiet and dreamy as some of the 
 idyllic passages in his own stories, and his friends 
 partly managed for him his domestic affairs, while 
 he was musing and writing at his favourite retreat, 
 a little tavern near Baireuth. After his death, en- 
 thusiastic pilgrims often visited the humble place 
 where Jean Paul dreamed and wrote his ideal sketches. 
 In our own more prosaic times, that little tavern has 
 been associated with gossip referring to one of the 
 author's foibles — a taste for light Bavarian beer, 
 which was his solace after hours of labour. 
 
 The most interesting parts of Jean Paul's bio- 
 graphy are found in his correspondence, and not in 
 the few events — his visits to Heidelberg, Frankfurt 
 and Weimar — by which his quiet course of life was 
 
JEAN PA UL. 185 
 
 varied. Of all his sorrows one of the greatest was 
 the loss of his son, a student at Heidelberg, who died 
 in 1821. Not long after that time, the father's health 
 declined, and he was afflicted with a disease of the 
 eyes that ended in blindness. His death took place 
 14th. November, 1825. His widow died, eighty years 
 old, in i860. 
 
 Jean Paul's imaginative writings may be divided 
 into three classes: — the more ambitious romances, of 
 which 'Titan' is the chief; some humorous stories, 
 such as 'Siebenkas', and the more pleasing idylls or 
 stories of lowly life. Besides these fictions, he wrote 
 didactic works on education, aesthetics, and the im- 
 mortality of the soul, and some patriotic homilies. The 
 whole literary labour of his life is represented by sixty 
 volumes, including, besides the works already named, 
 'Quintus Fixlein' (1796), 'das Campanerfhal' (1797), 'Wild 
 Oats' (1804), and 'Levana' (1807). His last work, 'Selina', 
 an unfinished essay on the immortality of the soul, 
 was placed on the bier at his funeral. 
 
 With all their variety of imagery, his stories 
 have a strong family-likeness in their ideas. He loves 
 to place the real and the ideal in contrast against 
 each other. In one story he tells of idyllic peace 
 in some rural parsonage; in another of patient poverty 
 in a schoolmaster's cottage. Of little children and 
 their education he writes lovingly, and some of his 
 best didactic essays show deep thought as well as 
 earnestness. His sympathy with the cares and sor- 
 rows of women won for him more than admiration. 
 
 24 
 
186 JEAN PAUL. 
 
 He was, indeed, beloved by not a few fair readers, 
 who pardoned all his faults of taste because he had 
 a sympathetic soul. But when their sentimental age 
 had passed away, many readers wondered how they 
 had ever possessed patience enough to read Jean 
 Paul's long romances; especially those of the more 
 ambitious class. For when he soared away from 
 idyllic scenes, and attempted to describe 'scenes in 
 high life', he made some sad failures. His romantic, 
 aristocratic heroes are utterly unreal. 
 
 Jean Paul was a poet, though he wrote in prose; 
 but he was not an artist. The worst faults of his 
 style arose from his manner of utilizing the extensive 
 collection of excerpts already noticed. He often made 
 digressions for the purpose of introducing passages 
 from his enormous common- place book! Accordingly, 
 his writings contain fragments carried away from 
 all classes of literature and thrown together. He 
 fills his pages with the results of his reading; so that, 
 sometimes, to understand one of his stories, one must 
 be something of a geologist, a chemist, an astronomer, 
 a natural historian, and an antiquarian. If a deluge 
 should break in upon some old museums, and bear 
 away on its billows promiscuously-scattered curiosities 
 in all the sciences, it might afford a symbol of his 
 style. Or, if anyone would collect some hundreds of 
 multifarious quotations from works of science, old 
 histories, and modern newspapers, put them together 
 and shake them well in a bag; then write a story 
 to employ them all as they came to hand, he would 
 
JEAN PA UL. 187 
 
 make some approach to Jean Paul's style. Indeed, he 
 actually wrote on a plan similar to that just suggested! 
 For one example — he tells the story of 'a starving 
 schoolmaster', who buys a lottery-ticket giving him 
 (as he imagines) a chance of winning vast estates. 
 His letter, expressing a fear that if he wins them 
 he shall die for joy, serves thus to introduce several 
 anecdotes from the collection of excerpts: — . . . "In 
 my excited condition, I have been so injudicious as 
 to read several chapters of a translation of 'Tissot on 
 Nervous Disorders', in which I have found several 
 accounts of persons who have died under the influence 
 of sudden joy. . . . Another writer tells a story of 
 a man whose nerves were so much affected by a 
 sudden shower of good fortune, that he became 
 paralytic, and was afflicted with stammering. The 
 'Nuremberg Correspondent' has lately given an account 
 of two great bankers, who both died suddenly in 
 one day, one in joy on receiving a large profit, and 
 the other in sorrow for a heavy loss. I have also 
 read of a poor relation of Leibnitz, who heard with 
 calmness the news of a rich legacy bequeathed to 
 her; but when the real property — the costly linen 
 and valuable silver plate — were spread out before 
 her eyes, she gazed upon them for a moment in silent 
 ecstasy, and immediately expired! What, then, must 
 I expect to feel when I look upon these princely 
 estates, and realise the fact that they are mine!" 
 This is but a slight specimen of Jean Paul's mode 
 of using his select extracts His style is, in some 
 
 24* 
 
188 JEAN PAUL. 
 
 other respects, indicated in the bizarre vignette pre- 
 fixed to our sketch. The tulips call to mind the 
 parsonage-garden in one of his idylls, and the fireworks 
 darting from flowers are not more out of place than 
 many of Jean Paul's references. The contrasted masks 
 may indicate his sudden turns 'from grave to gay', 
 and the silhouette is as true to life as some of his 
 portraits. The other engraving calls to mind the 
 dog serving as a letter-carrier in 'Hesperus'. 
 
 Schiller, in an epigram addressed to Jean Paul, 
 says truly; — 'You would indeed be worthy of ad- 
 miration if you made as good use of your riches as 
 others make of their poverty'. The riches consisted 
 in wide sympathies, some deep thoughts, and a wealth 
 of imagery. But, perhaps, the greatest charm in Jean 
 Paul's works is the tone of perpetual youth that 
 pervades them. After all attempts to analyse his 
 poetry, the only way of conveying a true notion of 
 his genius would be to give, in the form of abridged 
 translation, many and various selections from his 
 writings. For Jean Paul did not keep his pearls in 
 a casket; but threw them about in many nooks and 
 corners, and often in the midst of rubbish. To re- 
 present the merits of his didactic works, it would be 
 requisite to give some considerable quotations, especi- 
 ally from his book 'Levana', on the education of 
 children and the duties of mothers; but this cannot 
 be done here. Our first abridged translation gives 
 one of Jean Paul's dreams of domestic happiness. 
 The second is an example of his most serious mood. 
 
JEAN PA UL. 189 
 
 MORN AND EVENTIDE. 
 
 Gottreich Hartmann lived with his father, the 
 aged pastor of a church, in the little village of Heim. 
 The old man found consolation in his declining years; 
 for as his own strength failed, he saw it renewed in 
 his son. Gottreich took his father's place in the 
 church, and truly edifying were the homilies of the 
 young preacher to the father's heart. ... If it is 
 painful to differ in opinion from one whom we love, 
 to turn away the head from one to whom the heart 
 is always inclined, it is doubly sweet at once to love 
 and believe in accordance with one in whom we find 
 our own better self sustained and perpetuated with 
 youthful energy. Thus life is like a fair starry night, 
 when no star sets until another has arisen. 
 
 Every Sunday brought a new delight in a new 
 homily prepared to gladden the father's heart. . . . 
 The moistened eye of the old clergyman, and his 
 hands folded now and then in silent thanksgiving 
 during the sermon, made for the young preacher an 
 Ascension festival out of every Sunday. 
 
 In the fresh delight of this May morning of life, 
 Gottreich could not avoid thinking that his morning 
 star must some day shine as his evening star. He 
 said to himself: — "My prospects are clear and joyous 
 now; the happiness of life, the beauty of the universe, 
 
igo JEAN PAUL. 
 
 the glory of the Creator, the constellations of eternal 
 truths: — I see and feel them all clearly and warmly. 
 But it may be otherwise with me in the latest hours 
 of life; for approaching death sometimes holds an 
 inverted telescope before the eye, and nothing is 
 seen but a drear space, extending between us and all 
 whom we love. But should this optical deception 
 be taken as the truth? No; this is the truth which 
 I see and feel now, in the youth and vigour of my life. 
 Let me remember it well, that the light of my 
 morning may appear again in my evening sky." 
 With this intention he opened a diary, and wrote 
 down his best sentiments under this title — "Recol- 
 lections of the Fairest Hours, preserved to cheer the 
 Latest Hours of Life." . . . 
 
 Gottreich was called away from home by the 
 demands of his country during the warfare of libera- 
 tion. He left his father under the care of Justa, and 
 took a place in a regiment of volunteers. He closed 
 his campaign after some active service, and when 
 peace again brooded over the land, he travelled 
 homeward through towns and villages full of festivity, 
 but knowing that none were happier than himself. 
 
 As he approached his native place, the church 
 tower of Heim seemed to grow up out of the earth, 
 and as he went down into the valley, the lowly par- 
 sonage again met his eye, while all its windows were 
 shining in evening radiance. But when he entered 
 
JEAN PAUL. igi 
 
 the house, he was surprised to find the lower rooms 
 empty. A slight noise called his attention to his 
 father's chamber. He entered it, and found Justa 
 beside the bed of the old clergyman, who sat propped 
 up by pillows, while his pale wasted face gleamed 
 strangely in the rosy light of evening. Justa related, 
 in a few words, how the father had overwrought 
 himself in attention to duties, and had remained now 
 for some days half sunk in lethargy, taking no interest 
 in all that had once been dear to him. As she spoke 
 the old man heard not, but sat gazing on the setting 
 sun surrounded with crimson and golden clouds. 
 
 "See!" said he, pointing to the sky; "see the 
 glorious works of God! And now, my son, tell me, 
 for my comfort, something of the goodness of the 
 Almighty, as you told us in your sermons in the 
 spring." 
 
 Gottreich wept, as he thought that the little 
 manual which he had written for his own consolation 
 must first be read at his father's deathbed. He drew 
 out his little book of "Recollections," and read a 
 passage, while the old man folded his hands in silent 
 prayer. "Have you not known and felt," said Gott- 
 reich, "the presence of that Being whose infinitude 
 is displayed not only in power and wisdom, but also 
 in love? Remember now the hours of childhood, 
 when the clear blue sky of day, and the dark blue 
 sky of night, opened upon you, like the eyes of your 
 
1 9 2 JEAN PAUL. 
 
 preserving Angel. Think how a thousand reflections 
 of the Eternal Goodness have played around you, 
 from heart to heart, from eye to eye of mankind, as 
 one light shines from sun to sun, and from world to 
 world, throughout the universe." . . . 
 
 Gottreich read other passages from his manual. 
 The old man drank in the words, and seemed to be 
 refreshed, as he whispered now and then, with 
 failing breath, "All is good — all is good!" At last 
 the brightness of his views of life was lost; not in 
 the darkness of death, but in the light of another life. 
 
 A NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 At midnight, when the old year was departing, 
 there stood at his window an Old Man, looking forth 
 with the aspect of a long despair on the calm never- 
 fading heavens, and on the pure, white and quiet 
 earth, where there seemed to exist then no creature 
 so sleepless and so miserable as himself! Now near 
 the grave, this Old Man had, as the results of all 
 his long career, nothing but errors, sins and disease — a 
 shattered body, a desolated soul, a poisoned heart 
 and an age of remorse. The beautiful years of his 
 youth were all changed into dismal goblins shrinking 
 away now, to hide themselves from the dawn of 
 
 another New Year In his desperation and 
 
 unutterable grief, he looked up towards the heavens 
 
JEAN PAUL. 193 
 
 and cried aloud; — "Oh, give me back my youth! — Oh, 
 Father! place me but once more upon the cross-way, 
 that I may choose the path on the right hand, and 
 not again that on the left." .... 
 
 'But his Father and his Youth were gone — for 
 ever! He saw misguiding lights gleaming forth out 
 of the marsh, and fading away in the churchyard. 
 "There are my days of folly!" he said. Then a 
 shooting star fell from heaven, flickered, and vanished 
 on the ground. "That is myself!" said he; while the 
 poisoned fangs of remorse were biting into his 
 bleeding heart. . . . 
 
 Then, suddenly, a peal of bells — distant church 
 music hailing the New Year — sounded through the 
 calm air, and his agony was appeased. He looked 
 on the dim horizon, and on the wide world all around, 
 and he thought of the friends of his youth; of the 
 men who — happier and better than himself — were 
 now teachers of the people, or fathers of joyous 
 children growing up to a prosperous manhood, and 
 he exclaimed; — "Ah, my Parents! I too might have 
 been sleeping now with eyes not stained with tears, 
 if I had followed your advice and had responded to 
 your New Year's prayers for me!" .... He covered 
 his face with his hands, and a thousand burning 
 tears streamed down his cheeks, while in his despair 
 he sighed; — "Oh, give me back my youth!" .... 
 
 And his youth suddenly returned. He awoke, 
 
194 
 
 JEAN PA UL. 
 
 and lo! all the terror of this New Year's Eve had 
 been only a dream! He was still young; but the 
 sins of his youth had not been dreams. How thank- 
 ful he felt now, that he was still young; that he had 
 power to forsake the false path and to enter the 
 road lighted by a bright sun and leading on to rich 
 fields of harvest! 
 
 Oh, young reader! if you have wandered from 
 the right path, turn back now! Or this terrible dream 
 may, some day, be for you a condemnation; and 
 when you cry out; "Oh, beautiful Youth, return!" 
 your prayer may not be heard; your Youth may 
 come back to you never, never more! 
 
KORNER. 
 
1 he German people do not believe that Karl Theodor 
 Korner was a great poet. What he might have been 
 none can tell; for he fell, on the battle-field of na- 
 tional freedom, when he was only twenty-two years 
 old. But his name will long be kindly remembered, 
 whenever the story of the war of liberation in 1813 
 is told. Of all the young men who at that time 
 derived their inspiration from Schiller's poetry, 
 Korner was the most prominent. In a moral sense 
 he might, indeed, be called Schiller's son. The ac- 
 cordance of his lyric poetry with the story of his 
 life made him a hero among many other young 
 men who aided in fulfilling the prediction first 
 uttered in 'Wilhelm Tell'. 
 
 Schiller's dramatic prophecy was written in a 
 
198 KORNER. 
 
 gloomy time, and the prospects of national freedom 
 soon grew darker. It became more and more evident 
 that 'a house divided against itself could not stand 
 against a grand military centralization, commanded 
 by one who was a virtuoso of the first class in the 
 art of warfare. On one side was unity; on the other 
 division. A ninth part of Germany was cut away 
 at Luneville, in 1801; then followed the disaster at 
 Austerlitz, and, in the next year, the more conclusive 
 catastrophe at Jena. The prostration of the princes, 
 who, under the name of 'Rheinbund', made them- 
 selves slaves, was soon followed by a formal disso- 
 lution of the empire. A third part of Germany was 
 reduced to a state of vassalage, and, in 1807, Napoleon 
 was the supreme ruler over all Europe, except England 
 and Turkey. Then followed the good measures of 
 reformation introduced by Stein and his friends. 
 Their plans were, indeed, sure; yet their success 
 seemed likely to be slow, and Goethe's words still 
 appeared true: — 'the man (Napoleon) is too strong 
 for you'. But in 1812 Napoleon invaded Russia, and 
 his failure there changed the prospect of freedom 
 throughout Europe. True, even after* that grand 
 disaster he could still collect an army, and again 
 he asserted his will to bind Europe in chains and its 
 princes in fetters of iron. But the hour was too 
 late. The people were rising in masses to defend 
 national freedom. Throughout Germany (excluding 
 "the Rheinbund") there was only one voice heard, 
 and that voice demanded freedon^Birouths who could 
 
KORNER. 199 
 
 hardly be called more than boys, and gray men, old 
 enough to claim exemption from military service, 
 came gladly forth to devote their lives. Wives, 
 sisters and mothers encouraged the men as they 
 marched to battle, carried ammunition and provisions, 
 and, in some instances, armed themselves and fought 
 bravely. A woman, dressed as a trooper, fought with 
 Liitzow's volunteers and fell on the battlefield at 
 Gorde in September 1813. These are but a few in- 
 dications of the movement that, in 1813, followed a 
 time of deep depression. 
 
 For once, in the history of the world, philosophy 
 and practice, poetry and reality — living too often far 
 apart from each other — were united in this contest. 
 The universities were made schools of patriotism; 
 Fichte gave to his idealism a national and practical 
 purport; Schleiermacher, as the representative of 
 theology, came to the front, and the imaginative 
 man of science, the brave Norwegian, Steffens; served 
 in the German army and gained the distinction of 
 the Iron Cross. Poetry numbered among its patriotic 
 representatives, Arndt and Schenkendorf, Korner 
 and Ruckert. The poet of national and rational 
 liberty, Schiller, though dead, was yet speaking. 
 'Youths carried into the struggle the enthusiasm 
 kindled by his poetry: his songs were on their lips, 
 and his Spirit fought along with them'. Every re- 
 giment had its attendant troop or company of 
 volunteers, and among them one of the most fervent 
 of young patriots was Theodor Korner, Thus he 
 
200 KORNER. 
 
 addressed the egoistic youth who could stay at home 
 and read romances in 1813: 
 
 Let our last hour come in the midst of the fight! 
 
 O welcome the death of a soldier brave! 
 While you, "neath your coverlet silken and bright, 
 Cower like a dog, in your fear of the grave. 
 Here, come along! whoever is strong 
 A sabre to swing in defence of the right. 
 
 Karl Theodor Korner, born at Dresden, 23rd. 
 September 1791, was the son of Christian Gottfried 
 Korner, an excellent man, who has been already 
 named as Schiller's best friend. The father educated 
 the son in the belief, that Schiller, if not the greatest, 
 was the best of all German poets, and Theodor, 
 throughout his short life, faithfully held this creed. 
 He studied in the mining school at Freiberg and 
 afterwards at Leipzig; but easy circumstances enabled 
 him to live free from cares of business, and to spend 
 his leisure in writing dramas. "When only twenty- 
 one years old, he had gained such a reputation that 
 he was appointed poet to the theatre in Vienna. 
 But his best dramatic works — 'Zriny 1 , 'Hedwig' and 
 'Rosamunde' — may be described as imitations of 
 Schiller. While he' lived at Vienna, in the midst of 
 all such circumstances as make life dear to an ima- 
 ginative youth, Korner was betrothed to the fascinating 
 young actress, Toni Adamberger, whom he described 
 as 'his guardian angel in that seductive paradise — 
 Vienna'. Thence the movement of the time called 
 the young poet away. Leaving his faithful betrothe d, 
 
KORNER. 201 
 
 and tearing himself away from kind friends and 
 flattering circumstances, he first obtained his father's 
 consent and then enrolled himself in the troop of 
 volunteers (die Jager) commanded by Major von 
 Liitzow. Having said farewell to friends in Dresden, 
 the young volunteer went to Leipzig, was appointed 
 adjutant in 'Liitzow's Wild Chase', and soon after- 
 wards was engaged in an incursion into Thuringia, 
 where he was severely wounded in a skirmish. He 
 rested awhile at Carlsbad, and then returned to 
 join his troop at its quarters on the Elbe, near 
 Hamburg. Here, in August 1813, hardly a day passed 
 without some skirmish with the enemy; but Korner 
 found time to write several of the martial lyrics 
 included in his 'Lyre and Sword'. A fearless fore- 
 boding of death is expressed in the songs written 
 at this time. For example: 
 
 Lo, the promise bright and fair 
 
 Of the day we long to see! 
 
 Heaven itself is opening there, 
 
 Ay, the heaven where men are free! 
 
 Where German art and German song, 
 
 With peace and love in home's dear bowers, 
 
 And all that's true and great and strong, 
 
 And all that's fair shall soon be ours. 
 
 But first comes the battle; for many the doom 
 
 To fall while they conquer; for 'tis from the tomb 
 
 Of the hero devoted that freedom will bloom. 
 
 ?6 
 
202 KORNER. 
 
 In August, 1813, Korner, with his troop, was 
 stationed near Gadebusch in Mecklenburg. There, 
 on the 26th., he recited his last song ('the Sword- 
 •song') to one of his friends, and he had hardly ended 
 it when the call to battle was heard. In the ensuing 
 fight the enemy retreated, and Korner, while riding 
 in pursuit, received a fatal shot fired from an am- 
 buscade. He died on the following day, and his 
 brethren-in-arms buried his body under an oak near 
 the village Wobbelin. His battle-songs were collected 
 by his father and published under the title 'Lyre and 
 Sword', to which our vignette refers. We select for 
 translation three stanzas from the song in which the 
 poet anticipated the close of his own honourable 
 career. 
 
 LUTZOW'S WILD CHASE. 
 What helmets flash out from the wood into day? — 
 
 See, nearer their course they are taking; 
 Fast ride the black horsemen in battle-array, 
 Their loud horns are yelling their call to the fray, 
 
 The hearts of all cowards are quaking. 
 How name you the troopers who ride such a race? — 
 'That is Liitzow's fearless and desperate chase'. 
 
 There, down in the valley, they rush to the fight, 
 
 Where sabres on helmets are clashing; 
 From blades of bright steel, as together they smite, 
 Through the smoke of the battle there glitters a light, 
 
 The sparks of our freedom are flashing. 
 What mean the black troopers who ride such a race ? — 
 
 'That is Liitzow's fearless and desperate chase'. 
 
KORNER. 
 
 203 
 
 Who lies mid his foes on the battle-place ? — 
 
 Though from life and from friends he must sever, 
 
 Though no more he must join in the desperate chase, 
 
 There is not a shadow of fear on his face, 
 For our nation is free and for ever; 
 
 Ihe bold and black rider has ended his race. 
 
 'That was Liitzow's fearless and desperate chase'. 
 
 26* 
 
Chamisso. 
 
/Adalbert von Chamisso, a native of France, who 
 made himself a German poet, can hardly be classed 
 with any school. As a German, by education and 
 long residence in Berlin, he assumed the name given 
 above; but his French name, in full, was 'Louis 
 Charles Adelaide de Chamisso de Boncourt'. He was 
 born at Chateau Boncourt in Champagne, 27th. January, 
 178 1. His parents, belonging to the nobility driven 
 from France by the Revolution, went to Germany 
 in 1790, and, six years later, resided in Berlin, where 
 Adalbert, after serving as page to the amiable queen 
 Luise, entered the Prussian army and was soon made 
 lieutenant. He was with the garrison at Hameln 
 (1805) when he received the offer of a professorship 
 at Napoleonville, which military duty compelled him 
 to decline. In the following year, and after the 
 
208 CHAMISSO. 
 
 surrender of the garrison at Hameln, he returned to 
 France, visited some relatives there, and stayed some 
 time in Switzerland. Meanwhile his parents were 
 deceased, and he felt that France was no longer his 
 home. He returned to Berlin in 1812. 
 
 During the war of liberation in 1813, the French- 
 man who had made himself a German found his 
 circumstances painful. Visits to relatives in his native 
 land had revived memories of childhood passed in 
 the seclusion of Chateau Boncourt, and on this side 
 he felt that he still belonged to France. On the 
 other hand, education, literary taste, and ties of 
 friendship bound him to Germany. In these circum- 
 stances , and while several of his comrades were 
 hastening away from their studies to the battle-field, 
 Chamisso felt (as he said) 'that the sword was taken 
 out of his hand'; he could fight neither for Germany 
 nor for France. To dispel the ennui of a gloomy 
 time, he turned his attention to science, especially 
 botany, and wrote his unique romance of 'Peter 
 Schlemihl' — the man who sold his own shadow for 
 unbounded wealth, and found himself a loser by the 
 bargain. The story, soon translated into several 
 languages, was partly indebted for its success to the 
 bold originality of the opening scene. 'Peter', who 
 meets 'an insignificant man, dressed in a gray over- 
 coat', but possessing an inexhaustible purse, thus 
 begins the sad story: — "Done!" said I, taking the 
 bag, "for this you shall have my shadow." — The man 
 in the gray frock instantly struck the bargain. Then, 
 
CHAMISSO. 209 
 
 kneeling down, he, with admirable dexterity, rolled 
 up my shadow from head to foot on the grass, took 
 it up and put it into his pocket. As he walked 
 away, I fancied I heard him inwardly chuckling, as if 
 he had outwitted me'. — German friends were deter- 
 mined to find some profound second meaning in this 
 odd story. Some said the shadow was France; others 
 that it indicated 'any superficial quality on which 
 success in society might depend'; or the loss of the 
 shadow might be any misfortune that leaves a man 
 alone in the world. Whatever it might be, Chamisso 
 would never explain his own second meaning. 
 
 ■ The sorrow of the time could not be dispelled by 
 writing a romance. Chamisso wished to go far away 
 from the arena of a strife in which he could take 
 no part, and the wish was soon fulfilled. He read, 
 in 1814, a newspaper account of a projected Russian 
 voyage of discovery, and instantly exclaimed: — 'O 
 might I but sail with them!' — Not long afterwards 
 he was engaged as a naturalist, to accompany the 
 expedition in a voyage to the South Pacific and round 
 the world. From this long voyage he returned, in 
 1818, to Berlin, where he was appointed overseer of 
 the Royal Botanic Garden. He soon afterwards mar- 
 ried, and obtained from the French government some 
 compensation for his loss by the compulsory emi- 
 gration of his parents and the destruction of their 
 property at Boncourt. The remainder of his life was 
 passed in circumstances made agreeable by the society 
 of many friends, including the Crown Prince of 
 
 27 
 
aio CHAMISSO. 
 
 Prussia. In one of his notes addressed to the poet, 
 the Prince wrote: — 'Your lines on "Chateau Boncourt" 
 have moved me to tears, and involuntarily I invoke 
 for yourself the blessing- you there bestow on your 
 native place ! — Chamisso died inBerlin, 21st. August, 1838. 
 The author's poetical works, mostly written during 
 the time from 1820 — 38, include lyrical poems, several 
 ballads, and some longer narrative poems composed 
 in the difficult form of the Terzine. The ballads show 
 versatility in the choice of subjects, of which several 
 are gloomy and sensational. Their tragic character is 
 strongly contrasted with the tone of a lyrical series 
 entitled ' Frauen-Liebe und Leben', to which our 
 vignette has reference. These simple lyrical poems 
 give in outlines the general story of 'woman's love 
 and life'; the joy of the bride, and the sorrow of the 
 widow. It might hardly be believed that the same 
 hand that wrote such a frightful story as ' The 
 Crucifix'' could also write gentle and sympathetic 
 verses like the following on one of the passages in 
 'woman's life': — 
 
 O ring upon my finger! — from thee I'll never part; 
 
 'Tis with a prayer I kiss thee' — and press thee to my heart. 
 
 My peaceful dream of childhood — had passed too soon away; 
 When early morn was over, — how cheerless seemed the day! 
 
 The world seemed wide and lonely, — my life for me was drear; 
 O little ring, all golden! — life now is very dear. 
 
 For Him I'll live for ever ! — the constant, loving light 
 
 That from his face is beaming — has made mine own so bright. 
 
CHAMISSO. 211 
 
 O ring upon my finger! — from thee I'll never part; 
 
 'Tis with a prayer I kiss thee' — and press thee to my heart. 
 
 Chamisso writes , in his ballads , of several humor- 
 ous as well as of some terrible subjects. One of 
 his poems has a boldly selected title — 'The Old 
 Laundress'. It tells briefly the story of a widow's 
 faithful and cheerful fight with poverty; of her 
 duties fulfilled in training her children, and of her 
 contentment in the closing years of life. This is 
 something better than a coarse, sensational sketch, 
 and speaks well of the writer's heart. He thus con- 
 cludes his eulogy of 'the Old Laundress': — 
 
 Thus for myself I pray: — like thee, 
 When eventide is drawing near, 
 May I review the past and see 
 A life that leaves a conscience clear; 
 A life contented with its share 
 Of earthly good by Heaven allowed, 
 And calmly closing — free from care 
 About a death-bed and a shroud. 
 
 Among the narrative poems one of the best, 
 entitled 'Salas y Gomez', expresses with tragic dignity 
 the sentiment of solitude that gave a serious interest 
 to 'Peter Schlemihl'. The poem was suggested by a 
 story heard by Chamisso when on a cruise in the 
 South Pacific Ocean. Of Salas y Gomez he writes 
 thus in his journal: — 'It is said, that on this lonely 
 and bare reef the remains of a wrecked vessel were 
 some time ago discovered. It is terrible to think 
 that a solitary human being might here be cast 
 
 27* 
 
2i2 CHAMISSO. 
 
 away. The eggs of sea-fowl might too long support 
 existence on this bare, sunburnt crag, where sea and 
 sky alone are visible'. — The poem founded on this 
 supposition tells how a solitary old man, left on a 
 reef in the Pacific, wrestles with his grief. He writes 
 on slaty tablets brief memoranda of sufferings, hopes, 
 lamentations and despair — all the transitions of feeling. 
 A sail appears, like a white speck on the line where 
 sky and sea join; it comes nearer and grows clearer, 
 and hope springs up once more in the breast of the 
 cast- away. But soon the sail fades away from his 
 strained vision; ocean, sky, wailing sea-birds are once 
 more all his world. Then follows his deepest despair. 
 At last, it is transmuted into submission. He looks up to 
 the constellation of the Southern Cross, shining on the 
 deep, and that sign suggests final thoughts of peace 
 and resignation. — Thus he conludes his confession: — 
 
 The tempest that within me raved has pass'd; 
 Here, where so long I've suffer'd, all alone, 
 I will lie down in peace and breathe my last. 
 
 Let not another sail come near this stone 
 
 Until all sighs and tears have pass'd away! — 
 Why should I long to go, a man unknown, 
 
 To see my childhood's home, and there to stray, 
 Without a welcome or kind look, and find 
 That all my dear, old friends are 'neath the clay ? — 
 
 Lord! by thy grace, my soul, to thee resigned, 
 
 Let me breathe forth in peace, and let me sleep 
 Here, where thy Cross shines calmly o'er the deep. 
 
 This notice of a son of France numbered with 
 the poets of Germany may close with a translation 
 
CHAMISSO. 213 
 
 of 'Chateau Boncourt' — a poem referring to the 
 writer's personal history. 
 
 CHATEAU BONCOURT. 
 
 Dreaming, I'm a child once more, 
 
 Young, although my head is gray. 
 
 Visions of the days of yore, 
 
 How ye haunt my soul to-day! 
 
 From a shadowy, leafy bower 
 
 Gleams the castle's old, gray wall; 
 
 Portal, bridge of stone and tower, 
 Pinnacles — I know them all. 
 
 There, as friends of early days, 
 From the wall above the gate 
 
 Sculptured lions kindly gaze, 
 And for my arrival wait. 
 
 Near the well the sphinx still dreams, 
 And the fig-tree still is green; 
 
 Through yon lattice morning's beams 
 Waked me oft from sleep serene. 
 
 In the chapel now I tread — 
 
 There's the old, memorial shrine; 
 
 There the blazonings of the dead 
 O'er the tomb of marble shine. 
 
 But I scarcely read the signs — 
 
 There's a mist that veils my sight; 
 
 Though from coloured windows shines 
 O'er the shield a splendid light. 
 
2>4 
 
 CHAMISSO. 
 
 Ah! dear home in days of yore, 
 
 Shining still in memory's light, 
 
 Thou art seen on earth no more — 
 
 Now the plough goes o'er the site. 
 
 Fertile be, O fair domain! 
 
 Though I'm sad, I bless thee now. 
 Fortunate be yonder swain 
 
 O'er thee while he drives the plough! 
 
 Here I leave my grief behind — 
 Like a minstrel, lute in hand, 
 
 Wandering far, I'll solace find, 
 
 Singing, roam from land to land. 
 
RUCKERT. 
 
Uuring the last ten years of Goethe's life three 
 lyric poets gained distinction. They differed widely 
 in their tendencies; but were alike in one respect: — 
 all gave their aid to the culture of an artistic style. 
 Ruckert introduced a greater variety of forms in 
 versification. Platen gave to his lyric productions 
 the highest finish and polish. Heine reduced poetic 
 diction to perfect simplicity, not without an effective 
 melody. 
 
 Friedrich Ruckert, the son of a Bavarian officer 
 in the revenue department, was born in the little 
 town Schweinfurt-am-Main, 16 May, 1788. His boyhood 
 was passed in the quietude of rural life, and after 
 some preparatory studies at Wiirzburg he went to 
 Jena, where he studied philology and was engaged 
 as a private tutor. Like many other youths at 
 
 28 
 
2i8 RUCKERT. 
 
 that time, he was called away from his studies by 
 the war of liberation. In 1809, a short time before 
 the conclusion of peace at Schonbrunn, he offered 
 his services as a volunteer on the side of Austria 
 against Napoleon, and, in 1813, would have enlisted 
 in the Prussian army; but was prevented by failure 
 of health. He, therefore, endeavoured to serve the 
 nation by writing the 'Sonnets in Armour', which 
 were published in 1814, when the author assumed the 
 pseudonym Freimund Raimar'. These martial sonnets, 
 correct and polished in form, were soon followed by 
 a series of patriotic songs written in a more popular 
 style. After the war Ruckert wrote a few lyrics, 
 to express disappointment with its results, and then 
 turned away from political poetry. He was for a 
 short time engaged as editor of a newspaper — the 
 'Morgenblatt' — and in 1817 made a tour in Italy, and 
 resided for some months in Rome. Afterwards, he 
 lived a few years at Coburg, devoting his time to 
 the soothing study of oriental literature, especially 
 Arabic and Persian, and in 1826 he was appointed 
 professor of oriental languages at Erlangen. There 
 he remained until 1841, when he was called by the 
 king, Friedrich Wilhelm IV., to a higher position in 
 the university of Berlin, and was raised to the rank 
 of a privy -councillor. But the orientalist and poet 
 complained that he never felt himself at home in 
 Berlin, and in 1848, when he was placed in easy 
 circumstances, he retired, to enjoy poetical quietism 
 at his little country-seat situate at Neusess near Coburg. 
 
RUCKERT. 219 
 
 Here he lived with his wife and children, as quietly 
 as a Brahman of 'the good old time', and devoted 
 his later years to oriental studies and poetry. He 
 . died at Neusess on the last day of January, 1866. 
 Few men have so well harmonized their poetry and 
 their domestic life. 
 
 Ruckert may be described as a Hindoo-Persian- 
 German poet; for some characteristics of oriental 
 poetry may be traced through the greater part of 
 his almost innumerable lyrical and meditative poems. 
 Of several series of lyrical effusions 'The five garlands' 
 of 'Love's Spring-time' 1 may be named as fair specimens. 
 Here we have not the faintest echo of the martial 
 tones heard in the 'Sonnets in Armour'- (To this 
 contrast of tone in the poet's earlier and later verses 
 our artist refers in his sketch of the eagle asleep). 
 In 'Love's Spring-time' all the transitions in a long 
 and quiet story of love, marriage and domestic life, 
 are described in fluent verses richly diversified in 
 their forms, but united in sentiment, and adorned 
 with a wealth of pleasing imagery. But critics — 
 including women — have complained that the poet 
 displays fluent versification and a versatile fancy 
 rather than depth of feeling. The world in which 
 he dwells and sings is a poetical Utopia, and such 
 harsh contrasts and tragic interests as belong to real 
 life are there unknown. 
 
 The flowers in 'the five garlands' are so prettily 
 tied together, that it is hardly fair to take one away 
 and deprive it of the charm lent by harmony and 
 
220 RUCKERT. 
 
 contrast. There are roses in the garlands; but we 
 will cull only one little violet: — 
 
 Love you for wealth? then love not me: 
 Love the rich pearl i 'the deep blue sea. 
 
 Or is your love by beauty won? — 
 Turn to the glow of the rising sun. 
 
 Love you for youth? then woo young May, 
 Coming in Spring in fair array. 
 
 Love you for love ? O then love me ! 
 Love me, and I will aye love thee. 
 
 Ruckert's most extensive meditative work, 'The 
 Brahman's Wisdom', is mostly didactic, though the 
 long strain of direct preaching in Alexandrine verse 
 is now and then pleasantly interrupted by the insertion 
 of a parable. Here and there we have, in the form of a 
 myth or parable, some good lesson in ethics or theology. 
 The following may serve as a brief example: — 
 
 A father and his son are wandering far from home; 
 Late in the night along a lonely moor they roam. 
 On every rock and tree and o'er the dismal plain, 
 For guidance through the gloom, the boy looks forth in vain; 
 Meanwhile the old man looks upon the heavens alone: — 
 'How can our path on earth among the stars be shown?' — 
 Rocks, trees and lonely moor tell nothing of the way; 
 From heaven the pole-star sheds a faint but steady ray, 
 And shows the safe road home. — ''Tis good to trust in One; 
 To find your path on earth, look up to heaven, my son.' 
 
 In too many passages of ' The Brahman's Wisdom', 
 the didactic strain is dry, or the import is insignificant. 
 
RUCKERT. 221 
 
 The Brahman sometimes writes arguments in verse 
 directed against the doctrine of materialism. Or he 
 gives us his notions of railways and of the effects 
 of their noise and vibration in suppressing poetry 
 and 'frightening away fairies'. He condescends to 
 notice the good and the evil effects of 'tobacco', and 
 condemns 'the bad habit of yawning' when didactic 
 verse is recited. In one passage he complains that 
 his verses will not run on well, because 'he can find 
 no good pens!' Here and there, as when he notices 
 the enormous claims of modern science, the Brahman 
 writes in a humorous vein. For example: 
 
 'A time will come', they say, 'when poetry will be play 
 For babies, and the boys will throw vain rhymes away, 
 And give their whole attention to science deep and clear, 
 And all things will be manly, scientific and severe. 
 Humanity will then its flag of victory wave', 
 And, thank God! I shall then be sleeping in the grave. 
 
 The epic poems written byRucKERT may be briefly 
 noticed. 'JVal and Damajauti', the story of a Hindoo 
 wife's miraculous fidelity is founded on an episode 
 in the i Mahabharata\ The story of 'Rostem and 
 Suhrab' is borrowed from the Persian 'Shah-NameK 
 of Firdusi, and has more of an epic character than 
 the Hindoo episode. Ruckert's dramas may be simply 
 described as failures. His translations from Arabic 
 and Persian display the powers of a virtuoso in the 
 art of versification. Some translations are free; in 
 others the sense, the metre, the rhyme or assonance, 
 and the mannerism of the original are all represented 
 
222 RUCKERT. 
 
 as in a mirror. No forms of verse, either Italian or 
 Oriental, presented to the poet any formidable dif- 
 ficulty. 
 
 Ruckert was a true poet; but his world of fancy 
 and imagination did not comprehend any deep or 
 strong human interest. His poetry is defective in 
 narrative and dramatic power. He is a minstrel who 
 can sing many songs of spring-time, of birds, wood- 
 lands and flowers and of quiet love; but he has no 
 store of historical ballads. He knows little of comedy 
 and less of tragedy. His harp is well-strung and 
 beautifully in tune; the accompaniments to his songs 
 are varied and well-played; but we often wish that 
 a minstrel so melodious would sing of something 
 more deeply moving than meadows in spring-time, 
 with musical birds, gardens full of roses and scenes 
 of domestic quietude. Of themes like these he is 
 never weary, and when he has been preaching in 
 a dull, didactic strain, we long for his return to his 
 Persian (or German) garden of roses. Out of the 
 multitude of his lyrical poems, how shall we select 
 one, or even two or three, that may indicate his 
 wealth of fancy and his fluent versification? — His 
 merits are not concentrated in a few songs, but are 
 spread out over an extensive series of lyrical poems. 
 Of his power to vary and expand a lowly or simple 
 subject, his poem 'The Dying Flower 1 is a good 
 example. It opens with a strain of pleasing naivete, 
 and closes with sentiments that may be called sublime. 
 
RUCKERT. 223 
 
 THE DYING FLOWER. 
 
 'Hope! — for yon may live to see 
 
 Genial days again in May; 
 Look around you! — every tree 
 
 Seems in Autumn to decay; 
 Still the life, with quiet power, 
 
 Sleeps and waits through wintry days 
 Till, with sunshine and with shower, 
 
 April new, green leaves displays'. 
 
 Ah! — I'm not an oak-tree strong 
 
 That may live for many years. 
 Though the winter's cold and long, 
 
 Trees are green when Spring appears. 
 I am but a flower, you know, 
 
 Called to life in sunny May, 
 And, when buried under snow, 
 
 I for ever pass away! 
 
 'Modest, timid little flower! 
 
 Take the solace I would give: — 
 Though you die, you have the power 
 
 Soon to rise again and live. 
 Let the wind of winter blow! 
 
 Fade, contented with your doom; 
 After days and nights of snow, 
 
 Comes again the time for bloom!' 
 
 True; when I no more am seen, 
 
 Other flowers will please your eye; 
 Still with grass the field is green, 
 
 But the blades of grass must die; 
 And, when others charms display, 
 
 I no more shall see the light; 
 For I've but a transient day, 
 
 Followed by an endless night. 
 
224 RUCKERT. 
 
 Though another Spring will glow, 
 
 Opening many a blossom fair, 
 Can it soothe me, when I know 
 
 I shall not be with them there? — 
 Sun! thou dost already see 
 
 Coming Spring, with all her bloom; 
 But thy light departs from me, 
 
 Leaves me fading into gloom. 
 
 "Woe! that e'er, to meet thy rays, 
 
 I my leaflets would display! 
 While I loved on thee to gaze, 
 
 Thou didst steal my life away! 
 From thy pity now to screen 
 
 All that's left of beauty here, 
 Let me cower beneath the green, 
 
 Close and fade and disappear! 
 
 No ! — I cannot thus depart — 
 
 Everlasting Source of Day! 
 Thou art melting from my heart 
 
 All my icy grief away; 
 Still I feel a genial glow 
 
 Kindled by thy latest ray; 
 All I am to thee I owe — ■ 
 
 Take all back in thanks to-day! — 
 
 Thanks for every gentle air 
 
 Playing round me in the Spring, 
 And for insect-splendours rare, 
 
 Flitting by on silken wing; 
 Thanks for fragrance, not mine own, 
 
 And for colours, once so bright; 
 Thanks for all to thee alone; 
 
 All are thine, Eternal Light! 
 
RUCKERT. 
 
 225 
 
 Like a gem of modest glow, 
 
 Once I shone with borrowed light; 
 Thou didst make me shine below 
 
 As in heaven the stars so bright. 
 While I breathe the vital air, 
 
 Let me cast, without a sigh, 
 One more glance on earth so fair, 
 
 One last look on yonder sky! 
 
 Everlasting Source of Day! 
 
 Let me vanish in thy blaze! 
 Heaven! thy radiant blue display, 
 
 Though my tent of green decays; 
 Shine, dispelling winter's gloom, 
 
 Light of coming April's sky! 
 Though I fade, no more to bloom, 
 
 Thus without a fear I'll die. 
 
 29 
 
Uhland. 
 
 -7Q* 
 
1 he Romantic School held a prominent place in 
 imaginative literature about the time (1808) when 
 Uhland first appeared as a poet and, with respect to 
 several of his earlier poems, he might be described 
 as one of the disciples of that school. 
 
 The word 'romantic', as used in aesthetics, de- 
 signates the general character of mediaeval, as distinct 
 from both ancient and modern, poetry. In German 
 literary history the term has a more extensive 
 meaning, and includes the characteristics of writers 
 belonging to 'the Earlier Romantic School' (the 
 brothers Schlegel with their friends Tieck and 
 Novalis) and of their followers (Fouque, Brentano, 
 Arnim and Eichendorff) , who are classified as 
 belonging to the 'Later Romantic School'. One of 
 the common tendencies of both schools was a pre- 
 
2 3 o UHLAND. 
 
 ference of mediaeval themes for poetry. Another 
 expressed itself as an aversion from the 'literary 
 rationalism' described briefly in our notice of Herder. 
 A love of poetical mysticism was another trait of 
 the writers who were called 'romantic'. They 
 ascribed sentiments and thoughts to surrounding- 
 nature, found ideas expressed in landscapes, heard 
 tales of wonder told by brooks and waterfalls, and 
 believed in reciprocal relations existing between the 
 mind and all that world with which the life of men 
 is closely united. This belief was affirmed, not only 
 in poetry, but also in the philosophy prevalent 
 during the first ten years of the nineteenth century. 
 Schelling, who may be called the founder of the 
 Romantic School, asserted in philosophy the ideas 
 found in Wordsworth's meditative poetry, and more- 
 over described as at least credible virtues or powers 
 resident in certain 'holy places'. With reference to 
 the same belief, Steffens wrote: — 'How can all the 
 intuitions implied in the highest poetry of all ages 
 be described as destitute of any true basis'? 
 
 The traits already noticed hardly suffice to 
 account for the controversy excited by the Roman- 
 tic School. But, in its wider meaning, the term 
 'romantic' was applied to writers whose theories 
 were defined as retrogressive in politics, and as 
 having for their aim a revival of mediaeval Catholi- 
 cism. This latter tendency was avowed by Friedrich 
 Schlegel, in 1803, when he went over to the Roman 
 Catholic Church. The mediaeval and catholic ten- 
 
U ELAND. 231 
 
 derides of several other men of the Romantic School 
 were founded rather on imagination and sentiment than 
 on faith. However they might differ in other re- 
 spects, they were mostly united by their national 
 feeling. This bond also united them with Kurner 
 and with Uhland. The men of the Romantic 
 School expressed, at first vaguely and as in a 
 dream, that national enthusiasm which was sub- 
 sequently more boldly asserted by Arndt and 
 Korner, during the war of liberation, and at a later 
 time, by Uhland, in his lyrical ballads and other 
 poems. It is with regard chiefly to the mediaeval 
 scenery and the national tone of his poetry, that 
 Uhland is associated with the poets of the Romantic 
 School. His beautiful naivete and his truly popular 
 style are the distinctive traits of his own poetical 
 genius. 
 
 Ludwig Uhland, whose father held the office of 
 secretary to the university at Tubingen, was born 
 there, 26th. April, 1787. Having gained the degree 
 LL.D. at Tubingen, he continued his studies in 
 Paris, and in 1814 was established as an advocate in 
 Stuttgart, where he lived until 1829. He was then 
 elected professor of German Literature in his native 
 place, and held the appointment until 1833, when he 
 resigned it because it was found incompatible with 
 his duties as a member of the "Wurtemberg States- 
 Assembly. Henceforth, Uhland lived in comfortable 
 circumstances at Tubingen, where he mostly devoted 
 his attention to the two strongly-contrasted studies 
 
2 3 2 UHLAND. 
 
 — mediaeval poetry and modern politics. Meanwhile, 
 he had married in 1810, but he had no children. 
 Free from the cares of a father, he found such quiet 
 enjoyment as he liked best, in making tours in Ger- 
 many and in visiting, here and there, a few select 
 friends. In many of these excursions his wife was 
 his companion. Among his nearer friends, he 
 numbered Kerner, Schwab, Mayer, and others who 
 lived in Suabia and wrote poetry. Hence they were 
 collectively described (by Heine) as 'the Suabian 
 School'; but the existence of such a school (like that 
 of 'the lake-school of poetry' at Grasmere) was 
 nothing more than a critic's invention. The visionary 
 Kerner, who was a genial humourist and, at the 
 same time, a believer in 'spiritualism', was by no 
 means an imitator of Uhland. 
 
 In politics Uhland was described by friends as 
 <a man of the people', and by others, as an un- 
 practical theorist, or 'a political idealist'. There was 
 found neither egoism nor a love of faction in his 
 character; but he was stubborn in adherence to 
 principles. He would maintain, as he said, 'the 
 ancient rights' of the Wiirtemberg people, in oppo- 
 sition to the new constitution promised in 1814, and 
 he was generally discontented with the course taken 
 by political events in the time from 1815 — 30. In 1848 he 
 held a prominent place in the Frankfurt Parliament, 
 where he belonged, at first, to the left-centre, but 
 was subsequently moved on further and further to- 
 wards the extreme left. He cared not, indeed, with 
 
UHLAND. 233 
 
 whom as associates he might be classed, so long as 
 they assisted him in asserting his own sacred 
 'principles', of which one was a belief that Germany 
 must be united under an elective monarchy. He 
 remained among 'the faithful few', the residuum of 
 the Frankfurt Parliament (irreverently called 'the 
 rump'), when they went to Stuttgart (in 1849), and he 
 was marching boldly in their van and by the side 
 of their president, when they were dispersed by the 
 military, and our poet narrowly escaped being ridden 
 down. After that fiasco of liberalism, Uhland re- 
 turned to his quiet home at Tubingen, and there 
 found solace in his favourite studies — mediaeval 
 poetry and the people's songs of the fifteenth and 
 sixteenth centuries. He still maintained, quietly but 
 firmly, his political theory, and, in accordance with 
 it, declined to accept (in 1853) the Prussian Order of 
 Merit and the Maximilian Order for Art and Science. 
 In 1862 Uhland, then seventy-five years old, went to 
 Weinsberg, to attend the funeral of his friend Kerner, 
 and there caught a cold that proved fatal. He died 
 14th. November, 1862. 
 
 Of all German poets Uhland was, in social life, 
 the most reserved and silent, and, in other respects, 
 the man and the poet were strangely contrasted. If 
 any of Lavater's disciples still live, they may find a 
 hard problem in Uhland's portrait. The look is 
 severe, and the eyebrows are contracted. The face 
 may indicate the man of firm resolution in politics, 
 but tells nothing of the poet. Uhland's stature and 
 
 3° 
 
234 UHLAND. 
 
 general appearance were insignificant. A stranger, 
 meeting the professor of German literature near 
 Tubingen, might naturally take him for some village 
 tailor or shoemaker. Uhland was delighted when any 
 mistake of this sort took place. When visitors 
 called on him, he mostly left his wife to sustain the 
 whole burden of the conversation, and whenever 
 any attempt was made to exhibit him as 'a lion', he 
 obstinately refused to emit the faintest roar. In 
 company, excepting that of his nearest friends, he 
 had hardly a word to say, and at some banquets, 
 given to pay him honour, he preserved almost per- 
 fect silence. His heart was true and kind; but he 
 had (as his friend Chamisso said) 'a thick rind'. The 
 excitement of political controversy enabled him, now 
 and then, to overcome his natural reserve, and in 
 the Frankfurt Parliament he spoke, sometimes, with 
 considerable freedom and energy. 
 
 The happiest part of his life was passed in 
 domestic retirement and in studies lying far away 
 from political warfare. Some of the best results of 
 these studies are found in a pleasant little work on 
 the minnesinger 'Walther von der Vogelweide' 
 (1822); in an essay 'On the Myth of Thor' (1836), and 
 in a collection of 'People's Songs' (1844.) Several of 
 the best traits belonging to the 'Minnelieder' of the 
 thirteenth and to the people's songs of the fifteenth 
 century belong also to Uhland's own poetry. 
 
 Uhland's poetical works include two dramas, 
 Ernst, duke of Suabia' (1818) and 'Ludwig the 
 
UHLAND. 235 
 
 Bavarian' (1819), which cannot be classed with the 
 author's best productions. Among - the ballads and 
 romances in which an epic character prevails, may 
 be named: — 'the Minstrel's Curse', 'Roland the 
 Shieldbearer' and 'Count Eberhard'. The most 
 popular of the author's shorter poems may be de- 
 fined as lyric-epic, or as narrative poems with a 
 prevalent subjective element. The poet here sug- 
 gests rather than tells a story, which is made to 
 breathe forth one sentiment. The story, its scenery, 
 and the melody of simple words are all well blended. 
 Uhland can find poetry in a landscape. In his lyrical 
 and historical ballads the imaginative scenery of old 
 times is united with a living and popular interest. 
 To such mediaeval scenery as castles looking down 
 from crags on rivers, valleys, and towns of quaint 
 Gothic architecture our vignette has reference. "We 
 are led by the poet, in his least ambitious poems, 
 into Suabian valleys, where quiet people dwell among 
 their gardens and orchards, or we are called away 
 to the solitary open field where the shepherd kneels 
 in prayer 'on the Lord's own day'. One of Uhland's 
 merits is, that, without writing in a dull, didactic 
 strain, he can suggest a wholesome thought while 
 he tells a story; or he can leave half-uttered yet 
 clearly indicated (as in 'the Castle on the Sea-shore') 
 a pathos that lies 'too deep for tears'. A few of 
 his poems may be called dreamy. In 'Harald' we 
 are led into a weird, enchanted forest, and warriors, 
 who have escaped from all perils of open battle, are 
 
 30* 
 
236 UHLAND. 
 
 overcome in places where they see nothing whatever 
 to be feared. This ballad may be called mystic, but 
 its second meaning is clear. In another poem, that 
 may be defined as a myth, the poet wanders far 
 away from the world into a lone forest, where a 
 distant tolling of bells calls up a vision of 'the lost 
 church' — a secluded sanctuary where religion has its 
 dwelling-place. This is one of the most beautifully 
 imaginative of all the poet's dreams. Of true pathos 
 expressed in a few simple words 'the Serenade' and- 
 'My good Comrade' are examples. Uhland lived 
 and wrote for the people, and he did not forget 
 their children. The ballad of 'Little Roland' and 
 the story of 'The Apple-tree' may be classed with the 
 best" poems written for the delight of childhood. The 
 poet's songs have been often set to music, and are 
 still sung by German students and soldiers, maidens 
 and children. Of the best it may be said, that they 
 hardly want any other music than good recitation 
 may supply. 
 
 Uhland deserves praise for his use of pure and 
 simple language in poetry. He gives us true poetry 
 in words that come from the heart and go to the heart 
 of 'the common people'. This, however, is not one 
 of the Suabian poet's peculiar traits, but belongs also 
 to Goethe, to Heine, and to other German poets. 
 Nothing is known in Germany of any 'Johnsonian' 
 theory or practice of grandiloquence and circum- 
 locution as a substitute for poetry, or of the absurd 
 controversy on 'poetic diction' that took place almost 
 
UHLAND. 237 
 
 eighty years ago, when sciolists, who knew nothing 
 whatever of poetry, rebuked Wordsworth and Cole- 
 ridge because , in writing English poetry, they mostly 
 used English words! In Germany the doctrine that 
 the language of the people is also the language of 
 poetry was established at least as long ago as the 
 time when the study of old popular songs and bal- 
 lads was revived by Herder. Since that time many 
 poetical writers, besides Uhland, have followed 
 ■ Goethe's example, and have avoided the rhetorical 
 forms which Wordsworth justly denounced as ' vague, 
 glossy, and unfeeling '- 
 
 Our limits afford no space for any fair specimens 
 of Uhland's historical ballads. This sketch may, 
 therefore, be concluded by giving a few translations 
 from the shorter poems. 
 
 THE LOST CHURCH. 
 
 In the deep forest, far away, 
 
 The wanderer hears the sound of bells: 
 Whence comes the music who can say? 
 
 For scarcely one old legend tells. 
 It cometh from the old church gray 
 
 That lies in deep, unbroken calm, 
 Where hundreds went, of yore, to pray, 
 
 Or joined to raise the holy psalm. 
 
 I went into the wood to pray, 
 
 From every path I wundered wide; 
 
 For freedom from this evil day, 
 For rest and sanctity I sighed. 
 
238 UHLAND. 
 
 The music from the ancient tower 
 
 Came, soothing, through the forest air, 
 
 And rose and swelled with greater power 
 As higher rose my soul in prayer. 
 
 And, as I listen to the sound, 
 
 It charms my spirit with its flow; 
 I seem to tread on sacred ground, 
 
 Like those who lived so long ago. 
 I live as in the ancient day; 
 
 Before me there, as in a dream, 
 And o'er a cloud of misty gray, 
 
 I see o. holy temple gleam. 
 
 All round the sky is darkly blue, 
 
 Above the sun is clear and bright; 
 There towers a minster fair to view 
 
 And glowing in celestial light. 
 By white and glistening clouds, that shine 
 
 As angels' wings, 'tis lifted high, 
 And, lightly soaring o'er the shrine, 
 
 A spire seems fading in the sky. 
 
 The bells, with sweet and soothing tone, 
 
 Make holy music in the tower; 
 To some celestial wind alone 
 
 They swing, unmoved by human power. 
 Their chiming hath a power to draw 
 
 My thought, my soul from earth away; 
 "With tremulous step and quiet awe, 
 
 I go into the shrine to pray. 
 
 "Within the venerable shrine 
 
 How beautiful the softened light! 
 
 The windows darkly-glorious shine, 
 
 With forms of saints and martyrs dight. 
 
UHLAN D. 239 
 
 Now into life comes forth the dream : 
 
 Old , saintly men kneel down to pray, 
 And consecrated virgins gleam 
 
 Along the aisles, in white array. 
 
 Within the choir I kneel in prayer, 
 
 Subdued by love and pious dread — 
 See! from a roof of radiance fair, 
 
 A halo over all is spread; 
 And when, once more, I upwards gaze, 
 
 The roof has vanished in the air; 
 Through open portals glorious rays 
 
 Shine forth, and Heaven itself is there! 
 
 The solemn glories of the shrine 
 
 Where on the altar-stairs I kneeled; 
 The sounds of harmony divine, 
 
 Can never be in words revealed. 
 He who would learn these things must go 
 
 Far in the forest lone to pray, 
 And follow well the sounds that flow 
 
 From the old church-tower far away. 
 
 MY GOOD COMRADE. 
 
 I had a comrade brave and true: 
 A better friend you never knew. 
 When we were called the foe to face, 
 Beside me marched, with steady pace, 
 My comrade brave and true. 
 
 A ball came flying. — Ts't for me, 
 'My friend'? I whispered, 'or for thee'?- 
 It tore him from my side away, 
 Stretch'd on the turf and bleeding, lay 
 My comrade brave and true. 
 
240 UHLAND. 
 
 I load my piece , for foes are nigh ; 
 He lifts a hand to bid 'good-bye'; 
 I must not grasp it, but I pray: — 
 'O live with God in endless day, 
 My comrade brave and true'! 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 'What music wakes me from my sleep? 
 
 Mother, who can they be 
 That, in the night so dark and deep, 
 
 Come here to sing for me ? ' 
 
 I nothing hear, I nothing see — 
 
 Your fancy was beguiled; 
 They have no serenade for thee, 
 
 My poor, afflicted child! 
 
 'It is no earthly music this! 
 
 It fills me with delight! 
 The angels call me to their bliss — 
 
 O mother dear, good-night'! 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S SUNDAY-HYMN. 
 
 This is the Lord's own day. 
 Out on the lonely plain, I hear 
 A far-off chiming die away; 
 
 All's silent, far and near. 
 
 I kneel upon the green, 
 And, with a thrill of holy fear, 
 I feel, that multitudes unseen 
 
 Are praying with me here; 
 
UHLAND. 
 
 241 
 
 And heaven, so pure and clear, 
 So solemn, near and far away, 
 Seems opening all around me here. 
 
 This is the Lord's own day. 
 
 31 
 
Heine. 
 
 31" 
 
vJf Heine, the lyrical poet, some fair notice may be 
 given within the limits of a short essay. But little 
 can be said here of his polemic career in literature 
 and politics, or of his influence as the head of the 
 school once known as 'Young Germany'. To de- 
 scribe that truly, a considerable Section in literary 
 history must be written. The tendencies ascribed to 
 Heine belonged to the unhappy time of scepticism, 
 negation and transition when he gained his reputa- 
 tion. 'Young Germany', in 1830, was but one ex- 
 pression of a social and political discontent that had 
 been growing since 1816. 
 
 Soon after the war of liberation, the institution 
 of students' patriotic unions and 'the celebration of 
 the Wartburg Festival' (1817) were followed by repres- 
 sive measures of government. The students' union at 
 
246 HEINE. 
 
 Jena was dissolved in 1822, and its traditions, though 
 preserved in several universities, were mostly left in 
 the custody of secret societies. A love of freedom, 
 that in England would have been openly asserted in 
 political journals and parliamentary contests, found, 
 in Germany, means of expression under the disguise 
 of literary criticism. Hence the vigour of the attack 
 made by Heine and others on the poetical writers 
 who were included under that vague name, 'The 
 Romantic School'. To an English reader it may 
 seem hardly intelligible that a warfare so angry 
 should be waged against a school of poetry and its 
 medieeval themes and scenery. But, in fact, the 
 critics who attacked that school wrote against prin- 
 ciples which they believed to be retrogressive in 
 politics. Hence the fervour of the controversy. 
 
 In 1830, or about that time, extreme liberal opinions, 
 on social as well as political institutions, were as- 
 serted by several young men who had gained some 
 reputation in literature, and their leaders were Borne 
 and Heine, both Israelites by birth. Borne called 
 loudly for a political revolution, and Heine went 
 further in his notions of social revolution. The former 
 wrote 'Letters from Paris', of which the import has 
 been given in few words: — 'We must have a revo- 
 lution, and it must take place immediately 7 . He was 
 sincere and earnest; but patience, as he confessed, 
 was not numbered among his virtues. In one of his 
 declamatory passages, his fervour thus bursts forth 
 in the form of prayer: — 
 
HEINE. 247 
 
 'O Patience! Queen and Governess of the German People 
 and of Tortoises! Patroness of my poor, languishing native land! 
 — Germanize me , O Goddess ! from the sole of my foot to the 
 crown of my head, and then stow me away in a museum of old 
 curiosities and in a case filled with the most singular petrifactions! 
 I vow that, henceforth, I will be thy most faithful servant. I will 
 regularly peruse 'the Dresden Evening News' and all the theatrical 
 criticisms. Yes, I will read Hegel until I understand what he 
 means, and I will stand, in rainy weather and without an umbrella, 
 in front of the hall where the German Diet is assembled, and I 
 will wait there patiently until somebody comes out and proclaims 
 the freedom of the press'. 
 
 The fervour and the vague character of Borne's 
 declamation tell something of the negative tendencies 
 prevalent in his time. In 1830 (whatever the causes 
 might be) both Church and State had lost their hold 
 on the hearts of young men who then made them- 
 selves prominent in literature. It is easier to say 
 what they did not believe than to define their posi- 
 tive doctrine. They contemned, as narrow and na- 
 tional, the enthusiasm of 1813. They professed no 
 reverence for the institutions of past time. In some 
 instances, they included marriage with the forms of 
 'bondage' from which 'emancipation' was demanded. 
 It was made evident, in 1830 and afterwards, that, 
 during the time of repression, the democratic move- 
 ment in students' unions and elsewhere had become 
 more and more negative. In 1817 'the Wartburg 
 Festival' had a religious character. In the general 
 Students' Meeting that took place in 1848, the men 
 who were assembled could not unite their voices in 
 
248 HEINE. 
 
 singing Luther's psalm, Ein feste Burg', and struck 
 it out of their programme, because their union in- 
 cluded (as they said) 'men who had no religion'. — 
 These brief notices of social and political history, 
 may tell something of general tendencies in the time 
 when Heine was called 'the leader of Young Germany'. 
 His lively and graphic style; his wit, humour and 
 keen irony, made him prominent as the representative 
 of a movement of which he was not the author. 
 Of all German writers he was one of the most 
 versatile. As a poet he belonged to the Romantic 
 School, though it was the object of his satire. But 
 poetic genius was only one of his qualities. He had 
 wit, humour, malice, irony, vivacity, and clearness: — 
 all the qualities not usually ascribed to German 
 writers. 
 
 Heinrich Heine was born at Diisseldorf, 13th. De- 
 cember, 1799. His parents, who were Jews, lived in 
 modest circumstances; but his uncle, Solomon Heine, 
 of Hamburg, had, by his own enterprize, made him- 
 self a millionaire, and was, moreover, a generous 
 man. Aided by this relative, Heine, who refused to 
 devote himself to a commercial life, went, in 1819, to 
 study law at Bonn. There, however, law had the 
 least share of. his attention, which was mostly given 
 to history and poetry, studied under the guidance of 
 A. W. von Schlegel. In 1820 Heine continued the 
 study of law at Gottingen, but soon left the university 
 there, on account of censure for an attempted duel. 
 At Berlin (1821) he was kindly received as a friend 
 
HEINE. 249 
 
 by Varnhagen von Ense and his wife Rahel, whose 
 circle of friends included almost all the literary men 
 of the Prussian capital. Here Heine, by his own rapid 
 method, g-ained some incorrect notion of the Hegelian 
 philosophy. His career at the university closed with 
 a duel. Meanwhile he had gained the fame of a 
 poet, which was greatly extended by a collection of 
 lyrical poems, published in December 1821. Fouque, 
 the author of 'Undine 1 , hailed the appearance of the 
 new poet, and earnestly advised him to abstain from 
 satire. The two dramas 'William Radcliff' and 
 Almansor' (1823) hardly served to increase the repu- 
 tation already won. 
 
 A second course of legal studies at Gottingen 
 was relieved by a pedestrian tour through the Harz 
 district and Thuringia. In 1825 Heine gained his 
 diploma, and, in the same year, made a profession 
 of Christianity. No secular advantage attended this 
 purely formal conversion. At the time of his baptism, 
 he assumed 'Heinrich' instead of his first name, which 
 hitherto had been 'Harry'. His notion of practising 
 as an advocate at Hamburg was soon forgotten. In 
 1826 the publication of a first volume of 'Pictures of 
 Travel' had a great success. Soon after issuing a 
 second volume of the series, Heine (assisted by his 
 wealthy uncle) paid a visit to London and resided 
 for a time at 32, Craven Street, Strand. Of English 
 society he saw little. The impression left by English 
 realism was more like wonder than pleasure. 'So 
 clever are the machines here', says Heine, 'that they 
 
 32 
 
2 5 o HEINE. 
 
 seem like men and can put themselves into a passion; 
 but the men are like machines. Indeed, it seems as 
 if the machines had absorbed all the mind extant 
 and had left the people deprived of it'. This bit- 
 terness is made intelligible when the traveller adds : — 
 'England has been ruinous to my financial circum- 
 stances'. He admired hardly anything in England, 
 except the beauty of the women. In 1827 he went 
 to Munich, where his services as editor of the 'Po- 
 litical Annals' (published by Cotta) were well rewarded. 
 But his hope of gaining there some place under 
 government, or a professorship in the university, 
 was disappointed, and, after enjoying a holiday in 
 Italy, he returned (in 1829) to Berlin. Meanwhile, his 
 'Book of Songs' (published in 1827) had widely extended 
 his fame. It contained no new poems; but those already 
 given in the 'Pictures of Travel' and elsewhere 
 appeared in better order. For this 'Book of Songs', 
 now known everywhere, the author received only £50. 
 The failure of some attempts to gain promotion 
 at home, and hopes excited by the French Revolu- 
 tion of 1830, led Heine, in 1831, to Paris, where he 
 was hailed as a friend by the enthusiastic republican, 
 Borne. For a time the versatile poet and the earnest 
 but one-sided politician lived on friendly terms; but 
 it soon became apparent that they held different 
 definitions of that wide word 'liberty'. The result 
 was a personal quarrel, to which a needless publicity 
 was given. Fleine's opinions were sceptical, negative, 
 and, in some respects, revolutionary; yet he was not 
 
HEINE. 251 
 
 a leveller. Accordingly, though he generously gave 
 aid to other political exiles, he was denounced as an 
 apostate. The fact was, he could not accept Borne's 
 stern belief, that all other interests whatever must 
 be sacrificed, to realize a theory of equality under 
 republican government. Heine, though less radical 
 than Borne in politics, had some revolutionary notions 
 of social institutions (especially of marriage), and these 
 led to his temporary association with the school of 
 St. Simon. 
 
 Contributions to the 'AUgemeine Zeitung\ the 
 '■Revue dcs deux mondes', and 'L'Europe litteraire 1 
 helped the exile to maintain himself in Paris. But 
 many parts of his articles written for the i AU- 
 gemeine Zeitung' were cancelled, and in 1832 the 
 whole series was suppressed. The journalist was 
 mostly left dependent on aid afforded by the mil- 
 lionaire of Hamburg. An interruption of friendly 
 correspondence with that relative placed Heine in 
 straitened circumstances, from which he was relieved 
 by a pension granted by the French Government in 
 1837 and continued until the revolution of 1848. Mean- 
 while, he again received the annuity formerly granted 
 by his uncle. 
 
 In 1848 and afterwards, Heine cared little for 
 French politics. His health had failed; his relations 
 with other political exiles were not pleasant, and a 
 considerable part of his savings was lost. His life 
 seemed likely soon to close; yet he felt deep anxiety 
 for the future. In 1841 he had married Mathilde 
 
 32* 
 
2 5 2 HEINE. 
 
 Grescence Mirat. His wife, who was a cheerful com- 
 panion, had no taste for literature. 'People have 
 told me', said she, 'that Henri is a poet, and so I 
 must believe; but I should never have found it out'. 
 During the last seven years of his life, when wasted 
 by suffering to a shadow of his former self, and 
 lying on a pile of mattresses — his 'mattress-tomb', 
 as he called it — he still dictated copy for the press, 
 and assisted in translating his own writings into 
 French. His chief motive for all this industry was 
 anxiety for the fate of his wife. 
 
 In 1844 the millionaire of Hamburg (described by 
 Heine as a man 'who found recreation in beneficence') 
 died, and, in accordance with his will, was buried in 
 a coffin that cost hardly four shillings. His death 
 gave rise to a tedious controversy between Heine and 
 his relatives. After- some painful efforts that had 
 an injurious effect on his health, he obtained con- 
 siderable aid for himself and the promise of an an- 
 nuity to be paid to his widow. His intense care for 
 her welfare is proved by his letters. 
 
 During his last, long illness Heine expressed, on 
 several occasions, regret respecting such passages 
 in his writings as might seem favourable to 'Atheism' 
 or 'Pantheism', or might give offence by a want of 
 reverence. He declared that, though he could not 
 accept the creed of any church, he had returned, at 
 last, to a belief that might be called 'Deism'; in other 
 words, he believed in a personal God. Of the im- 
 mortality of the soul he said, that he felt himself 
 
HEINE. 253 
 
 compelled to believe it, though his 'understanding' 
 was opposed to this faith. 'The horror vacui for- 
 merly ascribed to nature', said Heine, 'belongs rather 
 to the human soul'. In accordance with his request, 
 passages selected from the bible were often read at 
 his bed-side. 'Where health, wealth, and the under- 
 standing fail, there', said he, 'Christianity begins'. 
 The sincerity of this 'recantation', made during af- 
 fliction, has been doubted. Some light is cast on it 
 by a passage in Heine's last will and testament, 
 bearing the date 1851. There he says: — 
 
 'I die believing in one sole God, the eternal Creator of the 
 world, whose mercy I implore for my immortal soul. I regret 
 that in my works I have sometimes written on holy subjects without 
 the reverence that belongs to them. In doing so I was hurried 
 along more by the spirit of the age than by my own inclination'. 
 
 The gloom of a slow decline in the chamber at 
 No. 3, Avenue Matignon, in the Champs Elysees, 
 was relieved by friendship. We read, in a memoir 
 written by Lord Houghton, a pleasing story of 'an 
 English lady', who, when a child, first met Heine at 
 Boulogne, and, in 1855, 'came to minister at the bedside 
 of the dying man', consolation which was very grate- 
 fully accepted. It is apparently another lady whom 
 one of Heine's biographers (Meissner) describes as 'a 
 Suabian', and whom Heine playfully called 'la mouche'. 
 She, it is said, came often, about the close of the 
 year 1855, read to the patient, assisted him in trans- 
 lating into French, and introduced solace and even 
 cheerfulness in the midst of solitude and pain. 
 
254 HEINE. 
 
 The life that had seemed near its close in 185 1 
 was most painfully prolonged for almost five years 
 after that time. On the last day of his imprisonment, 
 Heine was told plainly that death was near, and in 
 reply to a serious question addressed to him by a 
 friend, said: — 'Soyez tranquille! Dieu me fiardonnera ; 
 c'est son metier'. A few hours later he died, 16th. 
 February, 1856. In accordance with his will, his 
 remains were interred, without any funeral ceremony, 
 in the cemetery of Montmartre. There his sole 
 monument is a plain upright slab of sandstone, placed 
 near the foot of the 'hittes', and bearing no in- 
 scription save the name Henri Heine. 
 
 The problem found in Heine's polemic, satirical 
 and negative writings has suggested to critics two 
 widely different modes of solution. On one side, the 
 key is found in the writer's innate 'love of negation'. 
 'His fearful sufferings' (says one who knew him well) 
 'could not subdue him, or make him conservative or 
 a lover of quiet'. [After 1848] 'He seemed still waiting 
 to hear the noise of some great bouleversement. 
 Negation, love of conflict, and discontent with every 
 possible 'status quo' ; these were the elements of his 
 nature'. According to this view of the case, Heine 
 was one of the men of whom Hegel uttered the 
 prophecy: — 'They will rebel against every form of 
 government, and simply because it is a government.' 
 But another theory finds the source of Heine's irony 
 in love; or, at least, in a secret respect for the objects 
 against which his satire was directed. His bitter 
 
HEINE. 2 5b 
 
 irony, it is said, was an indirect confession of 
 belief. 
 
 To turn from these mysteries — it is clear that 
 Heine loved poetry; perhaps more than all his poli- 
 tical controversy. He was sincere when he expressed 
 his fears that political and social changes in the 
 future might make the world all commercial, hard 
 and prosaic. 'Napoleon the First once ruled over us', 
 said Heine; 'now our sole ruler is the napoleon d'or'. 
 'We shall soon hear the popular cry: — Aristocrat! 
 why do you sing songs about roses? Chant the 
 praises of the democratic potato, by which the people 
 are nourished!' — 'The men of the future will cut 
 down my grove of laurels and plant potatoes there'. 
 'The time is coming when my poor 'Book of Songs' 
 will be used by the chandler to wrap up snuff for 
 the old women of the future'. — To give further 
 notices of Heine's abundant stores of wit and humour 
 might lead too far; but two distinct descriptions of 
 his witty, lively and sarcastic prose style may at 
 least be named: — A Parisian critic defined Heine as 
 'un genie presque frangais'. A German said, in 
 reply: — 'Pardon, c'est un genie allemand, qui a le 
 talent d'etre aussi un genie frangais, quand cela lui 
 plait'. It is but little that can be added to these 
 mere references to his works in prose; for they might 
 lead into the departments: — politics, social science, 
 literary history, philosophy, and the history of reli- 
 gion. The contributions to the Revue des deux 
 mondes gave (as the author afterwards confessed) a 
 
25 6 HEINE. 
 
 false account of German philosophy as leading only 
 to Pantheism. 
 
 Heine's poetical works include: — the 'Book of 
 Songs', two tragedies ('William Radcliff' and Al- 
 mansor'), the 'New Poems', 'Germany, a Winter's 
 Tale', 'Atta Troll', (an allegory of which a bear is 
 the hero) and 'Romancero'. Of his prose writings the 
 'Pictures of Travel' (1826 — 34) are the most poetical. 
 His* other works in prose include: — 'Contributions to 
 the History of Poetical Literature in Germany', 'the 
 Salon', 'the Romantic School', the polemical Es- 
 says on 'Borne' and the 'Denunziant' (Wolfgang 
 Menzel). 
 
 It is pleasant to turn from prose and politics to 
 Heine's 'Book of Songs'. The themes of his lyrical 
 poetry are here individual and picturesque. Many 
 short poems are founded on memories of childhood, 
 dreams of fairy-land, and old popular legends. In 
 others, while a lyric tone prevails, we have glimpses 
 of narrative interest and outlines of various genre 
 pictures. In a fisherman's cottage, on the coast of 
 the North Sea, we hear the visitor telling the children 
 marvels of far-away lands. In the forest we have a 
 glance into the interior of 'the Gamekeeper's House', 
 and it is so gloomy that the traveller will not enter, 
 but prefers to stay outside, though the night is dark 
 and stormy. Here a story of cruelty and domestic 
 misery is insinuated rather than narrated, but the 
 character of the tragedy may be guessed. It is a 
 pleasant transition to turn to the scenery of the 
 
HEINE. 257 
 
 Miner's Cottage, in the 'Bergidylle'- Heine's own 
 recollections of visits to Clausthal, Zellerfeld and 
 Goslar (in the Harz district) supplied the imagery of 
 this pleasing idyll. The dark fir-tree, in moonlight, 
 rustles beside the door of the cottage. Within, the 
 mother sits beside her spinning-wheel; the miner 
 plays on the zither and hums an old song, and their 
 little daughter, speaking in a suppressed tone, tells 
 the visitor a tale of sprites that haunt the Harz 
 mountain : — 
 
 'Tis a. very lonely place; 
 
 Here, when winds of winter blow 
 O'er the mountain's cold, bare height, 
 
 We seem buried in the snow. 
 
 I am but a timid child; 
 
 In the dark I've many a fear, 
 For they tell me, mountain-sprites 
 
 All night long are wandering here'. 
 
 Frightened by the tale she tells, 
 
 Silent sits the dreamer now, 
 And her little hands she holds 
 
 Folded closely o'er her brow. 
 
 Loudly there the fir-tree rustles, 
 Tinkling sound the zither's strings, 
 
 And the spinning-wheel is snarling, 
 While the drowsy miner sings; — 
 
 'Have no fear of sprite or elf! 
 
 Fear no wicked goblin's might! 
 Little angels, like thyself, 
 
 Guard thee, dearest, day and night'. 
 
 33 
 
258 HEINE. 
 
 From that scene in the Miner's Cottage — what a 
 transition to the gloomy 'parsonage-house by the 
 churchyard'! Here a few verses tell a dismal story 
 of an old rural pastor who died in poverty; of his 
 widow left with only her bible to console her; of the 
 son and the daughters left without hope: — 
 
 The pale half-moon of the autumn night 
 Looks out through clouds that intervene; 
 
 The parsonage and, white with stones, 
 The churchyard, glimmer in her sheen. 
 
 The mother in the bible reads, 
 
 The son sits there with downcast eyes, 
 
 The elder daughter, half asleep, 
 
 Yawns, while the younger daughter sighs: — 
 
 'Ah God! how slow the tedious days 
 
 Pass by one in this lonely place! 
 Save when some dismal funeral comes, 
 
 We never see a stranger's face'. 
 
 Another of the poems that may be called picturesque, 
 is entitled 'The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar', and gives, 
 without a word of doubt or irony, and in the people's 
 own tone, the story of a cure effected at that shrine. 
 In 'Loreley' we have the modern story of a me- 
 lodious siren haunting a cliff between St. Goar and 
 Oberwesel on the Rhine. In another poem, 'On the 
 Rhine', a holiday party are seen in a frame of 
 beautiful scenery. — What a contrast when we turn 
 to 'The Grenadiers'! How could a few verses more 
 strongly express the enthusiasm (or adoration) that 
 
HEINE. 259 
 
 gave to Napoleon I, his stupendous military power? 
 — In several of his lyrics, Heine leaves his thought 
 only half expressed, or tells but a part of a story, 
 but so that the sequel may be guessed. This is a 
 mannerism that has been often imitated. A few of 
 Heine's lyrics may be called mystical, in a mild sense 
 of the word. With these may be classed the two 
 stanzas of 'the Pine' and 'the Palm'; but it is not 
 difficult to see that the two trees, placed in scenes 
 strongly contrasted, are symbols of a hopeless se- 
 paration. It is almost laughable to find the melodious 
 stanzas on 'L6reley', the siren, treated as 'mystical', 
 and to read such a question as, 'Can "Loreley" 
 mean Poetry?' — Surely, the fact is well enough known, 
 that radiant beauty, even without melody, may have 
 a power of fascination. 
 
 When Heine's poems are read as a series, or 
 are viewed as parts of a whole, we find in them 
 a want of intellectual harmony: for the poet often 
 likes to display his power of versatility, contrast, and 
 harsh transition. His better genius sometimes leads 
 him to the portal of an ideal world, where his ironical 
 humour will not allow him to find repose. Next to 
 versatility, the most remarkable trait of his genius 
 is individuality, and here he stands apart from the 
 crowd of minor poets. Whatever his errors might 
 be, his poems do not belong to the common-place 
 class. His general notion of poetry seems to have 
 been, that it should have some reference to personal 
 feelings and experience. Here he was a follower of 
 
 33* 
 
2 6o HEINE. 
 
 Goethe, who made his poetry 'a confession'. This, 
 like any other good tendency, may of course be 
 associated with errors (of which one is egotism); but 
 it is, nevertheless, the true tendency of modern poetry. 
 Heine's themes, in many instances, have no ideal or 
 permanent interest; but even his lighter effusions 
 have references to experience, and tell something, 
 for good or for evil, of the time when he lived. 
 Such productions may have serious faults, and yet 
 have more value than dull modern epics on topics 
 as remote and dim as 'The Parthian Empire'. Not 
 a little has been said of 'that far-off, divine event', 
 'a union of poetry and life'. Of the best part of 
 Heine's poetry, we may say, it has a tendency in that 
 direction, and this is not saying little. It is, indeed ,- 
 not less than the highest praise given to poetry, when 
 it is described as preserving its own ideal form, 
 while united with the events and sentiments of 
 individual life. For such a union it is not requisite 
 that poetry should come down to the level of Crabbe's 
 homeliest style. The union wanted is exemplified in 
 Goethe's perfect ballad, l The Minstrel'. There we 
 find the ideal contentment that art may afford amid 
 circumstances that belong to poverty. The poetry 
 is not degraded by this association; but penury itself 
 is made cheerful and beautiful in union with art. 
 
 A word may be added on the style of Heine's 
 poems. He reduces poetic diction to perfect simplicity, 
 and cares nothing for 'fine writing'; but finds poetry 
 in his themes, their congenial imagery, and the sym- 
 
HEINE. 26 r 
 
 pathies which they naturally excite. His verses, 
 mostly seeming as easily produced as impromptu 
 effusions, have often a charming melody; but he 
 sometimes writes carelessly. The following trans- 
 lations may indicate one of the poet's chief cha- 
 racteristics — his versatility. 
 
 THE GRENADIERS. 
 
 Toward France there marched two grenadiers 
 
 Sent from a Russian jail, 
 And when they trod on German soil 
 
 They heard a dismal tale: — 
 
 'Twas: — 'France at last has lost the day, 
 
 And fortune has forsaken. 
 The army, once in proud array, 
 
 And the Emperor — the Emperor's taken!' 
 
 Together mourned the grenadiers, 
 To conquered France returning; 
 
 Said one, when he had heard the news, 
 'How my old wound is burning!' 
 
 'The game is lost!' the other said: — 
 
 T would that I were dead! 
 But I've a wife and a child in France, 
 
 And they must still be fed.' 
 
 Who cares for wife or children now ? 
 
 Our standards are forsaken! 
 Let wife and children starve or beg! 
 
 The Emperor — the Emperor taken! 
 
262 HEINE. 
 
 But, brother grant me one request: — 
 
 If on the road I die, 
 O take me home, and let my bones 
 
 Among French ashes lie! 
 
 And let my cross of honour hang 
 Just here upon my breast, 
 
 And put my musket in my hand: 
 Then leave me to my rest. 
 
 And, like a sentinel in the grave, 
 
 I'll listen for the day, 
 Till I hear the thundering cannon roar 
 
 And the galloping horses neigh. 
 
 When rides the Conqueror o'er my grave, 
 And swords and bayonets rattle, 
 
 I'll rise! and for the Emperor fight 
 Wherever he leads to battle. 
 
 ON THE RHINE. 
 
 Like the moon, when calmly beaming 
 Through a veil of silver gray, 
 
 Out from olden time there's gleaming 
 Forth a picture into day. 
 
 On the deck we rest together, 
 Sailing down the Rhine we go; 
 
 Shores, all green in summer weather, 
 In the light of sunset glow. 
 
 At the maiden's feet reclining, 
 I'm enjoying quiet dreams; 
 
 O'er her face, so fair, are shining 
 Even's rosy-golden gleams, 
 
HEINE. 263 
 
 Lutes are sounding, songs are flowing 
 
 O'er the water, on the shore ; 
 Heaven a deeper blue is showing, 
 
 Hearts are opening more and more. 
 
 Like a vision, while we're dreaming 
 
 Hill and tower go floating by ; 
 All the lovely scene is gleaming 
 
 In that beauteous maiden's eye. 
 
 AT KEVLAAR. 
 
 The Virgin, at her shrine, is in her best array; 
 For she has many sick and lame to heal to-day. 
 
 The mother out of wax has shaped a broken heart: — 
 'Son, offer this to Mary, and she will heal your smart.' 
 
 Then Wilhelm at the shrine his own heart's symbol laid 
 
 And, while his tears were falling, for Mary's help he prayed: — 
 
 'Hail Mary, full of grace! O Virgin ever pure! 
 Have pity, gentle Maid, on the sorrow I endure! 
 
 I lived there with my mother, at Collen on the Rhine, 
 Where many holy churches and costly chapels shine. 
 
 There lived my love and there — she died! O Mary, deign 
 To take this little offering, and take away my pain. 
 
 If thou wilt heal my heart, in every time and place, 
 I'll sing, for evermore: — Hail Mary, full of grace!' 
 
 At night when all was quiet, the pilgrim lay asleep, 
 There came the Virgin Mary and, mid the silence deep, 
 
 She stooped beside the bed, her soft, kind hand to lay 
 Upon the sleeper's heart, and smiled, and passed away. 
 
264 HEINE. 
 
 The mother saw the vision, that seemed to her a dream. 
 And, soon as she was waken'd by morning's early beam, 
 
 She looked upon the sleeper, asleep for ever — dead! 
 Upon his placid forehead the glow of dawn was shed. 
 
 Her hands the mother folded above the sleeper's face; 
 
 In soft, low tones, she chanted:— 'Hail Mary, full of grace!' 
 
 THE PINE AND THE PALM. 
 A Pine upon a barren steep 
 
 Stands in the Norland, all alone, 
 Covered with ice and snow; asleep 
 
 With a white mantle o'er him thrown. 
 
 The Pine is dreaming of a Palm 
 That, mid the glow of a tropic day, 
 
 On burning soil, in a sultry calm, 
 Mourns, lone, and still, and far away. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 O thou art like a flower — 
 So fair and pure thou art! 
 I look on thee and, while I look, 
 There's sorrow at my heart. 
 
 I'm moved upon thy head 
 To lay my hands and pray, 
 That God may keep thee kind and fair, 
 And pure as thou'rt to-day. 
 
 LORE-LEY. 
 
 I know not what it means to-day 
 
 That I'm to grief inclined — 
 There's a fairy-tale, an old-world lay, 
 
 I cannot get out of my mind. 
 
HEINE. 265 
 
 The air is cool; in twilight gray 
 
 Quietly flows the Rhine, 
 And on the cliff where dwells a fay 
 
 The beams of evening shine. 
 
 There sits a maiden, richly dight, 
 
 And wonderfully fair ; 
 Her golden armlet glitters bright, 
 
 She combs her golden hair; 
 
 With a golden comb she combs her hair, 
 
 And sings a charming lay; 
 A melody of marvellous power, 
 
 And echoing far away. 
 
 Her carol flows down below to the Rhine, 
 
 And wakens the sailor's grief; 
 He sees on the cliff a splendour shine, 
 
 And sees no perilous reef; 
 
 But soon will the sailor, in despair, 
 
 To a sinking boat be clinging! 
 And that's what L6re-Ley so fair 
 
 Has done with her charming singing. 
 
Printed by Bar & Hermann, Leipzig. 
 
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