DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 with funding from Duke University Libraries https://archive.org/details/lifeoffriedrichs02carl THE WORKS OF THOMAS CARLYLE LIFE OF SCHILLER— GERMAN LITERATURE— CAGLIOSTRO— LIFE OF VOLTAIRE. Etc. NEW YORK •JOHN E. ALDEN, PUBLISHER 1885 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER COMPREHENDING AN EXAMINATION OF HIS WORKS BY THOMAS CARLYLE Cf L+ l+% Quique pii vates et Phoebo digna locuti.— VrRGiL [1825] WITH SUPPLEMENT OF 1873 NEW YORK: JOHN B. ALDEN ; PUBLISHER, 1885. TROW'S PRINTING ANO BOOKBINDING COMPANY, NgW YORK. ■s *5 acts •C sittfcA COM TESTS. PAGE Preface to Second Edition 5 PART I. Schiller's Youth (1759-1784) 7 PART n. From ms Settlement at Mannheim to- iiis Settlement at Jena (1783-1790) 40 PART IH. From :ils Settlement at Jena to iiis Death (1790-1805) 101 SUPPLEMENT OE 1872. Of Schiller s Parentage, Boyhood and Youth 202 APPENDIX. No. 1. Daniel Schubart 278 2. Letters of Schuller 289 3. Friendship cviih Goethe 302 4. Death of Gustavus Adolphus 304 Summary 307 Index 314 PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. [ 1845 .] The excuse for reprinting this somewhat insignificant Book is, that certain parties, of the pirate species, were preparing to reprint it for me. There are books, as there are horses, w T hich a judicious owner, on fair survey of them, might prefer to ad- just by at once shooting through the head : but in the case of books, owing to the pirate species, that is not possible. Re- mains therefore that at least dirty paper and errors of the press be guarded against ; that a poor Book, which has still to walk this world, do walk in clean linen, so to speak, and pass its few and evil days with no blotches but its own adhering to it. There have been various new Lives of Schiller since this one first saw the light great changes in our notions, in- formations, in our relations to the Life of Schiller, and to other things connected therewith, during that long time ! Into which I could not in the least enter on the present occa- sion. Such errors, one or two, as lay corrigible on the sur- face, I have pointed out by hei’e and there a Note as I read ; but of en’ors that lay deeper there could no chai’ge be taken : to break the sui’face, to tear-up the old substance, and model it anew, was a task that lay far from me, — that would have been frightful to me. What was written l’emains written ; and the Readei’, by way of constant commentai’y, when needed, has to say to himself, “ It was written Twenty years ago.” For newer instruction on Schiller’s Biography he can consult the Schillers Leben of Madame von Wollzogen, which Goethe once called a Schiller Redivivus ; the Brief wechsel zwischen Schiller und Goethe ; — or, as a summary of the whole, and the readi- est inlet to the general subject for an English reader, Sir Ed- 0 PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. Wal'd Bulwer's Sketch of Schillers Lfe, a vigorous and lively piece of writing, prefixed to his Translations from Schiller. The present little Book is very imperfect : — but it pretends also to be very harmless ; it can innocently instruct those who are more ignorant than itself ! To which ingenuous class, ac- cording to their wants and tastes, let it, with all good wishes, and hopes to meet afterwards in fruitfuler provinces, be heart- ily commended. T. Carlyle. London , 7th May 1845. THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. PART I. SCHILLERS YOUTH. ( 1759 - 1784 .) Among the writers of the concluding part of the last century there is none more deserving of our notice than Friedrich Schiller. Distinguished alike for the splendour of his intel- lectual faculties, and the elevation of his tastes and feelings, he has left behind him in his works a noble emblem of these great qualities : and the reputation which he thus enjoys, and has merited, excites our attention the more, on considering the circumstances under which it was acquired.- Schiller had peculiar difficulties to strive with, and his success has like- wise been peculiar; Much of his life was deformed by in- quietude and disease, and it terminated at middle age ; he composed in a language then scarcely settled into form, or admitted to a rank among the cultivated languages of Europe : yet his writings are remarkable for their extent and variety as well as their intrinsic excellence ; and his own countrymen are not his only, or perhaps his principal admirers. It is difficult to collect or interpret the general voice ; but tile W orld, ho less than Germany, seems already to have dignified him with the reputation of a classic ; to have enrolled him among that select number whose works belong not wholly to any age or nation, but who, having instructed their own con- temporaries, are claimed as instructors by the great family of mankind, and set apart for many centimes from the common oblivion which soon overtakes the mass of authors, as it does the mass of other men. 8 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Sucli lias been the high destiny of Schillei’. His history and character deserve our study for more than one reason. A natural and harmless feeling attracts us towards such a subject ; we are anxious to know how so great a man passed through the world, how he lived, and moved, and had his be- ing ; and the question, if properly investigated, might yield advantage as well as pleasure. It would be interesting to dis- cover by what gifts and what employment of them he reached the eminence on which we now see him ; to follow the steps of his intellectual and moral culture ; to gather from his life and works some picture of himself. It is worth inquiring, whether he, who could represent noble actions so well, did himself act nobly ; how those powers of intellect, which in philosophy and art achieved so much, applied themselves to the every-day emergencies of life ; how the generous ardour, which delights us in his poetry, displayed itself in the com- mon intercourse between man and man. It woyld at once instruct and gratify us if we could understand him thor- oughly, could transport ourselves into his circumstances out- ward and inward, could see as he saw, and feel as he felt. But if the vaiious utility of such a task is palpable enough, its difficulties are not less so. We should not lightly think of comprehending the very simplest character, in all its bear- ings ; and it might argue vanity to boast of even a common acquaintance with one like Schiller’s. Such men as he are misunderstood by their daily companions, much more by the distant observer, who gleans his information from scanty records, and casual notices of characteristic events, which biog- raphers are often too indolent or injudicious to collect, and which the peaceful life of a man of letters usually supplies in little abundance. The published details of Schiller’s history are meagre and insufficient ; and his writings, like those of every author, can afford but a dim and dubious copy of his mind. Nor is it easy to decipher even this, with moderate accuracy. The haze of a foreign- language, of foreign man- ners, and modes of thinking strange to us, confuses and ob- scures the sight, often magnifying what is trivial, softening what is rude, and sometimes hiding or distorting what is SCHILLER’S YOUTH. 9 beautiful. To take the dimensions of Schiller’s mind were a hard enterprise, in any case ; harder still with these impedi- ments. Accordingly we do not, in this place, pretend to attempt it : we have no finished portrait of his character to offer, no for- mal estimate of his works. It will be enough for us if, in glancing over his life, we can satisfy a simple curiosity, about the fortunes and chief peculiarities of a man connected with us by a bond so kindly as that of the teacher to the taught, the giver to the receiver of mental delight ; if, in wandering through his intellectual creation, we can enjoy once more the magnificent and fragrant beauty of that fairy land, and ex- press our feelings, where we do not aim at j udging and decid- ing. Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller was a native of Mar- bacli, a small town of Wiirtemberg, situated on the banks of the Neckar. He was born on the 10th of November 1759, — a few months later than our own Robert Burns. Schiller’s early culture was favoured by the dispositions, but obstructed by the outward circumstances of his parents. Though removed above the pressure of poverty, their station was dependent and fluctuating ; it involved a frequent change of place and plan. Johann Caspar Schiller, the father, had been a surgeon in the Bavarian army ; he served in the Netherlands during the Succession War. After his return home to Wiirtemberg, he laid aside the medical profession, having obtained a com- mission of ensign and adjutant under his native Prince. This post he held successively in two regiments ; he had changed into f he second, and was absent on active duty when Friedrich was born. The Peace of Paris put an end to his military em- ployment ; but Caspar had shown himself an intelligent, un- assuming and useful man, and the Duke of Wiirtemberg was willing to retain him in his service. The laying-out of various nurseries and plantations in the pleasure-grounds of Ludwigs- burg and Solitude was intrusted to the retired soldier, now advanced to the rank of captain : he removed from one estab- lishment to another, from time to time ; and continued in the 10 TEE LIFE OF FRIED RICE SCHILLER. Duke’s pay till death. In his later years he resided chiefly at Ludwigsburg. This mode of life was not the most propitious for educating such a boy as Friedrich ; but the native worth of his parents did more than compensate for the disadvantages of their worldly condition and their limited acquirements in knowledge. The benevolence, the modest and prudent integrity, the true devoutness of these good people shone forth at an after period, expanded and beautified in the character of their son ; his heart was nourished by a constant exposure to such influences, and thus the better part of his education prospered well. The mother was a woman of many household virtues ; to a warm affection for her children and husband she joined a degree of taste and intelligence which is of much rarer occurrence. She is said to have been a lover of poetry ; in particular an admir- ing reader of Utz and Gellert, writers whom it is creditable for one in her situation to have relished . 1 Her kindness and tenderness of heart peculiarly endeared her to Friedrich. Her husband appears to have been a person of great probity, some- what rugged of temper, but sincerely desirous to approve himself a useful member of society, and to do his duty con- scientiously to all men. The seeds of many valuable qualities had been sown in him by nature ; and though his early life had been unfavourable for their cultivation, he at a late period laboured, not without success, to remedy this disadvantage. Such branches of science and philosophy as lay within his reach, he studied with diligence, whenever his professional em- ployments left him leisure ; on a subject connected with the latter he. became an author . 2 But what chiefly distinguished him was the practice of a sincere piety, which seems to*havc diffused itself over all his feelings, and given to his clear’ and honest character that calm elevation which, in such a case, is its natural result. As his religion mingled itself with every mo 1 She was of humble descent and little education, the daughter of a baker in Marbacli. — For much new light on Schiller’s Parentage, Boy- hood and Youth, see Supplement qf 187 2, infril. ■ His book is entitled Die BrmimueM im Chvsscn (the Cultivation of Trees on the Brand Scale) : it came to a Second edition in 1800. SCHILLER' & YOVTIL 11 five and action of his life, the wish which in all his wanderings lay nearest his heart, the wish for the education of his son, was likely to be deeply tinctured with it. There is yet pre- served, in his handwriting, a prayer composed in advanced age, wherein he mentions how, at the child’s birth, he had en- treated the great Father of all, “to supply in strength of spirit what must needs be wanting in outward instruction.” The gray-haired man, who had lived to see the maturity of his * boy, could now express his solemn thankfulness, that “God had heard the prayer of a mortal.” Friedrich followed the movements of his parents for some time ; and had to gather the elements of learning from various masters. Perhaps it was in part owing to this circumstance, that his progress, though respectable, or more, was so little commensurate with what he afterwards became, or with the capacities of which even his earliest years gave symptoms. Thoughtless and gay, as a boy is wont to be, he would now and then dissipate his time in childish sports, forgetful that the stolen charms of ball and leap-frog must be dearly bought by reproaches : but occasionally he was overtaken with feelings of deeper import, and used to express the agitations of his little mind in words and actions, which were first rightly inter- preted when they were called to mind long afterwards. His school- fellows can now recollect that even his freaks had some- times a poetic character ; that a certain earnestness of temper, a frank integrity, an appetite for things grand or moving, was discernible across all the caprices of his boyhood. Once, it is said, during a tremendous thunderstorm, his father missed him in the young group within doors ; none of the sisters could tell what w'as become of Fritz, and the old man grew at length so anxious that he was forced to go out in quest of hinn Fritz was scarcely past the age of infancy, and knew not the dangers of a scene so awful. His father found him at last, in a Solitary place of the neighbourhood, perched on the branch of a tree, gazing at the tempestuous face of the sky, and watching the flashes as in succession they spread their lurid gleam over it. To the reprimahds of his parent, the whim- pering truant pleaded in extenuation, “ that the lightning was 12 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. very beautiful, aucl that he wished to see where it was coming from ! ” — Such anecdotes, we have long known, are in them- selves of small value : the present one has the additional defect of being somewhat dubious in respect of authenticity. We have ventured to give it, as it came to us, notwithstand- ing. The picture of the boy Schiller, contemplating the thunder, is not without a certain interest, for such as know the man. Schiller’s first teacher was Moser, pastor and schoolmaster in the village of Lorch, where the parents resided from the sixth to the ninth year of their son. This person deserves mention for the influence he exerted on the early history of his pupil : he seems to have given his name to the Priest ‘ Moser ’ in the Robbers ; his spiritual calling, and the conver- sation of his son, himself afterwards a preacher, are supposed to have suggested to Schiller the idea of consecrating himself to the clerical profession. This idea, which laid hold of and cherished some predominant though vague propensities of the boy’s disposition, suited well w T ith the religious sentiments of his parents, and was soon formed into a settled purpose. In the public school at Ludwigsburg, whither the family had now removed, his studies were regulated with this view ; and he underwent, in four successive years, the annual examination before the Stuttgard Commission, to which young men des- tined for the Church are subjected in that country. Schiller’s temper was naturally devout ; with a delicacy of feeling which tended towards bashfulness and timidity, there was mingled in him a fervid impetuosity, which was ever struggling through its concealment, and indicating that he felt deeply and strong- ly, as well as delicately. Such a turn of mind easily took the form of religion, prescribed to it by early example and early affections, as well as nature. Schiller looked forward to the sacred profession with alacrity : it was the serious day-dream of all his boyhood, and much of his youth. As yet, however, the project hovered before him at a great distance, and the path to its fulfilment offered him but little entertainment. His studies did not seize his attention firmly ; he followed them from a sense of duty, not of pleasure. Virgil and Horace SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 13 lie learned to construe accurately ; but is said to liave taken no deep interest in their poetry. The tenderness and meek beauty of the first, the humour and sagacity and capricious pathos of the last, the matchless elegance of both, would of course escape his inexperienced perception ; while the matter of their writings must have appeared frigid and shallow to a mind so susceptible. He loved rather to meditate on the splendour of the Ludwigsburg theatre, which had inflamed his imagination when he first saw it in his ninth year, and given shape and materials to many of his subsequent reveries. 1 1 The first display of liis poetic gifts occurred also in his ninth year, hut took its rise in a much humbler and less common source than the inspiration of the stage. His biographers have recorded this small event with a conscientious accuracy, second only to that of Boswell and Hawkins in regard to the Lichfield duck. ‘ The little tale,’ says one of them, 1 is worth relating ; the rather that, after an interval of more than twenty years, Schiller himself, on meeting with his early comrade (the late Dr. Elwert of Kantstadt) for the first time since their boyhood, reminded him of the adventure, recounting the circumstances with great minuteness and glee. It is as follows : Once in 1768, Elwert and he had to repeat their catechism together on a certain day publicly in the church. Their teacher, an ill-conditioned, narrow-minded pietist, had previously threatened them with a thorough flogging if they missed even a single word. To make the matter worse, this very teacher chanced to be the person whose turn it was to catechise on the appointed day. Both the boys began their answers with dismayed hearts and fal- tering tongues ; yet they succeeded in accomplishing the task ; and were in consequence rewarded by the mollified pedagogue with two kreutzers apiece. Four kreutzers of ready cash was a sum of no com- mon magnitude ; how it should be disposed of formed a serious question for the parties interested. Schiller moved that they should go to Harteneck, a hamlet in the neighbourhood, and have a dish of curds- and-cream : his partner assented ; but alas ! in Harteneck no particle of curds or cream was to be had. Schiller then made offer for a quarter- cake of cheese ; but for this four entire kreutzers were demanded, leav- ing nothing whatever in reserve for bread ! Twice baffled, the little gastronomes, unsatisfied in stomach, wandered on to Neckarweiliingen ; where, at length, though not till after much inquiry, they did obtain a comfortable mess of curds-and-cream, served up in a gay platter, and silver spoons to eat it with. For all this, moreover, they were charged but three kreutzers ; so that there was still one left to provide them with a bunch of St. John grapes. Exhilarated by such liberal cheer, ] 4 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Under these circumstances, his progress, with all his natural ability, could not be very striking ; the teachers did not fail now and then to visit him with their severities ; yet still there was a negligent success in his attempts, which, joined to his honest and vivid temper, made men augur well of him. The Stuttgard Examinators have marked him in their records with the customary formula of approval, or, at worst, of toleration. They usually designate him as ‘a boy of good hope,' puer bonce spei. This good hope was not, however, destined to be realised in the way they expected : accidents occurred which changed the direction of Schiller’s exertions, and threatened for a time to prevent the success of them altogether. The Duke of "Wur- temberg had lately founded a Free Seminary for certain branches of professional education : it was first set up at Soli- tude, one of his country residences ; and had now been trans- ferred to Stuttgard, where, under an improved form, and with the name of Karls-schule, we believe it still exists. The Duke proposed to give the sons of his military officers a preferable claim to the benefits of this institution ; and having formed a good opinion both of Schiller and his father, he invited the former to profit by this opportunity. The offer occasioned great embarrassment : the young man and his parents were alike determined in favour of the Church, a project with which this new one was inconsistent. Their embarrassment was but increased, when the Duke, on learnihg the nature of their scrupled, desired them to think well before they decided. It was out of fear, and with reluctance that his proposal was ac- cepted. Schiller enrolled himself in 1773 ; and turned, with a heavy heart, from freedom and cherished hopes, to Greek, and seclusion, and Law. Schiller rose into a glow of inspiration: having left the village, he mounted with his comrade to the adjacent height, which overlooks both Harteneck and Neckarweihingen ; and there in a truly poetic effusion he prondunced his malediction on the creamless region, bestowing with the same solemnity his blessing on the one which had afforded him that savoury refreshment.’ Pnoh'i>-k veil ScTtillcrs Lc&en < Heidelberg, Idl?), p. 11. -SCHILLER'S TOUTIL 15 His anticipations proved to be but too just : the sis years which he spent in this establishment were the most harassing and comfortless of his life. The Stuttgard system of educa- tion seems to have been formed on the principle, not of cher- ishing and correcting nature, but of rooting it out, and sup- plying its place with something better. The process of teach- ing and living was conducted with the stiff formality of mili- tary drilling ; every thing went on by statute and ordinance, there was no scope for the exercise of free-will, no allowance for the varieties of original structure. A scholar might pos- sess what instincts or capacities he pleased ; the ‘regulations of the school 5 took no account of this ; he must tit himself into the common mould, which, like the old Giant's bed, stood there, appointed by superior authority, to be filled alike by the great and the little. The same strict and narrow course of reading and composition was marked out for each beforehand, and it was by stealth if he read or wrote anything beside. Their domestic economy was regulated in the same spirit as their preceptorial : it consisted of the same sedulous exclu- sion of all that could border on pleasure, or give any -exer- cise to choice. The pupils were kept apart from the conver- sation or sight of any person but their teachers ; none ever got beyond the precincts of despotism to snatch even a fear- ful joy ; their very amusements proceeded by the word of command. How grievous all this must have been, it is easy to con- ceive. To Schiller it was more grievous than to any other. Of an ardent and impetuous yet delicate nature, whilst his discontentment devoured lihu Internally, he was too modest and timid to give it the relief of utterance by deeds or words. Loeked up within himself, he suffered deeply, but without complaining. Some of bis letters written during this period have been preserved e -they exhibit tbe ineffectual struggles of a fervid and busy mincT^veiling its many chagrins under a certain dreary patience, which only shows them more pain- fully. He pored over liis lexicons and grammar's, and insipid tasks, with an artificial composure ; but his spirit pined within him like a captive’s, when he looked forth 16 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. into the cheerful world, or recollected the affection of parents, the hopes and frolicsome enjoyments of past years. The misery he endured in this severe and lonely mode of existence strengthened or produced in him a liabit of constraint and shyness, which clung to his character through life. The study of Law, for which he had never felt any predilec- tion, naturally grew in his mind to be the representative of all these evils, and his distaste for it went on increasing. On this point he made no secret of his feelings. One of the exercises, yearly prescribed to every scholar, was a written delineation of his own character, according to his own views of it, to be delivered publicly at an appointed time : Schiller, on the first of these exhibitions, ventured to state his per- suasion, that he was not made to be a jurist, but called rather by his inclinations and faculties to the clerical profession. This statement, of course, produced no effect ; he was forced to continue the accustomed course, and his dislike for Law kept fast approaching to absolute disgust. In 1775, he was fortunate enough to get it relinquished, though at the expense of adopting another employment, for which, in different cir- cumstances, he would hardly have declared himself. The study of Medicine, for which a new institution was about this time added to the Stuttgard school, had no attractions for Schiller : he accepted it only as a galling servitude in ex- change for one more galling. His mind was bent on higher objects ; and he still felt all his present vexations aggravated by the thought, that his fairest’ expectations from the future had been sacrificed to worldly convenience, and the humblest necessities of life. Meanwhile the youth was waxing into manhood, and the fetters of discipline lay heavier on him, as his powers grew stronger, and his eyes became open to the stirring and varie- gated interests of the world, now unfolding itself to him under new and more glowing colours. As yet he contem- plated the scene only from afar, and it seemed but the more gorgeous on that account. He longed to mingle in its busy current, and delighted to view the image of its movements in SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 17 Iris favourite poets and historians. Plutarch and Shakspeare ; 1 2 the writings of Klopstock, Lessing, Garve, Herder, Gersten- berg, Goethe, aricl a multitude of others, which marked the dawning literature of Germany, he had studied with a secret avidity : they gave him vague ideas of men and life, or awakened in him splendid visions of literary glory. Klop- stock’s Messias, combined with his own religious tendencies, had early turned him to sacred poetry : before the end of his fourteenth year, he had finished what he called an ‘epic poem,’ entitled Moses. The extraordinary popularity of Gerstenberg’s Ugolino, and Goethe’s Gotz von Berlichingen, next directed his attention to the drama ; and as admiration in a mind like his, full of blind activity and nameless aspir- ings, naturally issues in imitation, he plunged with equal ardour into this new subject, and produced his first tragedy, Cosmo von MedicAs, some fragments of wdiich he retained and inserted in his Robbers. A mass of minor performances, pre- served among his papers, or published in the Magazines of the time, serve sufficiently to show that his mind had already dimly discovered its destination, and was striving with a rest- less vehemence to reach it, in spite of every obstacle. Such obstacles were in his case neither few nor small. Schiller felt the mortifying truth, that to arrive at the ideal world, lie must first gain a footing in the real ; that he might entertain high thoughts and longings, might reverence the beauties of nature and grandeur of mind, but was born to toil 1 The feeling produced in him by Shakspeare he described long after- wards : it throws light on the general state of his temper and tastes. ‘ When I first, at a very early age,’ lie says, ‘ became acquainted with this poet, I felt indignant at his coldness, his hardness of heart, which permitted him in the most melting pathos to utter jests, — to mar, by the introduction of a fool, the soul-searching scenes of Hamlet, Lear, and other pieces ; which now kept him still where my sensibilities hastened forward, now drove him carelessly onward where I would so gladly have lingered. * * He was the object of my reverence and zealous study for years before I could love himself. I was not yet capable of comprehending Nature at first-hand : I had but learned to admire her image, reflected in the understanding, and put in order by rules.’ Werke , Bd. viii. 2, p. 77. 2 18 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. for liis daily bread. Poetry lie loved with the passionateness of a first affection ; but he could not live by it ; he honoured it too highly to wish to live by it. His prudence told him that he must yield to stern necessity, must ‘ forsake the balmy climate of Pindus for the Greenland of a barren and dreary science of terms ; 1 and he did not hesitate to obey. His pro- fessional studies were followed with a rigid though reluctant fidelity ; it was only in leisure gained by Superior diligence that he could yield himself to more favourite pursuits. Genius^ was to serve as the ornament of his inferior qualities, not as an excuse for the want of them. But if, when such sacrifices were required, it was painful to comply with the dictates of his own reason, it was still more so ter endure the harsh and superfluous restrictions of his teachers. He felt it hard enough to be driven from the enchant- ments of poetry by the' dull realities of duty ; but it was in- tolerable and degrading to be hemmed-in still farther by the caprices of severe and formal pedagogues. Schiller brooded gloomily over the constraints and hardships of his situa- tion. Many plans he formed for deliverance. Sometimes he would escape in secret to catch a glimpse of the free and busy world to him forbidden : sometimes he laid schemes for utterly abandoning a place which lie abhorred, and trusting to fortune for the rest. Often the sight of his class-books and school-apparatus became irksome beyond endurance ; he would feign sickness, that he might be left in his own cham- ber to write poetry and pursue his darling studies without hindrance. Such artifices did not long avail him ; the masters noticed the regularity of his sickness, and sent him tasks to be done while it lasted. Even Schiller’s patience could not brook this ; his natural timidity gave place to indignation ; he threw the paper of exercises at the feet of the messenger, ancdsaicl sternly that “ here he would choose his own studies. " Under such corroding and continual vexations an ordinary spirit would have sunk at length, would have gradually given up its loftier aspirations, and sought refuge in vicious indul- gence, or at best have sullenly harnessed itself into the yoke, and plodded through existence, weary, discontented, and -SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 19 broken, ever casting’ back a hankering look Upon the dreams of youth, and ever without power to realise them. But Schiller w r as no ordinary character, and did not act like one. Beneath a cold and simple exterior, dignified with no artificial attractions, and marred in its native amiableness by the in- cessant obstruction, the isolation and painful destitutions under which he lived, there was concealed a burning energy of soul, which no obstruction could extinguish. The hard circumstances of his fortune had prevented the natural development of his mind ; his faculties had been cramped and misdirected ; but they had gathered strength by opposi- tion and the habit of self-dapendence which it encouraged. His thoughts, uuguided by a teacher, had sounded into the depths of his own nature and the mysteries of his own fate ; his feelings and passions, unshared by any other heart, had been driven back upon his own, where, like the volcanic fire that smoulders and fuses in secret, they accumulated till then’ force grew irresistible. Hitherto Schiller had passed for an unprofitable, a discon- tented and a disobedient Boy : but the time was now come when the gyves of school-discipline could no longer cripple and distort the giant might of his nature : he stood forth as a Man, and wrenched asunder his fetters with a force that w r as felt at the extremities of Europe. The publication of the Robbers forms an era not only in Schiller’s history, but in the Literature of the World ; and there seems no doubt that, but for so mean a cause as the perverted discipline of the Stutt- gard school, we had never seen this tragedy. Schiller com- menced it in his nineteenth year; and the circumstances under which it was composed are to be traced in all its parts. It is the production of a Strong untutored spirit, consumed by an activity for which there is no outlet, indignant at the barriers which restrain it, and grappling darkly with the phantoms to w’hich its own energy thus painfully imprisoned gives being. A rude simplicity, combined with a gloomy and overpowering force, are its chief characteristics ; they remind us of the de- fective cultivation, as well as of the fervid and harassed feel- ings of its author. Above all, the latter quality is visible ; the 20 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. tragic interest of the Robbers is deep throughout, so deep that frequently it borders upon horror. A grim inexpiable Fate is made the ruling principle : it envelops and overshadows the whole ; and under its louring influence, the fiercest efforts of human will appear but like flashes that illuminate the *vild scene with a brief and terrible splendour, and are lost forever in the darkness. The unsearchable abysses of man’s destiny are laid open before us, black and profound and appalling, as they seem to the young mind when it first attempts to explore them : the obstacles that thwart our faculties and wishes, the deceitfulness of hope, the nothingness of existence, are sketched in the sable colours so natural to the enthusiast when he first ventures upon life, and compares the world that is without him to the anticipations that were within. Karl von Moor is a character such as young poets always delight to contemplate or delineate ; to Schiller the analogy of their situations must have peculiarly recommended him. Moor is animated into action by feelings similar to those under which his author was then suffering and longing to act. Gifted with every noble quality of manhood in overflowing abundance, Moor’s first expectations of life, and of the part he was to play in it, had been glorious as a poet's dream. But the minor dexterities of management were not among his en- dowments ; in his eagerness to reach the goal, he had forgot- ten that the course is a labyrinthic maze, beset with difficul- ties, of which some may be surmounted, some can only be evaded, many can be neither. Hurried on by the headlong impetuosity of his temper, he entangles himself in these per- plexities ; and thinks to penetrate them, not by skill and pa- tience, but by open force. He is baffled, deceived, and still more deeply involved ; but inj ury and disappointment exas- perate rather than instruct him. He had expected heroes, and he finds mean men ; friends, and he finds smiling traitors to tempt him aside, to profit by his aberrations, and lead him onward to destruction : he had dreamed of magnanimity and every generous principle, he finds that prudence is the only virtue sure of its reward. Too fiery by nature, the intensity of his sufferings has now maddened him still farther : he is SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 21 liimself incapable of calm reflection, and there is no counsellor at hand to assist him ; none, whose sympathy might assuage his miseries, whose wisdom might teach him to remedy or to endure them. He is stung by fury into action, qnd his ac- tivity is at once blind and tremendous. Since the world is not the abode of unmixed integrity, he looks upon it as a den of thieves ; since its institutions may obstruct the advance- ment of worth, and screen delinquency from punishment, he regards the social union as a pestilent nuisance, the mischiefs of which it is fitting that he in his degree should do his best to repair, by means however violent. Revenge is the main- spring of his conduct ; but he* ennobles it in his own eyes, by giving it the colour of a disinterested concern for the main- tenance of justice, — the abasement of vice from its high places, and the exaltation of suffering virtue. Single against the universe, to appeal to the primary law of the stronger, to ‘grasp the scales of Providence in a mortal’s hand,’ is frantic and wicked ; but Moor has a force of soul which makes it likewise awful. The interest lies in the conflict of this gigan- tic soul against the fearful odds which at length overwhelm it, and hurry it down to the darkest depths of ruin. The original conception of such a work as this betrays the inexperience no less than the vigour of youth : its execution gives a similar testimony. The characters of the piece, though traced in glowing colours, are outlines more than pictures : the few features we discover in them are drawn with elaborate minuteness ; but the rest are wanting. Everything indicates the condition of a keen and powerful intellect, which had studied men in books only ; had, by self-examination and the perusal of history, detected' and strongly seized some of the leading peculiarities of human nature ; but was yet ignorant of all the minute and more complex principles which regulate men’s conduct in actual life, and which only a knowledge of living men can unfold. If the hero of the play forms some- thing like an exception to this remark, he is the sole excep- tion, and for reasons alluded to above : his character resembles the author’s own. Even with Karl, the success is incomplete : with the other personages it is far more so. Franz von Moor, THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SC1ULLER. 2 % the villain of the Piece, is an amplified copy of Iago and ilich- ard ; but the copy is distorted as well as amplified. There is no air of reality in Franz : he is a villain of theory, who studies to accomplish his object by the most diabolical expe- dients, and soothes his conscience by arguing with the jfriest in favour of atheism and materialism ; not the genuine villain of Shakspeareand Nature, who employs his reasoning powers in creating new schemes and devising' new means, and conquers remorse by avoiding it, — by fixing his hopes and fears on the more pressing emergencies of worldly business. So reflective a miscreant as Franz could not exist : his calculations would lead him to honesty, if merely' because it was the best policy. Amelia, the only female in the piece, is a beautiful creation ; but as imaginary as her persecutor Franz. Still and exalted in her warm enthusiasm, devoted in her love to Moor, she moves before us as the inhabitant of a higher and simpler world than ours. “ He sails on troubled seas,” she exclaims, with a confusion of metaphors, which it is easy to pardon, “ he sails on troubled seas, Amelia’s love sails with him ; he wanders in pathless deserts, Amelia’s love makes the burning sand grow green beneath him, and the stunted shrubs to blossom ; the south scorches his bare head, liis feet are pinched by the northern snow, stormy hail beats round his temples — Amelia’s love rocks him to sleep in the storm. Seas, and lulls, and horizons, are between us ; but souls escape from their clay prisons, and meet in the paradise of love ! ” She is a fair vision, the beau ideal of a poet’s first mistress ; but has few mortal lineaments. Similar defects are visible in almost all the other characters. Moor, the father, is a weak and fond old man, who could have arrived at gray hairs in such a state of ignorance nowhere but in a work of fiction. The inferior banditti are painted with greater vigour, yet still in rugged and ill-shapen forms ; their individuality is kept up by an extravagant exaggeration of their several peculiarities. Schiller himself pronounced a severe but not unfounded censure, when he said of this work, in a maturer age, that his chief fault was in ‘ presuming to delineate men two years before he had met one.’ SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 23 His skill in the art of composition surpassed iris knowledge of tlie world ; but that too was far from perfection. Schiller’s style in the Bobbers is partly of a kind with the incidents and feelings which it represents ; strong and astonishing, and sometimes wildly grand ; but likewise inartificial, coarse, and grotesque. His sentences, in their rude emphasis, come down like the club of Hercules ; the stroke is often of a crashing force, but its sweep is irregular and awkward. When Moor is involved in the deepest intricacies of the old question, necessity and free will, aud has convinced himself that he is but an engine in the hands of some dark and irresistible power, he cries out : “ Why has my Perillus made of me a brazen bull to roast men in my glowing belly ? ” The stage-direc- tion says, * shaken with horror : 5 no wonder that he shook ! Schiller has admitted these faults, and explained their origin, in strong and sincere language, in a passage of which we have already quoted the conclusion. * A singular miscal- culation of nature,’ he says, * had combined my poetical ten- dencies with the place of my birth. Any disposition to poetry did violence to the laws of the institution where I was edu- cated, and contradicted the plan of its founder. For eight year's my enthusiasm straggled with military discipline ; but the passion for poetry is vehement and fiery as a first love. What discipline was meant to extinguish, it blew into a flame. To escape from arrangements that tortured me, my heart sought refuge in the world of ideas, when as yet I was unac- quainted with the world of realities, from which iron bars ex- cluded me. I was unacquainted with men ; for the four hundred that lived with me were but repetitions of the same creature, true casts of one single mould, and of that very mould which plastic nature solemnly disclaimed. * * * Thus circumstanced, a stranger to human characters and human fortunes, to hit the medium line between angels and devils was an enterprise in which I necessarily failed. In attempting it my pencil necessarily brought out a monster, for which by good fortune the world had no original, and which I would not wish to be immortal, except to perpetuate an example of the offspring which Genius iu its unnatural 24 TUB LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. union with Thraldom may give to the world. I allude to the Robbers . 1 Yet with all these excrescences and defects, the unbounded popularity of the Robbers is not difficult to account for. To every reader, the excitement of emotion must be a chief con- sideration ; to the mass of readers it is the sole one : and the grand secret of moving others is, that the poet be himself moved. We have seen how well Schiller’s temper and circum- stances qualified him to fulfil this condition : treatment, not of his choosing, had raised his own mind into something like a Pythian frenzy ; and his genius, untrained as it was, sufficed to communicate abundance of the feeling to others. Perhaps more than abundance : to judge from our individual impres- sion, the perusal of the Robbers produces an effect powerful even to pain ; we are absolutely wounded by the catastrophe ; our minds are darkened and distressed, as if we had witnessed the execution of a criminal. It is in vain that we rebel against the inconsistencies and crudities of the work : its faults are redeemed by the living energy that pervades it. We may ex- claim against the blind madness of the hero ; but there is a towering grandeur about him, a whirlwind force of passion and of will, which catches our hearts, and puts the scruples of criticism to silence. The most delirious of enteiprises is that of Moor, but the vastness of his mind renders even that interesting. We see him leagued with desperadoes directing their savage strength to actions more and more audacious ; he is in arms against the conventions of men and the ever- lasting laws of Fate : yet we follow him with anxiety through the forests and desert places, where he wanders, encompassed with peril, inspired with lofty daring, and torn by unceasing remorse ; and we wait with aw r e for the doom which he has merited and cannot avoid. Nor amid all his frightful aberra- tions do we ever cease to love him : he is an ‘ archangel though in ruins and the strong agony with which he feels the present, the certainty of that stern future which awaits him, which his own eye never loses sight of, makes us lenient to his crimes. When he pours forth his wild recollections, 1 Deutsches Museum ». Jahr 1784, cited by Doeriug. SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 25 or still ■wilder forebodings, there is a terrible vehemence in his expressions, which overpowers us, in spite both of his and their extravagance. The scene on the hills beside the Dan- ube, where he looks at the setting sun, and thinks of old hopes, and times ‘ when he could not sleep if his evening- prayer had been forgotten,’ is one, with all its improprieties, that ever clings to the memory. “ See,” he passionately con- tinues, “ all things are gone forth to bask in the peaceful beam of the spring : why must I alone inhale the torments of hell out of the joys of heaven ? That all should be so happy, all so married together by the spirit of peace ! The whole world one family, its Father above ; that Father not mine ! I alone the castaway, I alone struck out from the company of the just ; not for me the sweet name of child, never for me the languishing look of one whom I love ; never, never, the embracing of a bosom friend ! Encircled with murderers ; serpents hissing around me ; riveted to vice with iron bonds ; leaning on the bending reed of vice over the gulf of per- dition ; amid the flowers of the glad world, a howling Abad- don ! Oh, that I might return into my mother’s womb ; — that I might be born a beggar ! I would never more — O Heaven, that I could be as one of these day-labourers ! Oh, I would toil till the blood ran down from my temples, to buy myself the pleasure of one noontide sleep, the blessing of a single tear. There was a time too, when I could weep — O ye days of peace, thou castle of my father, ye green lovely val- leys ! — O all ye Elysian scenes of my childhood ! will ye never come again, never with your balmy sighing cool my burning- bosom ? Mourn with me, Nature ! They will never come again, never cool my burning bosom with their balmy sigh- ing. They are gone ! gone ! and may not return ! ” No less strange is the soliloquy where Moor, with the in- strument of self-destruction in his hands, the ‘ dread key that is to shut behind him the prison of life, and to unbolt before him the dwelling of eternal night,’ — meditates on the gloomy enigmas of his future destiny. Soliloquies on this subject are numerous, — from the time of Hamlet, of Cato, and down- wards. Perhaps the worst of them has more ingenuity, per- 2G THE LIFE OF FR1EDM0H SCHILLER. Laps the best of them has less awfulness than the present. St. Dominick himself might shudder at such a question, with such an answer as this: “What if thou shouldst send me companionless to some burnt and blasted circle of the uni- verse ; which thou hast banished from thy sight ; where the lone darkness and the motionless desert were my prospects — forever? I would people the silent wilderness with my fanta- sies ; I should have Eternity for leisure to examine the per- plexed image of the universal woe.” Strength, wild impassioned strength, is the distinguishing quality of Moor. All his history shows it ; and his death is of a piece with the fierce splendour of his life. Having finished the bloody work of crime, and magnanimity, and horror, he thinks that, for himself, suicide would be too easy an exit. He has noticed a poor man toiling by the wayside, for eleven children ; a great reward has been promised for the head of the Robber ; the gold will nourish that poor drudge and his boys, and Moor goes forth to give it them. We part with him in pity and sorrow ; looking less at his misdeeds than at their frightful expiation. The subordinate personages, though diminished in extent and varied in their forms, are of a similar quality with the hero ; a strange mixture of extravagance and true energy. In perusing the work which represents their characters and fates, we are alternately shocked and inspired ; there is a perpetual conflict between our understanding and our feelings. Yet the latter on the whole come off victorious. The Bobbers is a tragedy that will long find readers to astonish, and, with all its faults, to move. It stands, in our imagination, like some ancient rugged pile of a barbarous age ; irregular, fantastic, useless ; but grand in its height and massiveness and black frowning strength. It will long remain a singular monument of the early genius and early fortune of its author. The publication of such a work as this naturally produced an extraordinary feeling in the literary world. Translations of the Robbers soon appeared in almost all the languages of Europe, and were read in all of them with a deep interest, compounded of admiration and aversion, according to the rel- SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 27 ative proportions of sensibility and judgment in tlie various minds which contemplated the subject. In Germany, the en- thusiasm which the Robbers excited was extreme. The young author had burst upon the world like a meteor ; and surprise, for a time, suspended the power of cool and rational criticism. In the ferment produced by the universal discussion of this single topic, the poet was magnified above his natural dimen- sions, great as they were : and though the general sentence was loudly in his favour, yet he found detractors as well as praisers, and both equally beyond the limits of moderation. One charge brought against him must have damped the joy of literary glory, and stung Schiller’s pure and virtuous mind more deeply than any other. He was accused of having in- j ured the cause of morality by his work ; of having set up to the impetuous and fiery temperament of youth a model of imi- tation which the young were too likely to pursue with eager- ness, and which could only lead them from the safe and beaten tracks of duty into error and destruction. It has even been stated, and often been repeated since, that a practical exem- plification of this doctrine occurred, about this time, in Ger- many. A young nobleman, it was said, of the fairest gifts and prospects, had cast away all these advantages ; betaken himself to the forests, and, copying Moor, had begun a course of active operations, — which, also copying Moor, but less willingly, he had ended by a shameful death. It can now be hardly necessary to contradict these theo- ries ; or to show that none but a candidate for Bedlam as well as Tyburn could be seduced from the substantial comforts of existence, to seek destruction and disgrace, for the sake of such imaginary grandeur. The German nobleman of the fair- est gifts and prospects turns out, on investigation, to have been a German blackguard, whom debauchery and riotous ex- travagance had reduced to want ; who took to the highway, when he could take to nothing else, — not allured by an ebul- lient enthusiasm, or any heroical and misdirected appetite for sublime actions, but driven by the more palpable stimulus of importunate duns, an empty purse, and five craving senses. Perhaps in his later days, this philosopher may have referred 28 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. to Schiller’s tragedy, as the source from which he drew his theory of life : but if so, we believe he was mistaken. For characters like him, the great attraction was the charms of revelry, and the great restraint, the gallows, — before the period of Karl von Moor, just as they have been since, and 'will be to the end of time. Among motives like these, the influence of even the most' malignant book could scarcely be discern- ible, and would be little detrimental, if it were. Nothing, at any rate, could be farther from Schiller’s inten- tion than such a consummation. In his preface, he speaks of the moral effects of the Robbers in terms which do honour to his heart, while they show the inexperience of his head. Rid- icule, he signifies, has long been tried against the wickedness of the times, whole cargoes of hellebore have been expended, — in vain ; and now, he thinks, recourse must be had to more pungent medicines. We may smile at the simplicity of this idea ; and safely conclude that, like other specifics, the present one would fail to produce a perceptible effect : but Schiller’s vindication rests on higher grounds than these. His work has on the whole furnished nourishment to the more exalted powers of our nature ; the sentiments and images which he has shaped and uttered, tend, in spite of their alloy, to elevate the soul to a nobler pitch : and this is a sufficient defence. As to the dan- ger of misapplying the inspiration he communicates, of for- getting the dictates of prudence in our zeal for the dictates of poetry, we have no great cause to fear it. Hitherto, at least, there has always been enough of dull reality, on every side of us, to abate such fervours in good time, and bring us back to the most sober level of prose, if not to sink us below it. We should thank the poet who performs such a service ; and forbear to inquire too rigidly whether there is any * moral ’ in his piece or not. The writer of a work, which interests and excites the spiritual feelings of men, has as little need to justify himself by showing how it exemplifies some wise saw or modern instance, as the doer of a generous action has to demonstrate its merit, by deducing it from the system of Shaftesbury, or Smith, or Paley, or whichever happens to be the favourite system for the age and place. The instructiveness SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 29 of the one, and the virtue of the other, exist independently of all systems or saws, and in spite of all. But the tragedy of the Robbers produced some inconveniences of a kind much more sensible than these its theoretical mis- chiefs. We have called it the signal of Schiller’s deliverance from school tyranny and military constraint ; but its operation in this respect was not immediate ; at first it seemed to in- volve him more deeply and dangerously than before. He had finished the original sketch of it in 1778 ; but for fear of offence, he kept it secret till his medical studies were com- pleted. 1 These, in the mean time, he had pursued with suf- ficient assiduity to merit the usual honours ; 2 in 1780, he had, in consequence, obtained the post of surgeon to the regiment Auge, in the Wlirtemberg army. This advancement enabled him to complete his project, to print the Robbers at his own expense, not being able to find any bookseller that would un- dertake it. The nature of the work, and the universal interest it awakened, drew attention to the private circumstances of the author, whom the Robbers, as well as other pieces of his writing, that had found their way into the periodical publica- tions of the time, sufficiently showed to be no common man. 1 On tliis subject Doering gives an anecdote, which may perhaps be worth translating. ‘One of Schiller's teachers surprised him on one occa- sion reciting a scene from the Robbers , before some of his intimate com- panions. At the words, which Franz von Moor addresses to Moser : Ha, what! thou knowest none greater? Think again ! Death, heaven, eter- nity, damnation , hovers in the sound of thy voice ! Not one greater ? — the door opened, and the master saw Schiller stamping in desperation up and down the room. ‘’For shame,” said he, “for shame to get into such a passion, and curse so ! ” The other scholars tittered covertly at the worthy inspector ; and Schiller called after him with a hitter smile, “ A noodle ” ( ein confisdrter Kerl)!' 2 His Latin essay on the Philosophy of Physiology was written in 1778, and never printed. His concluding thesis was published according to custom : the subject is arduous enough, “ the connection between the animal and spiritual nature of man,” — which Dr. Cabanis has since treated in so offensive a fashion. Schiller’s tract we have never seen. Doering says it was long ‘ out of print,’ till Nasse reproduced it ill his Medical Journal ^Leipzig, 1820) : he is silent respecting its merits. 30 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Many grave persons were offended at the vehement sentiments expressed in the Robbers ; and the unquestioned ability with which these extravagances were expressed, but made the mat- ter worse. To Schiller’s superiors, above all, such tilings were inconceivable ; he might perhaps be a very great genius, but was certainly a dangerous servant for his Highness the Grand Duke of Wiirtemberg. Officious people mingled themselves in the affair : nay, the graziers of the Alps were brought to bear upon it. The Grisons magistrates, it ap- peared, had seen the book : and were mortally huffed at being there spoken of, according to a Swabian adage, as common ■highwaymen . 1 They complained in the Hamburg Corre- spondent ; and a sort of Jackal, at Ludwigsburg, one "Walter, whose name deserves to be thus kept in mind, volunteered to plead their cause before the Grand Duke. Informed of all these circumstances, the Grand Duke ex- pressed his disapprobation of Schiller’s poetical labours in the most unequivocal terms. Schiller was at length summoned to appear before him ; and it then turned out, that his High- ness was not only dissatisfied with the moral or political errors of the work, but scandalised moreover at its want of literary merit. In this latter respect, he was kind enough to proffer his own services. But Schiller seems to have received the proposal with no sufficient gratitude ; and the interview passed without advantage to either party. It terminated in the Duke’s commanding Schiller to abide by medical subjects : or at least to beware of writing any more poetry, without sub- mitting it to his inspection. We need not comment on this portion of the Grand Duke’s 1 The obnoxious passage lias been carefully expunged from subsequent editions. ■ It was in the third scene of the second act ; Spiegelberg dis- coursing with Razmann, observes, “ An honest man you may form of Windlestraws ; but to make a rascal you must have grist : besides, there is a national genius in it, a certain rascal-climate, so to speak.” In the first edition, there was added : ‘ ' Go to the Grisons, for instance : that is what I call the thief ' s Athens.” The patriot who stood forth on This occasion for the honour of the Grisons. to deny this weighty charge, and de- nounce the crime of making it, was not Dogberry or Verges, but ‘ one of the noble family of Salis.’ SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 31 history : his treatment of Schiller has already been sufficiently avenged. By the great body of mankind, his name will be rec- ollected, chiefly, if at all, for the sake of the unfriended youth whom he now schooled so sharply, and afterwards afflicted so cruelly : it will be recollected also, with the angry triumph which we feel against a shallow and despotic ‘noble of con- vention,’ who strains himself to oppress ‘ one of nature’s no- bility,’ submitted by blind chance to his dominion, and — finds that he cannot ! Adi this is far more than the Prince of Wiir- temberg deserves. Of limited faculties, and educated in the French principles of taste, then common to persons of his rank in Germany, he had perused the Robbers with unfeigned disgust ; he could see in the author only a misguided enthu- siast, with talents barely enough to make him dangerous. And though he never fully or formally retracted this injustice, he did not follow it up ; when Schiller became known to the world at large, the Duke ceased to persecute him. The father he still kept in his service, and nowise molested. In the mean time, however, various modifications awaited Schiller. It was in A r *ain that he discharged the humble duties of his station with the most strict fidelity, and even, it is said, with superior skill : he was a suspected person, and his most innocent actions were misconstrued, his slightest faults were visited with the full measure of official severity. His busy imagination aggravated the evil. He had seen poor Seliubart ' wearing out his tedious eight years of durance in the fortress of Asperg, because he had been ‘ a rock of offence to the pow- ers that were.’ The fate of this unfortunate author appeared to Schiller a type of his own. His free spirit shrank at the prospect of wasting its strength in strife against the pitiful constraints, the minute and endless persecutions of men who knew him not, yet had his fortune in their hands ; the idea of dungeons and jailors haunted and tortured his mind ; and the means of escaping them, the renunciation of poetry, the source of all his joy, if likewise of many woes, the radiant guiding- star of his turbid and obscure existence, seemed a sentence of death to all that was dignified, and delightful, and worth re- 1 See Appendix, No. 1. 32 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. taming, in bis character. Totally ignorant of what is called the world ; conscious too of the might that slumbered in his soul, and proud of it, as kings are of their sceptres ; impetu- ous when roused, and spurning unjust restraint; yet waver- ing and timid from the delicacy of his nature, and still more restricted in the freedom of his movements by the circum- stances of his father, whose all depended on the pleasure of the court, Schiller felt himself embarrassed, and agitated, and tormented in no common degree. Urged this way and that by the most powerful and conflicting impulses ; driven to de- spair by the paltry shackles that chained him, yet forbidden by the most sacred considerations to break them, he knew not on what he should resolve ; he reckoned himself ‘ the most unfortunate of men.’ Time at length gave him the solution ; circumstances oc- curred which forced him to decide. The popularity of the Robbers had brought him into correspondence with several friends of literature, who wished to patronise the author, or engage him in new undertakings. Among this number was the Freiherr von Dalberg, superintendent of the theatre at Mannheim, under whose encouragement and countenance Schiller remodelled the Robbers, altered it in some parts, and had it brought upon the stage in 1781. The correspondence with Dalberg began in literary discussions, but gradually ele- vated itself into the expression of more interesting sentiments. Dalberg loved and sympathised with the generous enthusiast, involved in troubles and perplexities which his inexperience was so little adequate to thread : he gave him advice and as- sistance ; and Schiller repaid this favour with the gratitude due to his kind, his first, and then almost his only benefactor. His letters to this gentleman have been preserved, and lately published ; they exhibit a lively picture of Schiller’s painful situation at Stuttgard, and of his unskilful as well as eager anxiety to be delivered from it. 1 His darling project was that Dalberg should bring him to Mannheim, as theatrical poet, by permission of the Duke : at one time he even thought of turn- ing player. 1 See Appendix, No. 2. SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 33 Neither of these projects could take immediate effect, and Schiller’s embarrassments became more pressing than ever. With the natural feeling of a young author, he had ventured to go in secret, and witness the first representation of his tragedy, at Mannheim. His incognito did not conceal him ; he was put under arrest during a week, for this offence : and as the punishment did not deter him from again transgressing in a similar manner, he learned that it was in contemplation to try more rigorous measures with him. Dark hints were given to him of some exemplary as well as imminent severity : and Dalberg’s aid, the sole hope of averting it by quiet means, was distant and dubious. Schiller saw himself reduced to ex- tremities. Beleaguered with present distresses, and the most horrible forebodings, on every side ; roused to the highest pitch of indignation, yet forced to keep silence, and wear the face of patience, he could endure this maddening constraint no longer. He resolved to be free, at whatever risk ; to aban- don advantages which he could not buy at such a price ; to quit his stepdame home, and go forth, though friendless and alone, to seek his fortune in the great market of life. Some foreign Duke or Prince was arriving at Stuttgard ; and all the people were in movement, occupied with seeing the specta- cle of his entrance : Schiller seized this opportunity of retir- ing from the city, careless whither he went, so he got beyond the reach of turnkeys, and Grand Dukes, and commanding officers. It 'was in the month of October 1782. This last step forms the catastrophe of the publication of the Robbers : it completed the deliverance of Schiller from the grating thraldom under which his youth had been passed, and decided his destiny for life. Schiller was in his twenty- third year when he left Stuttgard. He says ‘lie went empty away, — empty in purse and hope.’ The future was indeed sufficiently dark before him. Without patrons, connexions, or country, he had ventured forth to the warfare on his own charges ; without means, experience, or settled purpose, it was greatly to be feared that the fight would go against him. Yet his situation, though gloomy enough, was not entirely without its brighter side. He was now a free man, free, however 34 THE LIFE OF FRIED RICH SCHILLER. poor ; and his strong soul quickened as its fetters dropped off, and gloried within him in the dim anticipation of great and far-extending enterprises. If, cast too rudely among the hardships and bitter disquietudes of the world, his past nurs- ing had not been delicate, he was already taught to look upon privation and discomfort as his daily companions. If he knew not how to bend his course among the perplexed vicissitudes of society, there was a force within him which would triumph over many difficulties ; and a ‘ light from Heaven ’ was about his path, which, if it failed to conduct him to wealth and pre- ferment, would keep him far from baseness and degrading vices. Literature, and every great and noble thing which the right pursuit of it implies, he loved with all his heart and all his soul : to this inspiring object he was henceforth exclusively devoted ; advancing towards this, and possessed of common necessaries on the humblest scale, there w r as little else to tempt him. His life might be unhappy, but would hardly be dis- graceful. Schiller gradually felt all this, and gathered comfort, while better days began to dawn upon him. Fearful of trusting himself so near Stuttgard as at Mannheim, he had passed into Franconia, and was living painfully at Oggersheim, under the name of Schmidt : but Dalberg, who knew all his distresses, supplied him with money for immediate wants ; and a gener- ous lady made him the offer of a home. Madam von Wolzo- gen lived on her estate of Bauerbach, in the neighbourhood of Meinungen ; she knew Schiller from his works, and his in- timacy with her sons, who had been his fellow-students at Stuttgard. She invited him to her house ; and there treated him with an affection which helped him to forget the past, and look cheerfully forward to the future. Under this hospitable roof, Schiller had leisure to examine calmly the perplexed and dubious aspect of his affairs. Hap- pily his character belonged not to the whining or sentimental sort : he was not of those, in whom the pressure of misfor- tune produces nothing but unprofitable pain ; who spend, in cherishing and investigating and deploring then- miseries, the time which should be spent in providing a relief for them. SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 35 > With him, strong feeling was constantly a call to vigorous ac- tion : he possessed in a high degree the faculty of conquering his afflictions, by directing his thoughts, not to maxims for enduring them, or modes of expressing them with interest, but to plans for getting rid of them ; and to this disposition or habit, — too rare among men of genius, men of a much higher class than mere sentimentalists, but whose sensibility is out of proportion with their inventiveness or activity, — we are to attribute no small influence in the fortunate conduct of his subsequent life. With such a turn of mind, Schiller, now that he was at length master of his own movements, could not long be at a loss for plans or tasks. Once settled at Bauer- bacli, he immediately resumed his poetical employments ; and forgot, in the regions of fancy, the vague uncertainties of his real condition, or saw prospects of amending it in a life of literature. By many safe and sagacious persons, the prudence of his late proceedings might be more than questioned ; it was natural for many to forebode that one who left the port so rashly, and sailed with such precipitation, was likely to make shipwreck ere the voyage had extended far : but the lapse of a few months put a stop to such predictions. A year had not passed since his departure, when Schiller sent forth his Verschworung des Fiesco and Kabale und Liebe ; tragedies which testified that, dangerous and arduous as the life he had selected might be, he possessed resources more than adequate to its emergencies. Fiesco he had commenced during the period of his arrest at Stuttgard ; it was published, with the other play, in 1783 ; and soon after brought upon the Mann- heim theatre, with universal approbation. It was now about three years since the composition of the Robbers had been finished ; five since the first sketch of it had been formed. With what zeal and success Schiller had, in that interval, pursued the work of his mental*culture, these two dramas are a striking proof. The first ardour of youth is still to be discerned in them ; but it is now chastened by the dictates of a maturer reason, and made to animate the products of a much happier and more skilful invention. Schiller’s ideas of art had expanded and grown clearer, his knowledge 36 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. of life bad enlarged. He exhibits more acquaintance with the fundamental principles of human nature, as well as with the circumstances under which it usually displays itself ; and far higher and juster views of the manner in which its manifesta- tions should be represented. In the Conspiracy of Fiesco w r e have to admire not only the energetic animation which the author has infused into all his characters, but the distinctness with which he has discrimi- nated, without aggravating them ; and the vividness with which he has contrived to depict the scene where they act and move. The political and personal relations of the Genoese nobility ; the luxurious splendour, the intrigues, the feuds, and jarring interests, which occupy them, are made visible before us : we understand and may appreciate the complexities of the con- spiracy ; we mingle, as among realities, in the pompous and imposing movements which lead to the catastrophe. The catastrophe itself is displayed with peculiar effect. The mid- night silence of the sleeping city, interrupted only by the dis- tant sounds of watchmen, by the low hoarse murmur of the sea, or the stealthy footsteps and disguised voice of Fiesco, is conveyed to our imagination by some brief but graphic touches ; we seem to stand in the solitude and deep stillness of Genoa, awaiting the signal which is to burst so fearfully upon its slumber. At length the gun is fired ; and the wild uproar which ensues is no less strikingly exhibited. The deeds and sounds of violence, astonishment and terror ; the volleying cannon, the heavy toll of the alarm-bells, the acclama- tion of assembled thousands, ‘ the voice of Genoa speaking with Fiesco,’ — all is made present to us with a force and clear- ness, which of itself were enough to show no ordinary power of close and comprehensive conception, no ordinary skill in ar- ranging and expressing its results. But it is not this felicitous delineation of circumstances and visible scenes that constitutes our principal enjoyment. The faculty of penetrating through obscurity and confusion, to seize the characteristic features of an object, abstract or ma- terial ; of producing a lively description in the latter case, an accurate and keen scrutiny in the former, is the essential prop- SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 37 erty of intellect, and occupies in its best form a high rank in the scale of mental gifts : but the creative faculty of the poet, and especially of the dramatic poet, is something superadded to this ; it is far rarer, and occupies a rank far higher. In this particular, Fiesco, without approaching the limits of per- fection, yet stands in an elevated range of excellence. The characters, on the whole, are imagined and portrayed with great impressiveness and vigour. Traces of old faults are indeed still to be discovered : there still seems a want of pliancy about the genius of the author ; a stiffness and heavi- ness in his motions. His sublimity is not to be questioned ; but it does not always disdain the aid of rude contrasts and mere theatrical effect. He paints in colours deep and glow- ing, but without sufficient skill to blend them delicately : he amplifies nature more than purifies it ; he omits, but does not well conceal the omission. Fiesco has not the complete charm of a true though embellished resemblance to reality ; its at- traction rather lies in a kind of colossal magnitude, which re- quires it, if seen to advantage, to be viewed from a distance. Yet the prevailing qualities of the piece do more than make us pardon such defects. If the dramatic imitation is not al- ways entirely successful, it is never very distant from success ; and a constant flow of powerful thought and sentiment coun- teracts, or prevents us from noticing, the failure. We find evidence of great philosophic penetration, great resources of invention, directed by a skilful study of history and men ; and everywhere a bold grandeur of feeling and imagery gives life to what study has combined. The chief incidents have a daz- zling magnificence ; the chief characters, an aspect of majesty and force which corresponds to it. Fervour of heart, capa- ciousness of intellect and imagination, present themselves on all sides : the general effect is powerful and exalting. Fiesco himself is a personage at once probable and tragi- cally interesting. The luxurious dissipation, in which he veils his daring projects, softens the rudeness of that strength which it half conceals. His immeasurable pride expands itself not only into a disdain of subjection, but also into the most lofty acts of magnanimity : his blind confidence in fortune seems 33 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. almost warranted by the resources which he finds in his own fearlessness and imperturbable presence of mind. His ambi- tion participates in the nobleness of his other qualities ; he is less anxious that his rivals should yield to him in power than in generosity and greatness of character, attributes of which power is with him but the symbol and the fit employment. Ambition in Fiesco is indeed the common wish of every mind to diffuse its individual influence, to see its own activity re- flected back from the united minds of millions : but it is the common wish acting on no common man. He does not long to rule, that he may sway other wills, as it were, by the phys- ical exertion of his own : he would lead us captive by the superior grandeur of his qualities, once fairly manifested ; and he aims at dominion, chiefly as it will enable him to manifest these. ‘ It is not the arena that he values, but what lies in that arena : ’ the sovereignty is enviable, not for its adventi- tious splendour, not because it is the object of coarse and universal wonder ; but as it offers, in the collected force of a nation, something which the loftiest mortal may find scope for all his powers in guiding. “ Spread out the thunder,” Fiesco exclaims, “ into its single tones, and it becomes a lullaby for children : pour it forth together in one quick peal, and the royal sound shall move the heavens.” His affections are not less vehement than his other passions : his heart can be melted into powerlessness and tenderness by the mild persuasions of his Leonora ; the idea of exalting this amiable being mingles largely with the other motives to his enterprise. He is, in fact, a great, and might have been a virtuous man ; and though in the pursuit of grandeur- he swerves from absolute rectitude, we still respect his splendid qualities, and admit the force of the allurements which have led him astray. It is but faintly that we condemn his sen- timents, when, after a night spent in struggles between a rigid and a more accommodating patriotism, he looks out of his chamber, as the sun is rising in its calm beauty, and gild- ing the waves and mountains, and all the innumerable palaces and domes and spires of Genoa, and exclaims with rapture : “ This majestic city — mine ! To flame over it like the kingly SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 39 Day ; to brood over it with a monarch’s- power ; all these sleepless longings, all these never satiated wishes to be drowned in that unfathomable ocean ! ” We admire Fiesco, we disapprove of him, and sympathise with him : he is crushed iu the ponderous machinery Avhich himself put in motion and thought to control : we lament his fate, but confess that it was not undeserved. He is a fit ‘ offering of individual free-will to the force of social conventions.’ Fiesco is not the only striking character in the play which bears his name. The narrow fanatical republican virtue of Verrina, the mild and venerable wisdom of the old Doria, the unbridled profligacy of his nephew, even the cold, contented, irreclaimable perversity of the cutthroat Moor, all dwell in our recollections : but what, next to Fiesco, chiefly attracts us, is the character of Leonora his wife. Leonora is of kindred to Amelia in the Robbers, but involved in more complicated re- lations, and brought nearer to the actual condition of human- ity. She is such a heroine as Schiller most delights to draw. Meek and retiring by the softness of her nature, yet glowing with an ethereal ardour for all that is illustrious and lovely, she clings about her husband, as if her being were one with his. She dreams of remote and peaceful scenes, where Fiesco should be all to her, she all to Fiesco : her idea of love is, that ‘ her name should lie in secret behind every one of his thoughts, should speak to him from every object of Nature ; that for him, this bright majestic universe itself were but as the shining jewel, on wdiich her image, only hers, stood en- graved.’ Her character seems a reflection of Fiesco’s, but refined from his grosser strength, and transfigured into a celestial form of purity, and tenderness, and touching grace. Jealousy cannot move her into anger ; she languishes in con- cealed sorrow, when she thinks herself forgotten. It is affec- tion alone that can rouse her into passion ; but under the in- fluence of this, she forgets all weakness and fear. She cannot stay in her palace, on the night when Fiesco’s destiny is de- ciding ; she rushes forth, as if inspired, to share in her hus- band’s dangers and sublime deeds, and perishes at last in the tumult. 40 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. The death of Leonora, so brought about, and at such a time, is reckoned among the blemishes of the work : that of Fiesco, in which Schiller has ventured to depart from history, is to be more favourably judged of. Fiesco is not here acci- dentally drowned ; but plunged into the waves by the indig- nant Verrina, who forgets or stifles the feelings of friendship, in his rage at political apostasy. ‘ The nature of the Drama,’ we are justly told, ‘ will not suffer the operation of Chance, or of an immediate Providence. Higher spirits can discern the minute fibres of an event stretching through the whole ex- panse of the system of the world, and hanging, it may be, on the remotest limits of the future and the past, where man dis- cerns nothing save the action itself, hovering unconnected in space. But the artist has to paint for the short view of man, whom he wishes to instruct ; not for the piercing eye of supe- rior powers, from whom he learns.’ In the composition of Fiesco, Schiller derived the main part of his original materials from history ; he could increase the effect by gorgeous representations, and ideas preexisting in the mind of his reader. Enormity of incident and strangeness of situation lent him a similar assistance in the Robbers. Ka- bale und Liebe is destitute of these advantages ; it is a tragedy of domestic life ; its means of interesting are comprised with- in itself, and rest on very simple feelings, dignified by no very singular action. The name, Court- Intriguing and Lone, cor- rectly designates its nature ; it aims at exhibiting the conflict, the victorious conflict, of political manoeuvering, of cold worldly wisdom, with the pure impassioned movements of the young heart, as yet unsullied by the tarnish of every-day life, inexperienced in its calculations, sick of its empty formalities, and indignantly determined to cast off the mean restrictions it imposes, which bind so firmly by their number, though singly so contemptible. The idea is far from original : this is a conflict which most men have figured to themselves, which many men of ardent mind are in some degree constantly wag- ing. To make it, in this simple form, the subject of a drama, seems to be a thought of Schiller’s own ; but the praise. SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 41 though not the merit of his undertaking, considerable rather as performed than projected, has been lessened by a multitude of worthless or noxious imitations. The same primary con- ception has been tortured into a thousand shapes, and tricked out with a thousand tawdry devices and meretricious orna- ments, by the Kotzebues, and other ‘intellectual Jacobins,’ whose productions have brought what we falsely call the ‘ German Theatre ’ into such deserved contempt in England. Some portion of the gall, due only to these inflated, flimsy, and fantastic persons, appeal’s to have acted on certain critics in estimating this play of Schiller’s. August Wilhelm Schlegel speaks slightingly of the work : he says, ‘ it will hardly move us by its tone of overstrained sensibility, but may well afflict us by the painful impressions which it leaves.’ Our own ex- perience has been different from that of Schlegel. In the characters of Louisa and Ferdinand Walter we discovered lit- tle overstraining ; their sensibility we did not reckon very criminal ; seeing it united with a clearness of judgment, chast- ened by a purity of heart, and controlled by a force of virtu- ous resolution, in full proportion with itself. We rather admired the genius of the poet, which could elevate a poor mu- sic-master’s daughter to the dignity of a heroine ; could rep- resent, without wounding our sense of propriety, the affection of two noble beings, created for each other by nature, and divided by rank ; we sympathised in their sentiments enough to feel a proper interest in their fate, and see in them, w’hat the author meant we should see, two pure and lofty minds in- volved in the meshes of vulgar cunning, and borne to destruc- tion by the excess of their own good qualities and the crimes of others. Ferdinand is a nobleman, but not convinced that ‘ his pa- tent of nobility is more ancient or of more authority than the primeval scheme of the universe : ’ he speaks and acts like a young man entertaining such persuasions : disposed to yield everything to reason and true honour, but scarcely anything to mere use and wont. His passion for Louisa is the sign and the nourishment rather than the cause of such a temper : he loves her without limit, as the only creature he has ever met 4 2 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. with of a like mind with himself ; and this feeling exalts into inspiration what was already the dictate of his nature. We accompany him on his straight and plain path ; we rejoice to see him fling aside with a strong arm the artifices and allure- ments with which a worthless father and more worthless asso- ciates assail him at first in vain : there is something attractive in the spectacle of native integrity, fearless though inexperi- enced, at war with selfishness and craft ; something mournful, because the victory will seldom go as we would have it. Louisa is a meet partner for the generous Ferdinand : the' poet has done justice to her character. She is timid and hum- ble ; a feeling and richly gifted soul is hid in her by the un- kindness of her earthly lot ; she is without counsellors except the innate holiness of her heart, and the dictates of her keen though untutored understanding ; yet when the hour of trial comes, she can obey the commands of both, and draw from herself a genuine nobleness of conduct, which secondhand prudence, and wealth, and titles, would but render less touch- ing. Her filial affection, her angelic attachment to her lover, her sublime and artless piety, are beautifully contrasted with the bleakness of her external circumstances : she appears be- fore us like the ‘ one rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,’ and we grieve to see it crushed and trodden down so rudely. The innocence, the enthusiasm, the exalted life and stem fate of Louisa and Ferdinand give a powerful charm to this tragedy : it is everywhere interspersed Avith pieces of fine elo- quence, and scenes Avhich moA r e us by their dignity or pathos. We recollect feAv passages of a more overpowering nature than the conclusion, where Ferdinand, beguiled by the most dia- bolical machinations to disbelieve the virtue of his mistress, puts himself and her to death by poison. There is a gloomy and solemn might in his despair ; though overwhelmed, he seems invincible : his enemies have blinded and imprisoned him in their deceptions ; but only that, like Samson, he may overturn his prison-house, and bury himself, and all that have wronged him, in its ruins. The other characters of the play, though in general properly sustained, are not sufficiently remarkable to claim much of SCHILLER’S YOUTH. 43 out attention. Wurm, tlie chief counsellor and agent of the unprincipled, calculating Father, is wicked enough; but there is no great singularity in his wickedness. He is little more than the dry, cool, and now somewhat vulgar miscreant, the villanous Attorney of modern novels. Kalb also is but a worthless subject, and what is worse, but indifferently handled. He is meant for the feather-brained thing of tags and laces, which frequently inhabits courts ; but he wants the grace and agility proper to the species ; he is less a fool than a block- head, less perverted than totally inane. Schiller’s strength lay not in comedy, but in something far higher. The great merit of the present work consists in the characters of the hero and heroine ; and in this respect it ranks at the very head of its class. As a tragedy of common life, we know of few rivals to it, certainly of no superior. The production of three such pieces as the Robbers, Fiesco, and Kabale und Liebe, already announced to the world that another great and original mind had appeared, from whose maturity, when such was the promise of its youth, the highest expectations might be formed. These three plays stand re- lated to each other in regard to their nature and form, as well as date : they exhibit the progressive state of Schiller’s educa- tion ; show us the fiery enthusiasm of youth, exasperated into ■wildness, astonishing in its movements rather than sublime ; and the same enthusiasm gradually yielding to the sway of reason, gradually using itself to the constraints prescribed by sound judgment and more extensive knowledge. Of the three, the Robbers is doubtless the most singular, and likely perhaps to be the most widely popular : but the latter two are of more real worth in the eye of taste and will better bear a careful and rigorous study. With the appearance of Fiesco and its companion, the first period of Schiller’s literary history may conclude. The stormy confusions of his youth were now subsiding ; after all his aber- rations, repulses, and perplexed wanderings, he was at length about to reach his true destination, and times of more serenity began to open for him. Two such tragedies as he had lately 44 TEE LIFE OF F PEED RICE SCEILLER. offered to the world made it easier for his friend Dalberg to second his pretensions. Schiller was at last gratified by the fulfilment of his favourite scheme ; in September 1783, he went to Mannheim, as poet to the theatre, a post of respectability and reasonable profit, to the duties of which he forthwith ad- dressed himself with all his heart. He was not long afterwards elected a member of the German Society established for liter- ary objects in Mannheim ; and he valued the honour, not only as a testimony of respect from a highly estimable quarter, but also as a means of uniting him more closely with men of kin- dred pursuits and tempers : and what was more than all, of quieting forever his apprehensions from the government at Stuttgard. Since his arrival at Mannheim, one or two sus- picious incidents had again alarmed him on this head ; but being now acknowledged as a subject of the Elector Palatine, naturalised by law in his new country, he had nothing more to fear from the Duke of Wiirtemberg. Satisfied with his moderate income, safe, free, and sur- rounded by friends that loved and honoured him, Schiller now looked confidently forward to what all his efforts had been a search and hitherto a fruitless search for, an undisturbed life of intellectual labour. What effect this happy aspect of his cir- cumstances must have produced upon him may be easily con- jectured. Through many years he had been inured to agi- tation and distress ; now peafce and liberty and hope, sweet in themselves, were sweeter for their novelty. For the first time in his life, he saw himself allowed to obey without reluctance the ruling bias of his nature ; for the first time inclination and duty went hand in hand. His activity awoke with renovated force in this favourable scene ; long-thwarted, half-forgotten projects again kindled into brightness, as the possibility of their accomplishment became apparent : Schiller glowed with a gen- erous pride when he felt his faculties at his own disposal, and thought of the use he meant to make of them. ‘ All my con- nexions,’ he said, ‘ are now dissolved. The public is now all to me, my study, my sovereign, my confidant. To the pub- lic alone I henceforth belong ; before this and no other tri- bunal will I place myself ; this alone do I reverence and fear. SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 45 Something majestic hovers before me, as I determine now to wear no other fetters but the sentence of the world, to appeal to no other throne but the soul of man.’ These expressions are extracted from the preface to his Thalia, a perodical work which he undertook in 1784, devoted to sub- jects connected with poetry, and chiefly with the drama. In such sentiments we leave him, commencing the arduous and perilous, but also glorious and sublime duties of a life consecrated to the discovery of truth, and the creation of intellectual beauty. He was now exclusively what is called a Mari of Letters, for the rest of his days. PAET II. FROM SCHILLER’S SETTLEMENT AT MANNHEIM TO HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA. ( 1783 - 1790 .) Ip to know wisdom were to practise it ; if fame brought true dignity and peace of mind ; or happiness consisted in nourishing the intellect with its appropriate food, and sur- rounding the imagination with ideal beauty, a literary life would be the most enviable which the lot of this world affords. But the truth is far otherwise. The Man of Letters has no immutable, all-conquering volition, more than other men ; to understand and to perform are two very different things with him as with every one. His fame rarely exerts a favourable influence on his dignity of character, and never on his peace of mind : its glitter is external, for the eyes of others ; within, it is but the aliment of unrest, the oil cast upon the ever- gnawing fire of ambition, quickening into fresh vehemence the blaze which it stills for a moment. Moreover, this Man of Letters is not wholly made of spirit, but of clay and spirit mixed : his thinking faculties may be nobly trained and ex- ercised, but he must have affections as well as thoughts to make him happy, and food and raiment must be given him or he dies. Far from being the most enviable, his way of life is perhaps, among the many modes by which an ardent mind endeavours to express its activity, the most thickly beset with suffering and degradation. Look at the biography of authors ! Except the Newgate Calendar, it is the most sick- ening chapter in the history of man. The calamities of these people are a fertile topic ; and too often their faults and vices have kept pace with their calamities. Nor is it difficult to see how this has happened. Talent of any sort is generally SCHILLER AT MANNHEIM. 47 accompanied with a peculiar fineness of sensibility ; of genius this is the most essential constituent ; and life in any shape has sorrows enough for hearts so formed. The employments of literature sharpen this natural tendency; the vexations that accompany them frequently exasperate it into morbid soreness. The cares and toils of literature are the business of life ; its delights are too ethereal and too transient to fur- nish that perennial flow of satisfaction, coarse but plenteous and substantial, of which happiness in this world of ours is made. The most finished efforts of the mind give it little pleas- ure, frequently they give it pain ; for men’s aims are ever far be- yond their strength. And the outward recompense of these undertakings, the distinction they confer, is of still smaller value : the desire for it is insatiable even when successful ; and when baffled, it issues in jealousy and envy, and every pitiful and painful feeling. So keen a temperament with so little to restrain or satisfy, so much to distress or tempt it, produces contradictions which few are adequate to reconcile. Hence the unhappiness of literary men, hence then’ faults and follies. Thus literature is apt to form a dangerous and discontent- ing occupation even for the amateur. But for him whose rank and worldly comforts depend on it, who does not live to write,, but writes to live, its difficulties and perils are fearfully increased. Few spectacles are more afflicting than that of such a man, so gifted and so fated, so jostled and tossed to and fro in the rude bustle of life, the buffetings of which he is so little fitted to endure. Cherishing, it may be, the lofti- est thoughts, and clogged with the meanest wants ; of pure and holy purposes, yet ever driven from the straight path by the pressure of necessity, or the impulse of passion ; thirsting for glory, and frequently in want of daily bread ; hovering between the empyrean of his fancy and the squalid desert of reality ; cramped and foiled in his most strenuous exertions ; dissatisfied with his best performances, disgusted with his fortune, this Man of Letters too often spends his weary days in conflicts with obscure misery : harassed, chagrined, de- based, or maddened ; the victim at once of tragedy and farce ; 4S THE LIFE OF FRIEDEIC'II SCHILLER. tlie last forlorn outpost in the war of Mind against Matter. Many are the noble souls that have perished bitterly, with their tasks unfinished, under these corroding woes ! Some in utter famine, like Otway ; some in dark insanity, like Cowper and Collins ; some, like Chatterton, have sought out a more stern quietus, and turning their indignant steps away from a world which refused them welcome, have taken refuge in that strong Fortress, where poverty and cold neglect, and the thousand natural shocks which flesh is heir to, could not reach them any more. Yet among these men are to be found the brightest speci- mens and the chief benefactors of mankind ! It is they that keep awake the finer parts of our souls ; that give us better aims than power or pleasure, and withstand the total sove- reignty of Mammon in this earth. They are the Vanguard in the march of mind ; the intellectual Backwoodsmen, reclaim- ing from the idle wilderness new territories for the thought and the activity of their happier brethren. Pity that from all their conquests, so rich in benefit to others, themselves should reap so little ! But it is vain to murmur. They are volun- teers in this cause ; they weighed the charms of it against the perils ; and they must abide the results of their decision, as all must. The hardships of the course they follow are formi- dable, but not all inevitable ; and to such as pursue it rightly, it is not without its great rewards. If an author’s life is more agitated and more painful than that of others, it may also be made more spirit-stirring and exalted : fortune may render him unhappy ; it is only himself that can make h i m despicable. The history of genius has, in fact, its bright side as well as its dark. And if it is distressing to survey the misery, and what is worse, the debasement of so many gifted men, it is doubly cheering on the other hand- to reflect on the few, who, amid the temptations and sorrows to which life in all its provinces and most in theirs is liable, have travelled through it in calm and virtuous majesty, and are now hallowed in our memories, not less for their conduct than then- writings. Such men are the flower of this lower world : to such alone can the epithet of great be applied with its true emphasis. There is a con- SCHILLER AT MANNHEIM. 49 gruity in their proceedings which one loves to contemplate : ‘ he who would write heroic poems, should make his whole life a heroic poem.’ So thought our Milton ; and, what was more difficult, he acted so. To Milton, the moral king of authors, a heroic multitude, out of many ages and countries, might be joined ; a ‘ cloud of witnesses,’ that encompass the true literary man throughout his pilgrimage, inspiring him to lofty emulation, cheering his solitary thoughts with hope, teaching him to struggle, to endure, to conquer difficulties, or, in failure and heavy sufferings, to ‘ arm tli’ obdured breast With stubborn patience as witli triple steel.’ To this august series, in his own degree, the name of Schiller may be added. Schiller lived in more peaceful times than Milton ; his his- tory is less distinguished by obstacles surmounted, or sacri- fices made to principles ; yet he had his share of trials to en- counter ; and the admirers of his writings need not feel ashamed of the way in which he bore it. One virtue, the parent of many others, and the most essential of any, in his circumstances, he possessed in a supreme degree ; he was de- voted with entire and unchanging ardour to the cause he had embarked in. The extent of his natural endowments might have served, with a less eager character, as an excuse for long periods of indolence, broken only by fits of casual exertion : with him it was but a new incitement to improve and de- velop them. The Ideal Man that lay within him, the image of himself as he should be, was formed upon a strict and curi- ous standard ; and to reach this constantly approached and constantly receding emblem of perfection, was the unwearied effort of his life. This crowning principle of conduct, never ceasing to inspire his energetic mind, introduced a consis- tency into his actions, a firm coherence into his character, which the changeful condition of his history rendered of peculiar importance. His resources, his place of residence, his associates, his worldly prospects, might vary as they 4 50 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. pleased ; this purpose did not vary ; it was ever present with him to nerve every better faculty of his head and heart, to in- vest the chequered vicissitudes of his fortune with a dignity derived from himself. The zeal of his nature overcame the temptations to that loitering and indecision, that fluctuation between sloth and consuming toil, that infirmity of resolution, with all its tormenting and enfeebling consequences, to which a literary man, working as he does at a solitary task, uncalled for by any pressing tangible demand, and to be recompensed by distant and dubious advantage, is especially exposed. Unity of aim, aided by ordinary vigour of character, will gen- erally insure perseverance ; a quality not ranked among the cardinal virtues, but as essential as any of them to the proper conduct of life. Nine-tenths of the miseries and vices of mankind proceed from idleness : with men of quick minds, to whom it is especially pernicious, this habit is commonly the fruit of many disappointments and schemes oft baffled ; and men fail in their schemes not so much from the want of strength as from the ill-direction of it. The weakest living creature, by concentrating his powers on a single object, can accomplish something : the strongest, by dispersing his over many, may fail to accomplish anything. The drop, by con- tinual falling, bores its passage through the hardest rock ; the hasty torrent rushes over it with hideous uproar, and leaves no trace behind. New men have applied more steadfastly to the business of their life, or been more resolutely diligent than Schiller. The profession of theatrical poet was, in his present cir- cumstances, particularly favourable to the maintenance of this wholesome state of mind. In the fulfilment of its duties, while he gratified his own dearest predilections, he was like- wise warmly seconded by the prevailing taste of the public. The interest excited by the stage, and the importance attached to everything connected with it, are greater in Germany than in any other part of Europe, not excepting France, or even Paris. Noi', as in Paris, is the stage in German towns con- sidered merely as a mental recreation, an elegant and pleasant mode of filling up the vacancy of tedious evenings : in Ger- SCHILLER AT MANNHEIM. 51 many, it has the advantage of being - comparatively new ; and its exhibitions are directed to a class of minds attuned to a far higher pitch of feeling. The Germans are accused of a proneness to amplify and systematise, to admire with excess, and to find, in whatever calls forth their applause, an epitome of a thousand excellencies, which no one else can discover in it. Their discussions on the theatre do certainly give colour to this charge. Nothing, at least to an English reader, can ap- pear more disproportionate than the influence they impute to the stage, and the quantity of anxious investigation they devote to its concerns. With us, the question about the moral tendency of theatri- cal amusements is now very generally consigned to the medita- tion of debating clubs, and speculative societies of young men under age ; with our neighbours it is a weighty subject of in- quiry for minds of almost the highest order. With us, the stage is considered as a harmless pastime, wholesome because it occupies the man by occupying his mental, not his sensiial faculties ; one of the many departments of fictitious represen- tation ; perhaps the most exciting, but also the most transitory ; sometimes hurtful, generally beneficial, just as the rest are ; entitled to no peculiar regard, and far inferior in its effect to many others which have no special apparatus for their applica- tion. The Germans, on the contrary, talk of it as of some- new organ for refining the hearts and minds of men ; a sort of lay pulpit, the worthy ally of the sacred one, and perhaps even better fitted to exalt some of our nobler feelings ; because its objects are much more varied, and because it speaks to us through many avenues, addressing the eye by its pomp and decorations, the ear by its harmonies, and the heart and im- agination by its poetical embellishments, and heroic acts and sentiments. Influences still more mysterious are hinted at, if not directly announced. An idea seems to lurk obscurely at the bottom of certain of their abstruse and elaborate specu- lations, as if the stage were destined to replace some of those sublime illusions which the progress of. reason is fast driving from the earth ; as if its pageantry, and allegories, and figu- rative shadowing-forth of things, might supply men’s nature 52 THE LIFE QF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. ■with much of that quickening nourishment which we once de- rived from the superstitions and mythologies of darker ages. Viewing the matter in this light, they proceed in the manage- ment of it with all due earnestness. Hence their minute and painful investigations of the origin of dramatic emotion, of its various kinds and degrees ; their subdivisions of romantic and heroic and romantico-heroic, and the other endless jargon that encumbers their critical writings. The zeal of the peo- ple corresponds with that of their instructors. The want of more important public interests naturally contributes still farther to the prominence of this, the discussion of which is not forbidden, or sure to be without effect. Literature at- . tracts nearly all the powerful thought that circulates in Ger- many ; and the theatre is the great nucleus of German litera- ture. It was to be expected that Schiller would participate in a feeling so universal, and so accordant with his own wishes and prospects. The theatre of Mannheim was at that period one of the best in Germany ; he felt proud of the share which he had in conducting it, and exerted himself with his usual alacrity in promoting its various objects. Connected with the duties of his office, was the more personal duty of improving his own faculties, and extending his knowledge of the art which he had engaged to cultivate. He read much, and stud- ied more. The perusal of Corneille, Racine, Voltaire, and the other French classics, could not be without advantage to one whose exuberance of power, and defect of taste, were the only faults he had ever been reproached with ; and the sounder ideas thus acquired, he was constantly bus}- in ex- emplifying by attempts of his own. His projected transla- tions from Shakspeare and the French were postponed for the present : indeed, except in the instance of Macbeth, they were never finished: his Gonradin von Schwaben, and a second part of the Robbers, were likewise abandoned : but a number of minor undertakings sufficiently evinced his diligence : and Bon Carlos, which he had now seriously commenced, was oc- cupying all his poetical faculties. Another matter he had much at heart was the setting forth SCHILLER AT MANNHEUL- 53 of a periodical -work, devoted to the concerns of tlie stage. In this enterprise, Scliiller had expected the patronage and co-operation of the German Society, of which he was a mem- ber. It did not strike him that any other motive than a genuine love of art, and zeal for its advancement, could have induced men to join such a body. But the zeal of the Ger- man Society was more according to knowledge than that of their new associate : they listened with approving ear to his vivid representations, and wide-spreading projects, but de- clined taking any part in the execution of them. D alb erg alone seemed willing to support him. Mortified, but not disheart- ened by their coldness, Schiller reckoned up his means of suc- ceeding without them. The plan of his work was contracted within narrower limits ; he determined to commence it on his own resources. After much delay, the first number of the Eheinische Thalia, enriched by three acts of Don Carlos, ap- peared in 1785. It was continued with one short interrup- tion, till 1794 The main purpose of the work being the furtherance of dramatic art, and the extension and improve- ment of the public taste for such entertainments, its chief contents are easy to be guessed at ; theatrical criticisms, essays on the nature of the stage, its history in various coun- tries, its moral and intellectual effects, and the best methods of producing them. A part of the publication was open to poetry and miscellaneous discussion. Meditating so many subjects so assiduously, Schiller knew not what it was to be unemployed. Yet the task of compos- ing dramatic varieties, of training players, and deliberating in the theatrical senate, or even of expressing philosophically his opinions on these points, could not wholly occupy such a mind as his. There were times when, notwithstanding his own prior habits, and all the vaunting of dramaturgists, he felt that their scenic glories were but an empty show, a lying refuge, where there was no abiding rest for the soul. His eager spirit turned away from their paltry world of paste- board, to dwell among the deep and serious interests of the living world of men. The Thalia, besides its dramatic specu- lations and performances, contains several of his poems, which 54 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. indicate that his attention, though officially directed else- whither, was alive to all the common concerns of humanity ; that he looked on life not more as a writer than as a man. The Laura, whom he celebrates, was not a vision of the mind ; but a living fair one, whom he saw daily, and loved in the secrecy of his heart. His Gruppe aus dem Tartarus (Group from Tartarus), his Kmdesmorderinn (Infanticide), are prod- ucts of a mind brooding over dark and mysterious things. While improving in the art of poetry, in the capability of uttering his thoughts in the form best adapted to express them, he was likewise improving in the more valuable art of thought itself ; and applying it not only to the business of the imagination, but also to those profound and solemn in- quiries, which every reasonable mortal is called to engage with. In particular, the Philosophische Briefe, written about this period, exhibits Schiller in a new, and to us more interesting point of view. Julius and Raphael are the emblems of his own fears and his own hopes ; their Philosophic Letters unfold to us many a gloomy conflict that had passed in the secret chambers of their author’s soul. Sceptical doubts on the most important of all subjects were natural to such an understand- ing as Schiller’s ; but his heart was not of a temper to rest satisfied with doubts ; or to draw a sorry compensation for them from the pride of superior acuteness, or the vulgar pleas- ure of producing an effect on others by assailing their dearest and holiest persuasions. With him the question about the essence of our being was not a subject for shallow speculation, charitably named scientific ; still less for vain jangling and polemical victories : it was a fearful mystery, which it con- cerned all the deepest sympathies and most sublime anticipa- tions of his mind to have explained. It is no idle curiosity, but the shuddering voice of nature that asks : ‘ If our happi- ness depend on the harmonious play of the sensorium ; if our conviction may waver with the beating of the pulse ? ’ What Schiller’s ultimate opinions on these points were, we are no- where specially informed. That his heart was orthodox, that the whole universe was for him a temple, in which he offered -SCHILLER AT MANNHEIM. 55 up the continual sacrifice of devout adoration, his works and life bear noble testimony ; yet, here and there, his fairest visions seem as if suddenly sicklied over with a pale cast of doubt ; a withering shadow seems to flit across his soul, and chill it in his loftiest moods. The dark condition of the man who longs to believe and longs in vain, he can represent with a verisimilitude and touching beauty, which shows it to have been familiar to himself. Apart from their ingenuity, there is a certain severe pathos in some of these passages, which affects us with a peculiar emotion. The hero of another work is made to express himself in these terms : ‘ What went before and what will follow me, I regard as two black impenetrable curtains, which hang down at the two extremities of human life, and which no living man has yet drawn aside. Many hundreds of generations have already stood before them with their torches, guessing anxiously what lies behind. On the curtain of Futurity, many see their own shadows, the forms of their passions enlarged and put in mo- tion ; they shrink in terror at this image of themselves. Poets, philosophers, and founders of states, have painted this curtain with their dreams, more smiling or more dark, as the sky above them was cheerful or gloomy ; and their pictures deceive the eye when viewed from a distance. Many jugglers too make profit of this our universal curiosity : by their strange mummeries, they have set the outstretched fancy in amazement. A deep silence reigns behind this curtain ; no one once within it will answer those he has left without ; all you can hear is a hollow echo of your own question, as if you shouted into a chasm. To the other side of this curtain we are all bound : men grasp hold of it as they pass, trembling, uncertain who may stand within it to receive them, quid sit id quod tantum morituri vident. Some unbelieving people there have been, v r ho have asserted that this curtain did but make a mockery of men, and that nothing could be seen because nothing was behind it : but to convince these people, the rest have seized them, and hastily pushed them in.’ 1 The Philosophic Letters paint the struggles of an ardent, 1 Her Gehter seller, Schiller’s Werke, B. iv. p. 350. 5G THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. enthusiastic, inquisitive spirit to deliver itself from the harass- ing uncertainties, to penetrate the dread obscurity, -which overhangs the lot of man. The first faint scruples of the Doubter are settled by the maxim : ‘ Believe nothing but thy own reason ; there is nothing holier than truth. 5 But Beason, employed in such an inquiry, can do but half the work : she is like the Conjurer that has pronounced the spell of invoca- tion, but has forgot the counter-word ; spectres and shadowy forms come crowding at his summons ; in endless multitudes they press and hover round his magic circle, and the terror- struck Black-artist cannot lay them. Julius finds that on re- jecting the primary dictates of feeling, the system of dogmat- ical belief, he is driven to the system of materialism. Recoil- ing in horror from this dead and cheerless creed, he toils and wanders in the labyrinths of pantheism, seeking comfort and rest, but finding none ; till, baffled and tired, and sick at heart, he seems inclined, as far as we can judge, to renounce the dreary problem altogether, to shut the eyes of his too keen understanding, and take refuge under the shade of Revelation. The anxieties and errors of Julius are described in glowing terms ; his intellectual subtleties are mingled with the eloquence of intense feeling. The answers of his friend are in a similar style ; intended not more to convince than to persuade. The whole work is full of passion as well as acute- ness ; the impress of a philosophic and poetic mind striving with all its vast energies to make its poetry and its philosophy agree. Considered as exhibiting the state of Schiller’s thoughts at this period, it possesses a peculiar interest. In other respects there is little in it to allure us. It is short and incomplete ; there is little originality in the opinions it ex- presses, and none in the form of its composition. As an argument on either side, it is too rhetorical to be of much weight ; it abandons the inquiry when its difficulties and its value are becoming greatest, and breaks off abruptly without arriving at any conclusion. Schiller has surveyed the dark Serbonian bog of Infidelity : but he has made no causeway through it : the Philosophic Letters are a fragment. Amid employments so varied, with health, and freedom SCHILLER AT MANNHEIM. 57 from the coarser hardships of life, Schiller’s feelings might be earnest, but could scarcely be unhappy. His mild and amia- ble manners, united to such • goodness of heart, and such height of accomplishment, endeared him to all classes of society in Mannheim ; Dalberg was still his warm friend ; Schwann and Laura he conversed with daily. His genius was fast enlarging its empire, and fast acquiring more com- plete command of it ; he was loved and admired, rich in the enjoyment of present activity and fame, and richer in the hope of what was coming. Yet in proportion as his faculties and his prospects expanded, he began to Hew his actual situation with less and less contentment. For a season after his arrival, it was natural that Mannheim should appear to him as land does to the shipwrecked mariner, full of gladness and beauty, merely because it is laud. It was equally natural that, after a time, this sentiment should abate and pass away ; that his place of refuge should appear but as other places, only with its difficulties and discomforts aggravated by their nearness. His revenue was inconsiderable here, and depend- ent upon accidents for its continuance ; a share in directing the concerns of a provincial theatre, a task not without its irritations, was little adequate to satisfy the wishes of a mind like his. Schiller longed for a wider sphere of action ; the world was all before him ; he lamented that he should still be lingering on the mere outskirts of its business ; that he should waste so much time and effort in contending with the irascible vanity of players, or watching the ebbs and flows of public taste ; in resisting small grievances, and realising a small re- sult. He determined upon leaving Mannheim. If destitute of other holds, his prudence might still have taught him to smother this unrest, the never-failing inmate of every human breast, and patiently continue where he was : but various re- sources remained to him, and various hopes invited him from other quarters. The produce of his works, or even the exer- cise of his profession, would insure him a competence any- where ; the former had already gained him distinction and goodwill in every part of Germany. The first number of his Thalia had arrived at the court of Hessen-Durmstadt while 58 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. the Duke of Sachsen- Weimar happened to be there : the perusal of the first acts of Don Carlos had introduced the author to that enlightened prince, who expressed his satisfac- tion and respect by transmitting him the title of Counsellor. A less splendid but not less truthful or pleasing testimonial had lately reached him from Leipzig. ‘ Some days ago,’ he writes, ‘ I met with a very flattering and agreeable surprise. There came to me, out of Leipzig, from unknown hands, four parcels, and as many letters, writ- ten with the highest enthusiasm towards me, and overflowing with poetical devotion. They were accompanied by four miniature portraits, two of which are of very beautiful young ladies, and by a pocket-book sewed in the finest taste. Such a present, from people who can have no interest in it, but to let me know that they wish me well, and thank me for some cheerful hours, I prize extremely ; the loudest applause of the world could scarcely have flattered me so agreeably.’ Perhaps this incident, trifling as it was, might not be with- out effect in deciding the choice of his future residence. Leipzig had the more substantial charm of being a centre of activity and commerce of all sorts, that of literature not ex- cepted ; and it contained some more effectual friends of Schil- ler than these his unseen admirers. He resolved on going thither. His wishes and intentions are minutely detailed to Huber, his chief intimate at Leipzig, in a letter written shortly before his removal. We translate it for the hints it gives us of Schiller’s tastes and habits at that period of his history. ‘ This, then, is probably the last letter I shall write to you from Mannheim. The time from the fifteenth of March has hung upon my hands, like a trial for life ; and, thank Heaven ! I am now ten whole days nearer you. And now, my good friend, as you have already consented to take my entire con- fidence upon your shoulders, allow me the pleasure of leading you info the interior of my domestic wishes. ‘ In my new establishment at Leipzig, I purpose to avoid one error, which has plagued me a great deal here in Mann- heim. It is this : No longer to conduct my own housekeep- SCHILLER AT MANNHEIM. 59 ing, and also no longer to live alone. The former is not by any means a business I excel in. It costs me less to execute a whole conspiracy, in five acts, than to settle my domestic arrangements for a week ; and poetry, you yourself know, is but a dangerous assistant in calculations of economy. My mind is drawn different ways ; I fall headlong out of my ideal world, if a holed stocking remind me of the real world. ‘ As to the other point, I require for my private happiness to have a true warm friend that would be ever at my hand, like my better angel ; to whom I could communicate my nascent ideas in the very act of conceiving them, not needing to transmit them, as at present, by letters or long visits. Nay, when this friend of mine lives beyond the four corners of my house, the trifling circumstance, that in order to reach him I must cross the street, dress myself, and so forth, will of itself destroy the enjoyment of the moment, and the train of my thoughts is torn in pieces before I see him. ‘ Observe you, my good fellow, these are petty matters ; but petty matters often bear the weightiest result in the man- agement of life. I know myself better than perhaps a thou- sand mothers’ sons know themselves ; I understand how much, and frequently how little, I require to be completely happy. The question therefore is : Can I get this wish of my heart fulfilled in Leipzig ? ‘ If it were possible that I could make a lodgment with you, all my cares on that head would be removed. I am no bad neighbour, as perhaps you imagine ; I have pliance enough to suit myself to another, and here and there withal a certain knack, as Yorick says, at helping to make him merrier and better. Failing this, if you could find me any person that would undertake my small economy, everything would still be well. ‘ I want nothing but a bedroom, which might also be my working room ; and another chamber for receiving visits. The house-gear necessary for me are a good chest of drawers, a desk, a bed and sofa, a table, and a few chairs. With these conveniences, my accommodation were sufficiently provided for. 60 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER ‘ I cannot live on the ground-floor, nor close by the ridge- tile ; also my windows positively must not look into the church- yard. I love men, and therefore like their bustle. If I can- not so arrange it that we (meaning the quintuple alliance ’) shall mess together, I would engage at the table d’hote of the inn ; for I had rather fast than eat without company, large, or else particularly good. ‘ I write all this to you, my dearest friend, to forewarn you of my silly tastes ; and, at all events, that I may put it in your power to take some preparatory steps, in one place or another, for my settlement. My demands are, in truth, confoundedly na'ive, but your goodness has spoiled me. ‘ The first part of the Thalia must already be in your pos- session ; the doom of Carlos wall ere now be pronounced. Yet I will take it from you orally. Had we five not been ac- quainted, who knows but we might have become so on occa- sion of this very Carlos ? ’ Schiller rvent accordingly to Leipzig ; though whether Huber received him, or he found his humble necessaries else- where, we have not learned. He arrived in the end of March 1785, after eighteen months’ residence at Mannheim. The re- ception he met with, his amusements, occupations, and pros- pects are described in a letter to the Kammerratk Schwann, a bookseller at Mannheim, alluded to above. Except Eal- berg, Schwann had been his earliest friend ; he was now en- deared to him by subsequent familiarity, not of letters and writing, but of daily intercourse ; and what w r as more than all, by the circumstance that Laura was his daughter. The letter, it will be seen, w r as written with a weightier object than the pleasure of describing Leipzig : it is dated 21th April 1785. ‘ You have an indubitable right to be angry at my long silence ; yet I know your goodness too well to be in doubt that you will pardon me. ‘ When a man, unskilled as I am in the busy world, visits Leipzig for the first time, during the Fair, it is, if not excus- able, at least intelligible, that among the multitude of strange 1 Who the other three were is nowhere particularly mentioned. SCHILLER AT LEIPZIG. 61 thing's running through his head, he should for a few days lose recollection of himself. Such, my dearest friend, has till today been nearly my case ; and even now I have to steal from many avocations the pleasing moments which, in idea, I mean to spend with you at Mannheim. ‘ Our journey hither, of which Herr Gotz will give you a circumstantial description, was the most dismal you can well imagine ; Bog, Snow and Bain were the three wicked foes that by turns assailed us ; and though we used an additional pair of horses all the way from Yach, yet our travelling, which should have ended on Friday, was spun-out till Sunday. It is universally maintained that the Fair has visibly suffered by the shocking state of the roads ; at all events, even in my eyes, the crowd of sellers and buyers is far beneath the de- scription I used to get of it in the Empire. ‘ In the very first week of my residence here, I made in- numerable new acquaintances ; among whom, Weisse, Oeser, Hiller, Zollikofer, Professor Huber, Jiinger, the famous actor Beinike, a few merchants’ families of the place, and some Berlin people, are the most interesting. During Fair- time, as you know well, a person cannot get the full enjoyment of any one ; our attention to the individual is dissipated in the noisy multitude. ‘ My most pleasant recreation hitherto has been to visit Bidder's coffee-house, where I constantly find half the vjorld of Leipzig assembled, and extend my acquaintance with foreigners and natives. ‘ From various quarters I have had some alluring invitations to Berlin and Dresden ; which it will be difficult for me to withstand. It is quite a peculiar case, my friend, to have a literary name. The few men of worth and consideration who offer you their intimacy on that score, and whose regard is really worth coveting, are too disagreeably counterweighed by the baleful swarm of creatures who keep humming round you, like so many flesh-flies ; gape at you as if you were a monster, and condescend moreover, on the strength of one or two blotted sheets, to present themselves as colleagues. Many people cannot understand how a man that wrote the Robbers 62 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. should look like another son of Adana. Close-cut hair, at the very least, and postillion’s boots, and a hunter’s whip, were expected. ‘ Many families are in the habit here of spending the sum- mer in some of the adjacent villages, and so enjoying the pleasures of the country. I mean to pass a few months in Gohlis, which lies only a quarter of a league from Leipzig, with a very pleasant walk leading to it, through the Rosenthal. Here I purpose being very diligent, working at Carlos and the Thalia ; that so, which perhaps will please you more than anything, I may gradually and silently. return to my medical profession. I long impatiently for that epoch of my life, when my prospects may be settled and determined, when I may follow my darling pursuits merely for my own pleasure. At one time I studied medicine con amove ; could I not do it now with still greater keenness ? ‘This, my best friend, might of itself convince you of the truth and firmness of my purpose ; but what should offer you the most complete security on that point, what must banish all your doubts about my steadfastness, I have yet kept secret. Now or never I must speak it out. Distance alone gives me courage to express the wish of my heart. Frequently enough, when I used to have the happiness of being near you, has this confession hovered on my tongue ; but my confidence always forsook me, wfken I tried to utter it. My best friend ! Your goodness, your affection, your generosity of heart, have encouraged me in a hope which I can justify by nothing but the friendship and respect you have always shown me. My free, unconstrained access to your house afforded me the opportunity of intimate acquaintance with your amiable daughter ; and the frank, kind treatment with which both you and she honoured me, tempted my heart to entertain the bold wish of becoming your son. My prospects have hitherto been dim and vague ; they now begin to alter in my favour. I will strive with more continuous vigour when the goal is clear ; do you decide whether I can reach it, when the dearest wish of my heart supports my zeal. ‘ Yet two short years and my whole fortune will be deter- SCHILLER AT LEIPZIG. • 63 mined. I feel liow much I ask, how boldly, and with how little right I ask it. A year is past since this thought took possession of my soul ; but my esteem for you and your ex- cellent daughter was too high to allow room for a wish, which at that time I could found on no solid basis. I made it a duty with myself to visit your house less frequently, and to dissipate such feelings by absence ; but this poor artifice did not avail me. ‘ The Duke of Weimar was the first person to whom I dis- closed myself. His anticipating goodness, and the declaration that he took an interest in my happiness, induced me to con- fess that this happiness depended on a union with your noble daughter ; and he expressed his satisfaction at my choice. I have reason to hope that he will do more, should it come to the point of completing my happiness by this union. ‘ I shall add nothing farther : I know well that hundreds of others might afford your daughter a more splendid fate than I at this moment can promise her ; but that any other heart can be more worthy of her, I venture to deny. Your de- cision, which I look for with impatience and fearful expecta- tion, will determine whether I may venture to write in person to your daughter. Fare you well, forever loved by — Your — ‘Fkiedkich Schillee.’ Concerning this proposal, we have no farther information to communicate ; except that the parties did not marry, and did not cease being friends. That Schiller obtained the per- mission he concludes with requesting, appears from other sources. Three years afterwards, in writing to the same person, he alludes emphatically to his eldest daughter ; and what is more ominous, apologises for his silence to her. Schiller’s situation at this period was such as to preclude the idea of present marriage ; perhaps, in the prospect of it, Laura and he commenced corresponding ; and before the wished-for change of fortune had arrived, both of them, attracted to other objects, had lost one another in the vortex of life, and ceased to regard their finding one another as desirable. 64 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Schiller’s medical project, like many which he formed, never came to any issue. In moments of anxiety, amid the fluctua- tions of his lot, the thought of this profession floated through his mind, as of a distant stronghold, to which, in time of need, he might retire. But literature was too intimately interwoven with his dispositions and his habits to be seriously interfered with ; it was only at brief intervals that the pleasure of pur- suing it exclusively seemed overbalanced by its inconveniences. He needed a more certain income than poetry could yield him ; but he wished to derive it from some pursuit less alien to his darling study. Medicine he never practised after leav- ing Stuttgard. In the mean time, whatever he might afterwards resolve on, he determined to complete his Carlos, the half of which, composed a considerable time before, had lately been running the gauntlet of criticism in the Thalia d With this for his chief occupation, Golilis or Leipzig for his residence, and a circle of chosen friends for his entertainment, Schiller’s days went happily along. His Lied an die Freude (Song to Joy), one of his most spirited and beautiful lyrical productions, was composed here : it bespeaks a mind impetuous even in its gladness, and overflowing with warm and earnest emo- tions. But the love of change is grounded on the difference be- tween anticipation and reality, and dwells with man till the' age when habit becomes stronger than desire, or anticipation ceases to be hope. Schiller did not find that his establish- ment at Leipzig, though pleasant while it lasted, would realise his ulterior views : he yielded to some of his 1 alluring invi- tations,’ and went to Dresden in the end of summer. Dresden contained many persons who admired him, more who admired his fame, and a few who loved himself. Among the latter, the Appellationsrath Korner deserves especial mention . 2 Schil- 1 Wieland’s rather harsh and not too judicious sentence on it may he seen at large in Gruber’s Wieland Geschildert, B. ii. s. 571. - The well-written life, prefixed to the Stuttgard and Tubingen edition of Schiller’s works, is by this Korner. The Theodor Korner, whose Lyre and Sword became afterwards famous, was his son. SCHILLER AT DRESDEN. 65 ler found a true friend in Komer, and made his house a home. He parted his time between Dresden and Loschwitz, near it, where that gentleman resided : it was here that Don Carlo s, the printing of which was meanwhile proceeding at Leipzig, received its completion and last corrections. 1 It was published in 1786. The stoiy of Don Carlos seems peculiarly adapted for dram- atists. The spectacle of a royal youth condemned to death by his father, of which happily our European annals furnish but another example, is among the most tragical that can be figured ; the character of that youth, the intermixture of bigotry and jealousy, and love, with the other strong passions, which brought on his fate, afford a combination of circum- stances, affecting in themselves, and well calculated for the basis of deeply interesting fiction. Accordingly they have not been neglected : Carlos has often been the theme of poets ; 1 In vol. s. of the Vienna edition of Schiller are some ludicrous verses, almost his sole attempt in the way of drollery, hearing a title equivalent to this: ‘To the Kiglit Honourable the Board of Washers, the most humble Memorial of a downcast Tragic Poet, at Loschwitz;’ of which Doering gives the following account. ‘ The first part of Dan Carlos be- ing already printed, by GCsclien, in Leipzig, the poet, pressed for the remainder, felt himself obliged to stay behind from an excursion which the Korner family were making, in a fine autumn day. Unluckily, the lady of the house, thinking Schiller was to go along with them, had locked all her cupboards and the cellar. Schiller found himself without meat or drink, or even wood for fuel; still farther exasperated by the dabbling of some washer-maids beneath his window, he produced these lines.’ The poem is of the kind which cannot be translated; the first three stanzas are as follows : “ Die Wasche klatscht vor meiner Thur, Es plarrt die Kiichenzofe, Und mich, mich fuhrt das Flugelthier Zu Kdnig Philips Hofe. Ich eile durch die Gallerie Mit sehnellem Schritt, belausche Doi t die Prinzessin Eboli Im siissen Liebesrausche. Schon ruft das schdne Weib: Triumph ! Schon 1 i or’ ich — Tod und H 'lle! Was hdr’ ich — einen nassen Strumpf Geworfen in die Welle.” 5 66 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. particularly since the time when his history, recorded by the Abbe St. Real, was exposed in more brilliant colours to the inspection of every writer, and almost of every reader. The Abbe St. Real was a dexterous artist in that half-illicit species of composition, the historic novel : in the course of his operations, he lighted on these incidents ; and, by filling-up according to his fancy, what historians had only sketched to him, by amplifying, beautifying, suppressing, and arranging, he worked the whole into a striking little narrative, distin- guished by all the symmetry, the sparkling graces, the vigor- ous description, and keen thought, which characterise his other writings. This French Sallust, as his countrymen have named him, has been of use to many dramatists. His Conju- raison contre Venise furnished Otway with the outline of his best tragedy ; Epicaris has more than once appeared upon the stage ; and Don Carlos has been dramatised in almost all the languages of Europe. Besides Otway’s Carlos, so famous at its first appearance, man}' tragedies on this subject have been written : most of them are gathered to their final rest ; some are fast going thither ; two bid fair to last for ages. Schiller and Alfieri have both drawn their plot from St. Real ; the former has expanded and added ; the latter has compressed and abbreviated. Schiller’s Carlos is the first of his plays that bear's the stamp of anything like full maturity. The opportunities he had enjoyed for extending his knowledge of men and things, the sedulous practice of the art of composition, the study of purer models, had not been without their full effect. Increase of years had done something for him ; diligence had done much more. The ebullience of youth is now chastened into the stead- fast energy of manhood ; the wild enthusiast, that spurned at the errors of the world, has now become the enlightened mor- alist, that laments their necessity, or endeavours to find out their remedy. A corresponding alteration is visible in the ex- ternal form of the work, in its. plot and diction. The plot is contrived with great ingenuity, embodying the result of much study, both dramatic and historical. The language is blank verse, not prose, as in the former works ; it is more careful SCHILLER AT DRESDEN. 67 and regular, less ambitious in its object, but more certain of attaining it. Schiller's mind had now reached its full stature : he felt and thought more justly ; he could better express what he felt and thought. The merit we noticed In Fiesco, the fidelity with which the scene of action is brought before us, is observable to a still greater degree in Don Carlos. The Spanish court in the end of the sixteenth century ; its rigid, cold formalities ; its cruel, bigoted, but proud-spirited grandees ; its inquisitors and priests ; and Philip, its head, the epitome at once of its good and its bad qualities, in all his complex interests, are exhib- ited with wonderful distinctness and address. Nor is it at the surface or the outward movements alone that we look ; we are taught the mechanism of their characters, as well as shown it in action. The stony-hearted Despot himself must have been an object of peculiar study to the author. Narrow in his understanding, dead in his affections, from his birth the lord of Europe, Philip has existed all his days above men, not among them. Locked up within himself, a stranger to every generous and kindly emotion, his gloomy spirit has had no employment but to strengthen or increase its own elevation, no pleasure but to gratify its own self-will. Superstition, har- monising with these native tendencies, has added to their force, but scarcely to their hatefulness : it lends them a sort of sacredness in his own eyes, and even a sort of horrid dignity in ours. Philip is not without a certain greatness, the greatness of unlimited external power, and of a will relentless in its dictates, guided by principles, false, but consistent and unalterable. The scene of his existence is haggard, stern and desolate ; but it is all his own, and lie, seems fitted for it. We hate him and fear him ; but the poet/ has taken care to secure him from contempt. The contrast both of his father’s fortune and character are those of Carlos. Few situations of a more affecting kind can be imagined, than the situation of this young, generous and ill-fated prince. From boyhood his heart had been bent on mighty things ; he had looked upon the royal grandeur that awaited his maturer years, only as the means of realising those 68 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. projects for tlie good of men, which his beneficent soul was ever busied with. His father’s dispositions, and the temper of the court, wdiich admitted no development of such ideas, had given the charm of concealment to his feelings ; his life had been in prospect ; and we are the more attached to him, that deserv- ing to be glorious and happy, he had but expected to be either. Bright days, however, seemed approaching ; shut out from the communion of the Albas and Domingos, among whom he lived a stranger, the communion of another and far dearer object was to be granted him ; Elizabeth’s love seemed to make him independent even of the future, which it painted with still richer hues. But in a moment she is taken from him by the most terrible of all visitations ; his bride becomes his mother ; and the stroke that deprives him of her, w T hile it ruins him forever, is more deadly, because it cannot be complained of without sacrilege, and cannot be altered by the power of Fate itself. Carlos, as the poet represents him, calls forth our tenderest sympathies. His soul seems once to have been rich and glori- ous, like the garden of Eden ; but the desert-wind has passed over it, and smitten it with perpetual blight. Despair has over- shadowed all the fair visions of his youth ; or if he hopes, it is but the gleam of delirium, which something sterner than even duty extinguishes in the cold darkness of death. His energy survives but to vent itself in wild gusts of reckless passion, or aimless indignation. There is a touching poignancy in his ex- pression of the bitter melancholy that oppresses him, in the fixedness of misery with which he looks upon the faded dreams of former years, or the fierce ebullitions and dreary pauses of resolution, which now prompts him to retrieve what he has lost, now withers into powerlessness, as nature and reason tell him that it cannot, must not be retrieved. Elizabeth, no less moving and attractive, is also depicted with masterly skill. If she returns the passion of her amiable and once betrothed lover, we but guess at the fact ; for so horrible a thought has never once been whispered to her own gentle and spotless mind. Yet her heart bleeds for Carlos ; and we see that did not the most sacred feelings of humanity forbid her, there is no sacrifice she would not make to restore SCHILLER A1 DRESDEN. 69 bis peace of mind. By her soothing influence she strives to cairn the agony of his spirit ; by her mild winning eloquence she would persuade him that for Don Carlos other objects must remain, 'when his hopes of personal felicity have been cut off ; she would change his love for her into love for the mill- ions of human beings whose destiny depends on his. A meek vestal, yet with the prudence of a queen, and the courage of a matron, with every graceful and generous quality of woman- hood, harmoniously blended in her nature, she lives in a scene that is foreign to her ; the happiness she should have had is beside her, the misery she must endure is around her ; yet she utters no regret, gives way to no complaint, but seeks to draw from duty itself a compensation for the cureless evil which duty has inflicted. Many tragic queens are more im- posing and majestic than this Elizabeth of Schiller ; but there is none who rules over us with a sway so soft and feminine, none whom we feel so much disposed to love as well as rever- ence. The virtues of Elizabeth are heightened by comparison with the principles and actions of her attendant, the Princess Eboli. The character of Eboli is full of pomp and profession ; magnanimity and devotedness are on her tongue, some shadow of them even floats in her imagination ; but they are not rooted in her heart ; pride, selfishness, unlawful passion are the only inmates there. Her lofty boastings of generosity are soon for- gotten when the success of her attachment to Carlos becomes hopeless ; the fervour of a selfish love once extinguished in her bosom, she regards the object of it with none but vulgar feel- ings. Virtue no longer according with interest, she ceases to be virtuous ; from a rejected mistress the transition to a jeal- ous spy is with her natural and easy. Yet we do not hate the Princess : there is a seductive warmth and grace about her character, which makes us lament her vices rather than con- demn them. The poet has drawn her at once false and fairX In delineating Eboli and Philip, Schiller seems as if strug- gling against the current of his nature ; our feelings towards them are hardly so severe as he intended ; their words and deeds, at least those of the latter, are wicked and repulsive 70 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. enough ; hut we still have a kind of latent persuasion that they meant better than they sftoke or acted. With the Marciuis of love of men, which forms his ruling passion, was likewise the constant feeling of his author ; the glowing eloquence with which he advocates the cause of truth, and justice, and hu- manity, was such as Schiller too would have employed in his object, and in the faculties and feelings with which he fol- lows it. Of a splendid intellect, and a daring devoted heart, his powers are all combined upon a single purpose. Even his friendship for Carlos, grounded on the likeness of their minds, and faithful as it is, yet seems to merge in this paramount emotion, zeal for the universal interests of man .j ^Aiming, with all his force of thought and action, to advance the happiness and best rights of his fellow-creatures ; pursuing this noble aim with the skill and dignity which it deserves, his mind is at once unwearied, earnest and serene. He is another Carlos, but somewhat older, more experienced, and never crossed in hopeless love. There is a calm strength in Posa, which no accident of fortune can shake. Whether cheering the forlorn Carlos into new activity ; whether lifting up his voice in the ear of tyrants and inquisitors, or taking leave of life amid his vast unexecuted schemes, there is the same sedate magnanim- ity, the same fearless composure : when the fatal bullet strikes him, he dies with the concerns of others, not his own, upon his lips. He is a reformer, the perfection of reformers ; not a revolutionist, but a prudent though determined improver. His enthusiasm does not burst forth in violence, but in manly and enlightened energy ; his eloquence is not more moving to the heart than his lofty philosophy is convincing to the head. There is a majestic vastness of thought in his precepts, which recommends them to the mind independently of the beauty of their dress. Few passages of poetry are more spirit-stirring than his last message to Carlos, through the Queen. The certainty of death seems to surround his spirit with a kind of similar cii character c SCHILLER AT DRESDEN. 71 martyr glory ; lie is kindled into transport, and speaks with a commanding power. The pathetic wisdom of the line, ‘ Tell him, that when he is a man, he must reverence the dreams of his youth,’ has often been admired : that scene has many such. The interview with Philip is not less excellent. There is something so striking in the idea of confronting the cold sol- itary tyrant with ‘ the only man in all his states that does not need him ; ’ of raising the voice of true manhood for once within the gloomy chambers of thraldom and priestcraft, that we can forgive the stretch of poetic license by which it is effected. Philip and Posa are antipodes in all respects. Philip thinks his new instructor is a ‘ Protestant ; ’ a charge which Posa rebuts with calm dignity, his object not being sejraration and contention, but union and peaceful gradual improvement. Posa seems to understand the character of Philip better ; not attempting to awaken in his sterile heart any feeling for real glory, or the interests of his fellow-men, he attacks his self- ishness and pride, represents to him the intrinsic meanness and misery of a throne, however decked with adventitious pomp, if built on servitude, and isolated from the sympathies and interests of others. We translate the entire scene ; though not by any means the best, it is among the fittest for extraction of any in the piece. Posa has been sent for by the King, and is waiting in a chamber of the palace to know what is required of him ; the King enters, unperceived by Posa, whose attention is directed to a picture on the wall : [Ihe latter , on noticing the King, advances towards him, and kneels , then rises, and waits without any symptom of embarrassment.] King [ looks at Mm with surprise ]. Act III. Scene X. The King and Marquis de Posa. We have met before, then ? Mar. King. No. You did my crown Some service : wherefore have you sliunn’d my thanks ? Our memory is besieged by crowds of suitors; Omniscient is none but He in Heaven. 72 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. You should have sought my looks : why did you not '? Mar. ’Tis scarcely yet two days, your Majesty, Since I returned to Spain. King. I am not used To be my servants’ debtor ; ask of me Some favour. Mar. I enjoy the laws. King. That right The very murd’rer has Mar. And how much more The honest citizen ! — Sire, I’m content. King [aside]. Much self-respect indeed, and lofty daring ! But this was to be looked for : I would have My Spaniards haughty ; better that the cup Should overflow than not be full. — I hear You left my service, Marquis Mar. Making way For men more worthy, I withdrew. King. . ’Tis wrong ; When spirits such as yours play truant, My state must suffer. You conceive, perhaps. Some post unworthy of your merits Might be offer’d you ? Mar. No, Sire, I cannot doubt But that a judge so skilful, and experienced In the gifts of men, has at a glance discover’d Wherein I might do him service, wherein not. I feel with humble gratitude the favour With which your Majesty is loading me By thoughts so lofty : yet I can — [He stops. King. You pause ? Mar. Sire, at the moment I am scarce prepar’d To speak, in phrases of a Spanish subject. What as a citizen o’ th’ world I’ve thought. Tiuth is, in parting from the Court forever, I held myself discharged from all necessity Of troubling it with reasons for my absence. King. Are your reasons bad, then ? Dare you not risk Disclosing them ? Mar. lily life, and joyfully, Were scope allow’d me to disclose them all. ’Tis not myself but Truth that I endanger, Should the King refuse me a full hearing. Your anger or contempt I fain would shun ; But forced to choose between them, I had rather SCHILLER AT DRESDEN. 73 Seem to you a man deserving punishment Than pity. King [with a look of expectation ]. Well ? Mar. The servant of a prince I cannot he. [ The King looks at him with astonishment. I will not cheat my merchant : If you deign to take me as your servant, You expect, you wish, my actions only ; You wish my arm in fight, my thought in counsel; Nothing more you will accept of : not my actions, TIT approval thej' might find at Court becomes The object of my acting. Now for me Eight conduct has a value of its own : The happiness my king might cause me plant I would myself produce ; and conscious joy, And free selection, not the force of duty, Should impel me. Is it thus your Majesty Eequires it ? Could you suffer new creators In your own creation ? Or could I Consent with patience to become the chisel, When I hoped to be the statuary ? I love mankind ; and in a monarchy, Myself is all that I can love. King. This fire Is laudable. You would do good to others ; How you do it, patriots, wise men think Of little moment, so it be but done. Seek for yourself the office in my kingdoms That will give you scope to gratify This noble zeal. Mar. There is not such an office. King. How ? Mar. What the King desires to spread abroad Through these weak hands, is it the good of men ? That good which my unfetter’d love would wish them ? Pale majesty would tremble to behold it ! No ! Policy has fashioned in her courts Another sort of human good ; a sort Which she is rich enough to give away, Awakening with it in the hearts of men New cravings, such as it can satisfy. Truth she keeps coining in her mints, such truth As she can tolerate ; and every die Except her own she breaks and casts away. But is the royal bounty wide enough 74 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER For me to wish and work in ? Must the love I hear my brother pledge itself to he My brother’s jailor ? Can I call him happy When he dare not think ? Sire, choose some, other To dispense the good which you have stamped for us. AVith me it tallies not ; a prince’s servant I cannot be. King [r other quickly]. You are a Protestant. Mae. [ after some reflection J. Sire, your creed is also mine. [After a pause. I find I am misunderstood : ’tis as I feared. You see me draw the veil from majesty, And view its mysteries with steadfast eye : How should you know if I regard as holy What I no more regard as terrible ? Dangerous I seem, for bearing thoughts too high : My King, I am not dangerous : my wishes Lie buried here. [Laying his hand on his Ireast. The poor and purblind rage Of innovation, that but aggravates The weight o’ th’ fetters which it cannot break, Will never heat my blood. The century Admits not my ideas : I live a citizen Of those that are to come. Sire, can a picture Break your rest ? Your breath obliterates it. King. No other knows you harbour such ideas ? Mae. Such, no one. King [vises, walks a few steps , then stops opposite the Marquis. — Aside], •New at least, this dialect ! Flattery exhausts itself : a man of parts Disdains to imitate. For once let’s have A trial of the opposite ! Why not ? The strange is oft the lucky. — If so be This is your principle, why let it pass ! I will conform ; the crown shall have a servant New in Spain, — a liberal ! Mae. Sire, I see How very meanly you conceive of men ; How, in the language of the frank true spirit You find but another deeper artifice Of a more practis’d coz’ner : I can also Partly see what causes this. ’Tis men ; ’Tis men that force you to it : they themselves SCHILLER AT DRESDEN. 75 Have cast away their own nobility, Themselves have crouch’d to this degraded posture. Man’s innate greatness, like a spectre, frights them ; Their poverty seems safety ; with base skill They ornament their chains, and call it virtue To wear them with an air of grace. ’Twas thus You found the world ; thus from your royal father Came it to you : how in this distorted, Mutilated image could you honour man ? King. Some truth there is in this. Mar. Pity, however. That in taking man from the Creator, And changing him into your handiwork, And setting up yourself to he the god Of this new-moulded creature, you should have Forgotten one essential ; you yourself Remained a man, a very child of Adam ! You are still a suffering, longing mortal, You call for sympathy, and to a god We can but sacrifice, and pray, and tremble ! O unwise exchange ! unbless’ d perversion ! When you have sunk your brothers to be play’d As harp-strings, who will join in harmony With you the player '? King [aside]. By Heaven, he touches me ! Mar. For you, however, this is unimportant ; It but makes you separate, peculiar ; ’Tis the price you pay for being a god. And frightful were it if you failed in this ! If for the desolated good of millions, You the Desolator should gain — nothing ! If the very freedom you have blighted And kill'd were that alone which could exalt Yourself! — Sire, pardon me, I must not stay: The matter makes me rash : my heart is full, Too strong the charm of looking on the one Of living men to whom I might unfold it. [The Count de Ltrma enters , and ichispers a feio words to the King. The latter beckons to him to withdraw, and continues sitting in his former posture. King [to the Marquis , after Lerma is gone]. Speak on ! Mar. [after a pause], I feel, Sire, all the worth — King. Speak on ! Y‘ had something more to say. 70 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Mar. Not long since, Sire, I chanced to pass through Flanders and Brabant. So many rich and flourishing provinces ; A great, a mighty people, and still more, An honest people ! — And this people’s Father ! That, thought I, must be divine : so thinking, I stumbled on a heap of human bones. [lie pauses ; Ms eyes rest on the King, who endeavours to return, his glance, hut with an air of embarrassment is forced to look upon the ground. You are in the right, you must proceed so. That you could do, what you saw you must do, Fills me with a shuddering admiration. Pity that the victim welt’ring in its blood Should speak so feeble an eulogium On the spirit of the priest ! That mere men, Not beings of a calmer essence, write The annals of the world ! Serener ages Will displace the age of Philip ; these will bring A milder wisdom ; the subject s good will then Be reconcil’d to tli’ prince’s greatness ; The thrifty State will learn to prize its children, And necessity no more will be inhuman. King. And when, think you, would those blessed ages Have come round, had I recoil’d before The curse of this ? Behold my Spain ! Here blooms The subject’s good, in never-clouded peace : Stich peace will I bestow on Flanders. Mar. Peace of a churchyard ! And you hope to end What you have entered on ? Hope to withstand The timeful change of Christendom ; to stop The universal Spring that shall make young The countenance o’ th' Earth ? You purpose, single In all Europe, alone, to fling yourself Against the wheel of Destiny that rolls For ever its appointed course ; to clutch Its spokes with mortal arm ? You may not, Sire ! Already thousands have forsook your kingdoms, Escaping glad though poor : the citizen You lost for conscience’ sake, he was your noblest. With mother s arms Elizabeth receives The fugitives, and rich by foreign skill, In fertile strength her England blooms. Forsaken Of its toilsome people, lies Grenada SCHILLER AT DRESDEN. 77 Desolate ; and Europe sees with glad surprise Its enemy faint with self-inflicted wounds. [ The King seems moved : the Marquis observes it, and advances some steps nearer. Plant for Eternity and death the seed ? Your harvest will be nothingness. The work Will not survive the spirit of its former ; It will be in vain that you have labour'd ; That you have fought the fight with Nature ; And to plans of Ruin consecrated A high and royal lifetime. Man is greater Than you thought. The bondage of long slumber He will break ; his sacred rights he will reclaim. With Nero and Busiris will he rank The name of Philip, and — that grieves me, for You once were good. King. How know you that ? Mar. [with warm energy]. You were ; Yes, by th’ All-Merciful ! Yes, I repeat it. Restore to us what you have taken from us. Generous as strong, let human happiness Stream from your horn of plenty, let souls ripen Round you. Restore us what you took from us. Amid a thousand kings become a king. [He approaches him boldly , Jiving on him Jinn and gloicing looks. Oh, could the eloquence of all the millions, Who participate in this great moment, Hover on my lips, and raise into a flame That gleam that kindles in your eyes ! Give up this false idolatry of self, Which makes your brothers nothing ! Be to us A pattern of the Everlasting and the True ! Never, never, did a mortal hold so much, To use it so divinely. All the kings Of Europe reverence the name of Spain : Go on in front of all the kings of Europe ! One movement of your pen, and new-created Is the Earth. Say but, Let there be freedom ! [Throwing himself at his feet. King [surprised, turning his face away , then again towards Posa ]. Singular enthusiast! Yet— rise — I — - Mar. Look round and view God's lordly universe : On Freedom it is founded, and how rich Is it with Freedom ! He, the great Creator, 78 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Has giv’n the very worm its sev’ral dewdrop ; Ev il in the mouldering spaces of Decay, He leaves Free-will the pleasures of a choice. This world of yours! how narrow and how poor The rustling of a leaf alarms the lord Of Christendom. You quake at every virtue ; He, not to mar the glorious form of Freedom, Suffers that the hideous hosts of Evil Should run riot in his fair Creation. Him the maker we behold not ; calm He veils himself in everlasting laws, Which and not him the sceptic seeing exclaims, ‘ Wherefore a God ? The world itself is God.’ And never did a Christian’s adoration So praise him as this sceptic’s blasphemy. King. And such a model you would undertake, On Earth, in my domains to imitate ? Mah. You, you can : who else ? To tli’ people’s good Devote the kingly power, which far too long Has struggled for the greatness of the throne. Restore the lost nobilit}' of man. Once more make of the subject what he was. The purpose of the Crown ; let no tie bind him. Except his brethren’s right, as sacred as His own. And when, given back to self-dependence, Man awakens to the feeling of his worth, And freedom’s proud and lofty virtues blossom, Then, Sire, having made your realms the happiest In the Earth, it may become your duty To subdue the realms of others. King [ after a long pause], I have heard you to an end. Not as in common heads, the world is painted In that head of yours : nor will I mete you By the common standard. I am the first To whom your heart has been disclosed : I know this, so believe it For the sake Of such forbearance ; for your having kept Ideas, embraced with such devotion, secret Up to this present moment, for the sake Of that reserve, young man, I will forget That I have learned them, and how I learned them. Arise. The headlong youth I will set right, Not as his sovereign, but as his senior. I will, because I will. So ! bane itself. SCIIILLER AT DRESDEN. 79 I find, in generous natures may become Ennobled into something better. But Beware my Inquisition ! It would grieve me If you— Mar. Would it ? would it ? King [ gazing at him, and lost in surprise]. Such a mortal Till this hour I never saw. No, Marquis ! No ! You do me wrong. To you I will not Be a Nero, not to you. All happiness Shall not be blighted by me : you yourself Shall be permitted to remain a man Beside me. Mar. [quickly]. And my fellow-subjects, Sire ? Oh, not for me, not my cause was I pleading. And your subjects, Sire ? King. You see so clearly How posterity will judge of me ; yourself Shall teach it how I treated men so soon As I had found one. Mar. O Sire ! in being The most just of kings, at the same instant Be not the most unjust! ^1 your Flanders Are many thousands worthier than I. 'Tis but yourself, — shall I confess it, Sire ?— That under this mild form first truly see What freedom is. King [ with softened earnestness]. Young man, no more of this. Far differently will you think of men, When you have seen and studied them as I have. Yet our first meeting must not be our last ; How shall I try to make you mine ? Mar. Sire, let me Continue as I am. What good were it To you, if I like others were corrupted ? King. This pride I will not suffer. From this moment You are in my service. No remonstrance ! I will have it so. * * * * * Had the character of Posa been drawn ten years later, it would have been imputed, as all things are, to the ‘ French devolution ; ’ and Schiller himself perhaps might have been called a Jacobin. Happily, as matters stand, there is room for 80 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. bo such imputation. It is pleasing to behold in Posa the de- liberate expression of a great and good man’s sentiments on these ever-agitated subjects : a noble monument, embodying the liberal ideas of his age, in a form beautified by his own genius, and lasting as its other products. 1 Connected with the superior excellence of Posa, critics have remarked a dramatic error, which the author himself was the first to acknowledge and account for. , The magnitude of Posa throws Carlos into the shade ; the hero of the first three acts is no longer the hero of the other two.^ The cause of this, we are informed, was that Schiller kept the work too long upon his own hands : ‘In composing the piece,’ he observes, ‘many interruptions occurred ; so that a considerable time elapsed between begin- ning and concluding it ; and, in the mean while, much within myself had changed. The various alterations which, during this period, my way of thinking and feeling underwent, natu- rally told upon the work I was engaged with. What parts of it had at first attracted me, began to produce this effect in a weaker degree, and, in the end, scarftly at all. New ideas, springing up in the interim, displaced the former ones ; Car- los himself had lost my favour, perhaps for no other reason than because I had become his senior ; and, from the oppo- site cause, Posa had occupied his place. Thus I commenced the fourth and fifth acts with quite an altered heart. But the first three were already in the hands of the public ; the plan of the whole could not now be re-formed ; nothing therefore remained but to suppress the piece entirely, or to fit the sec- ond half to the first the best way I could.’ The imperfection alluded to is one of which the general reader will make no great account ; the second half is fitted to the first with address enough for his purposes. Intent not upon applying the dramatic gauge, but on being moved and exalted, we may peruse the tragedy without noticing that any such defect exists in it. The pity and love we are first taught 1 Jean Paul nevertheless, not without some show of reason, has com- • pared this Posa to the tower of a lighthouse : ‘ high, far-shining,— empty ! ’ {Note of 1845.) SCIIILLER AT DRESDEN. 81 to feel for Carlos abide with us to the last ; and though Posa rises in importance as the piece proceeds, our admiration of his transcendent virtues does not obstruct the gentler feelings with which we look upon the fate of his friend. A certain confusion and crowding together of events, about the end of the play, is the only fault in its plan that strikes us with any force. Even this is scarcely prominent enough to be offen- sive. An intrinsic and weightier defect is the want of ease and lightness in the general composition of the piece ; a defect which all its other excellencies will not prevent us from observing. There is action enough in the plot, energy enough in the dia- logue, and abundance of individual beauties in both ; but there is throughout a certain air of stiffness and effort, which ab- stracts from the theatrical illusion. The language, in general impressive and magnificent, is now and then inflated into bom- bast. The characters do not, as it were, verify their human nature, by those thousand little touches and nameless turns, which distinguish the genius essentially dramatic from the genius merely poetical ; the Proteus of the stage from the phil- osophic observer and trained imitator of life. We have not those careless felicities, those varyings from high to low, that air of living freedom which Shakspeare has accustomed us, like spoiled children, to look for in every perfect work of this spe- cies. Schiller is too elevated, too regular and sustained in his elevation, to be altogether natural. Yet with all this, Carlos is a noble tragedy. There is a stately massiveness about the structure of it ; the incidents are grand and affecting ; the characters powerful, vividly conceived, and impressively if not completely delineated. Of wit and its kin- dred graces Schiller has but a slender share : nor among great poets is he much distinguished for depth or fineness of pathos. But what gives him a place of his own, and the loftiest of its kind, is the vastness and intense vigour of his mind ; the splen- dour of his thoughts and imagery, and the bold vehemence of his passion for the true and the sublime, under all their vari- ous forms. He does not thrill, but he exalts us. His genius is impetuous, exuberant, majestic ; and a heavenly fire gleams 0 82 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. through all his creations. He transports us into a holier and higher world than our own •. everything around us breathes of force and solemn beauty. The looks of his heroes may be more staid than those of men, the movements of their minds may be slower and more calculated ; but we yield to the potency of their endowments, and the loveliness of the scene which they animate. The enchantments of the poet are strong enough to silence our scepticism ; we forbear to inquire whether it is true or false. The celebrity of Alfieri generally invites the reader of Don Carlos to compare it with Filippo. Both writers treat the same subject ; both borrow their materials from the same source, the nouvelle historique of St. Real ; but it is impossible that two powerful minds could have handled one given idea in more diverse manners. Their excellencies are, in fact, so opposite, that they scarcely come in competition. Alfieri’s play is short, and the characters are few. He describes no scene : his per- sonages are not the King of Spain and his courtiers, but merely men ; their place of action is not the Escurial or Madrid, but a vacant, objectless platform anywhere in space. In all this, Schiller has a manifest advantage. He paints manners and opinions, he sets before us a striking pageant, which interests us of itself, and gives a new interest to whatever is combined with it. The principles of the antique, or perhaps rather of the French drama, upon which Alfieri worked, permitted no such delineation. In the style there is the same diversity. A severe simplicity uniformly marks Alfieri’s style ; in his whole ' tragedy there is not a single figure. A hard emphatic brevity is all that distinguishes his language from that of prose. Schil- ler, we have seen, abounds with noble metaphors, and all the warm exciting eloquence of poetry. It is only in expressing the character of Philip that Alfieri has a clear superiority. Without the aid of superstition, which his rival, especially in the catastrophe, enqffoys to such advantage, Alfieri has ex- hibited in his Filippo a picture of unequalled power. Obscurity is justly said to be essential to terror and sublimity; and Schiller has enfeebled the effect of his Tyrant, by letting us be- hold the most secret recesses of his spirit : we understand him SCHILLER AT DRESDEN. S3 better, but we fear him less. Alfieri does not show us the in- ternal combination of Filippo : it is from its workings alone that we judge of his nature. Mystery, and the shadow of horrid cruelty, brood over his Filippo : it is only a transient word or act that gives us here and there a glimpse of his fierce, implacable, tremendous soul ; a short and dubious glimmer that reveals to us the abysses of his being, dark, lurid, and terrific, ‘ as the throat of the infernal Pool.’ Alfieri’s Filippo is perhaps the most wicked man that human imagination has conceived. Alfieri and Schiller were again unconscious competitors in the history of Mary Stuart. But the works before us give a truer specimen of their comparative merits. Schiller seems to have the greater genius ; Alfieri the more commanding character. Alfieri’s greatness rests on the stern concentration of fiery passion, under the dominion of an adamantine will : this was his own make of mind ; and he represents it, with strokes iu themselves devoid of charm, but in their union ter- rible as a prophetic scroll. Schiller’s moral force is commen- surate with his intellectual gifts, and nothing more. The mind of the one is like the ocean, beautiful in its strength, smiling in the radiance of summer, and washing luxuriant and roman- tic shores : that of the other is like some black unfathomable lake placed far amid the melancholy mountains ; bleak, soli- tary, desolate ; but girdled with grim sky-piercing cliffs, overshadowed with storms, and illuminated only by the red glare of the lightning. Schiller is magnificent in his expan- sion, Alfieri is overpowering in his condensed energy ; the first inspires us with greater admiration, the last with greater awe. This tragedy of Carlos was received with immediate and universal approbation. In the closet and on the stage, it ex- cited the warmest applauses equally among the learned and unlearned. Schiller’s expectations had not been so high : he knew both the excellencies and the faults of his work ; but he had not anticipated that the former would be recognised so instantaneously. * The pleasure of this new celebrity came Si THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. upon liim, therefore, heightened by surprise. Had dramatic eminence been his sole object, he might now have slackened his exertions ; the public had already ranked him as the first of their writers in that favourite department. But this limited ambition was not his moving principle ; nor was his mind of that sort for which rest is provided in this world. The pri- mary disposition of his nature urged him to perpetual toil : the great aim of his life, the unfolding of his mental powers, was one of those which admit but a relative not an absolute progress. New ideas of perfection arise as the former have been reached ; the student is always attaining, never has at- tained. Schiller’s worldly circumstances, too, were of a kind well calculated to prevent excess of quietism. He was still drift- ing at large on the tide of life ; he was crowned with laurels, but without a home. His heart, warm and affectionate, fitted to enjoy the domestic blessings which it longed for, was al- lowed to form no permanent attachment : he felt that he was unconnected, solitary in the world ; cut off from the exercise of his kindlier sympathies ; or if tasting such pleasures, it was ‘ snatching them rather than partaking of them calmly.’ The vulgar desire of wealth and station never entered his mind for an instant ; but as years were added to his age, the delights of peace and continuous comfort w’ere fast becoming more acceptable than any other ; and he looked with anxiety to have a resting-place amid his wanderings, to be a man among his fellow-men. For all these wishes, Schiller saw that the only chance of fulfilment depended on unwearied perseverance in his literary occupations. Yet though his activity was unabated, and the calls on it were increasing rather than diminished, its direc- tion was gradually changing. The Drama had long been stationary, and of late been falling in his estimation : the dif- ficulties of the art, as he viewed it at present, had been over- come, and new conquests invited him in other quarters. The latter part of Carlos he had written as a task rather than a pleasure ; he contemplated no farther undertaking connected with the Stage. For a time, indeed, he seems to have wa- SCHILLER AT DRESDEN. S5 vered among a multiplicity of enterprises ; now solicited to this, and now to that, without being able to fix decidedly on any. The restless ardour of his mind is evinced by the num- ber and variety of his attempts ; its fluctuation by the circum- stance that all of them are either short in extent, or left in the state of fragments. Of the former kind are his lyrical pro- ductions, many of which were composed about this period, during intervals from more serious labours. The character of these performances is such as his former writings gave us reason to expect. With a deep insight into life, and a keen and comprehensive sympathy with its sorrows and enjoyments, there is combined that impetuosity of feeling, that pomp of thought and imagery which belong peculiarly to Schiller. If he had now left the Drama, it was clear that his mind was still overflowing with the elements of poetry ; dwelling among the grandest conceptions, and the boldest or finest emotions ; thinking intensely and profoundly, but decorating its thoughts with those graces, which other faculties than the under- standing are required to afford them. With these smaller pieces, Schiller occupied himself at intervals of leisure through- out the remainder of his life. Some of them are to be classed among the most finished efforts of his genius. The Walk, the Song of the Bell, contain exquisite delineations of the foi’tunes and history of man ; his Ritter Toggenburg, his Cranes of lby- cus, his Hero and Leander, are among the most poetical and moving ballads to be found in any language. Of these poems, the most noted written about this time, the Freethinking of Passion ( Freigeisterei der Leidenschaft) , is said to have originated in a real attachment. The lady, whom some biographers of Schiller introduce to us by the mysteri- ous designation of the ‘ Fraulein A * * *, one of the first beauties in Dresden,’ seems to have made a deep impression on the heart of the poet. They tell us that she sat for the picture of the princess Eboli, in his Don Carlos ; that he paid his court to her with the most impassioned fervour, and the extreme of generosity. They add one or two anecdotes of dubious authenticity ; which, as they illustrate nothing, but show us only that love could make Schiller crazy, as it is said 8G the LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. to make all gods and men, we shall use the freedom to omit. This enchanting and not inexorable spinster perhaps dis- placed the Mannheim Laura from her throne ; but the gallant assiduities, which she required or allowed, seem not to have abated the zeal of her admirer in his more profitable under- takings. Her reign, we suppose, was brief, and without abid- ing influence. Schiller never wrote or thought with greater diligence than while at Dresden. Partially occupied with conducting his Thalia, or with those more slight poetical per- formances, his mind was hovering among a multitude of weightier plans, and seizing with avidity any hint that might assist in directing its attempts. To this state of feeling we are probably indebted for the Geisterseher, a novel, naturalised in our circulating libraries by the title of the Ghostseer, two volumes of which were published about this time. The king of quacks, the renowned Cagliostro, was now playing his dextrous game at Paris : harrowing-up the souls of the curious and gullible of all ranks in that capital, by various thaumaturgic feats ; raising the dead from their graves ; and, what was more to the purpose, raising himself from the station of a poor Sicilian lacquey to that of a sumptuous and extravagant count. The noise of his exploits appears to have given rise to this work of Schiller’s. It is an attempt to exemplify the process of hoodwinking an acute but too sensitive man ; of working on the latent germ of superstition, which exists be- neath his outward scepticism ; harassing his mind by the ter- rors of magic, — the magic of chemistry and natural philosophy and natural cunning ; till, racked by doubts and agonising fears, and plunging from one depth of dark uncertainty into another, he is driven at length to still his scruples in the bosom of the Infallible Church. The incidents are contrived with considerable address, displaying a familiar acquaintance, not only with several branches of science, but also with some curi- ous forms of life and human nature. One or two characters are forcibly drawn ; particularly that of the amiable but feeble Count, the victim of the operation. The strange Foreigner, with the visage of stone, who conducts the business of mystifi- SCHILLER AT DRESDEN. S7 cation, strikes us also, though we see hut little of him. The work contains some vivid description, some passages of deep tragical effect : it has a vein of keen observation ; in general, a certain rugged power, which might excite regret that it was never finished. But Schiller found that his views had been mistaken : it was thought that he meant only to electrify his readers, lay an accumulation of surprising horrors, in a novel of the Mrs. Radcliffe fashion. He felt, in consequence, dis- couraged to proceed ; and finally abandoned it. Schiller was, in fact, growing tired of fictitious writing. Imagination was with him a strong, not an exclusive, perhaps not even a predominating faculty : in the sublimest flights of his genius, intellect is a quality as conspicuous as any other ; we are frequently not more delighted with the grandeur of the drapery in which he clothes his thoughts, than with the grandeur of the thoughts themselves. To a mind so restless, the cultivation of all its powers was a peremptory want ; in one so earnest, the love of truth was sure to be among its strongest passions. Even while revelling, with unworn ardour, in the dreamy scenes of the Imagination, he had often cast a longing look, and sometimes made a hurried inroad, into the calmer provinces of reason : but the first effervescence of youth was past, and now more than ever, the love of contem- plating or painting things as they should be, began to yield to the love of knowing things as they are. The tendency of his mind was gradually changing ; he was about to enter on a new held of enterprise, where new triumphs awaited him. For a time he had hesitated what to choose ; at length he began to think of History. As a leading object of pursuit, this promised him peculiar advantages. It was new to him ; and fitted to employ some of his most valuable gifts. It was grounded on reality, for which, as we have said, his taste was now becoming stronger ; its mighty revolutions and events, and the commanding characters that figure in it, would like- wise present him with things great and moving, for which his taste had always been strong. As recording the past trans- actions, and indicating the prospects of nations, it could not fail to be delightful to one, for whom not only human nature 88 TILE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. was a matter of most fascinating speculation, but who looked on all mankind with the sentiments of a brother, feeling truly what he often said, ‘ that he had no dearer wish than to see every living mortal happy and contented with his lot. To all these advantages another of a humbler sort was added, but which the nature of his situation forbade him to lose sight of. The study of History, while it afforded him a subject of con- tinuous and regular exertion, would also afford him, what was even more essential, the necessary competence of income for which he felt reluctant any longer to depend on the re- sources of poetry, but which the produce of his pen was now the only means he had of realising. For these reasons, he decided on commencing the business of historian. The composition of Don Carlos had already led him to investigate the state of Spain under Philip H. ; and, being little satisfied with Watson’s clear but shallow Work on that reign, he had turned to the original sources of in- formation, the writings of Grotius, Strada, He Thou, and many others. Investigating these with his usual fidelity and eagerness, the Revolt of the Netherlands had, by degrees, be- come familiar to his thoughts ; distinct in many parts where it was previously obscure ; and attractive, as it naturally must be to a temper such as his. He now determined that his first historical performance should be a narrative of that event. He resolved to explore the minutest circumstance of its rise and progress ; to arrange the materials he might collect, in a more philosophical order ; to interweave with them the gen- eral opinions he had formed, or was forming, on many points of polity, and national or individual character ; and, if possi- ble, to animate the whole with that warm sympathy, which, in a lover of Freedom, this most glorious of her triumphs natu- rally called forth. In the filling-up of such an outline, there was scope enough for diligence. But it was not in Schiller’s nature to content himself with ordinary efforts ; no sooner did a project take hold of his mind, than, rallying round it all liis accomplish- ments and capabilities, he stretched it out into something so magnificent and comprehensive, that little less than a lifetime SCHILLER AT DRESDEN. 89 would have been sufficient to effect it. This History of the Revolt of the Netherlands, which formed his chief study, he looked upon but as one branch of the great subject he was yet destined to engage with. History at large, in all its bearings, was now his final aim ; and his mind was continu- ally occupied with plans for acquiring, improving, and diffus- ing the knowledge of it. Of these plans many never reached a describable shape ; very few reached even partial execution. One of the latter sort was an intended History of the most remarkable Conspiracies and Revolutions in the Middle and Later Ages. A first volume of the work was published in 1787. Schiller’s part in it was trifling ; scarcely more than that of a translator and editor. St. Real’s Conspiracy of Bedmar against Venice , here furnished with an extended introduction, is the best piece in the book. Indeed, St. Real seems first to have set him on this task : the Abbe had already signified his predilection for plots and revolutions, and given a fine sample of his powers in treating such matters. What Schiller did was to expand this idea, and communicate a systematic form to it. His work might have been curious and valuable, had it been completed ; but the pressure of other engagements, the necessity of limiting his views to the Netherlands, prevented this for the present ; it was afterwards forgotten, and never carried farther. Such were Schiller’s occupations while at Dresden ; their extent and variety are proof enough that idleness was not among his vices. It was, in truth, the opposite extreme in which he erred. He wrote and thought with an impetuosity beyond what nature always could endure. His intolerance of interruptions first put him on the plan of studying by night ; an alluring but pernicious practice, which began at Dresden, and was never afterwards forsaken. His recreations breathed a similar spirit. ; he loved to be much alone, and strongly moved. The banks of the Elbe were the favourite resort of his mornings : here wandering in solitude amid groves and lawns, and green and beautiful places, he abandoned his ruiud to > delicious musings ; watched the fitful current of his 90 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. thoughts, as they came sweeping through his soul in their vague, fantastic, gorgeous forms ; pleased himself with the transient images of memory and hope ; or meditated on the cares and studies which had lately been employing, and were again soon to employ him. At times, he might be seen float- ing on the river in a gondola, feasting himself with the loveli- ness of earth and sky. He delighted most to be there when tempests were abroad ; his unquiet spirit found a solace in the expression of his own unrest on the face of Nature ; danger lent a charm to his situation ; he felt in harmony with the scene, when the rack was sweeping stormfullv across the heavens, and the foi'ests were sounding in the breeze, and the river was rolling its chafed waters into wild eddying heaps. Yet before the darkness summoned him exclusively to his tasks, Schiller commonly devoted a portion of his day to the pleasures of society. Could he have found enjoyment in the flatteries of admiring hospitality, his present fame would have procured them for him in abundance. But these things were not to Schiller’s taste. His opinion of the ‘ flesh-flies ’ of Leip- zig we have already seen : he retained the same sentiments throughout all his life. The idea of being what we call a lion is offensive enough to any man, of not more than common vanity, or less than common understanding ; it was doubly offensive to him. His pride and his modesty alike forbade it. The delicacy of his nature, aggravated into shyness by his edu- cation and his habits, rendered situations of display more than usually painful to him ; the digito praetereuntium was a sort of celebration he was far from coveting. In the circles of fashion he appeared unw illin gly, and seldom to advantage : their glit- ter and parade were foreign to his disposition ; their strict ceremonial cramped the play of his mind. Hemmed in, as by invisible fences, among the intricate barriers of etiquette, so feeble, so inviolable, he felt constrained and helpless ; alter- nately chagrined and indignant. It was the giant among pig- mies ; Gulliver, in Lilliput, tied down by a thousand pack- threads. But there were more congenial minds, with whom he could associate ; more familiar scenes, in which he found the pleasures he was seeking. Here Schiller was himself ; SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 91 frank, unembarrassed, pliant to the humour of the hour. His conversation was delightful, abounding at once in rare and simple charms. Besides the intellectual riches which it car- ried with it, there was that flow of kindliness and unaffected good humour, which can render dulness itself agreeable. Schil- ler had many friends in Dresden, who loved him as a man, while they admired him as a writer. Their intercourse 'was of the kind he liked, sober, as well as free and mirthful. It was the careless, calm, honest effusion of his feelings that he wanted, not the noisy tumults and coarse delirium of dissipa- tion. For this, under any of its forms, he at no time showed the smallest relish. A visit to Weimar had long been one of Schiller’s projects : he now first accomplished it in 1787. Saxony had been, for ages, the Attica of Germany ; and Weimar had, of late, be- come its Athens. In this literary city, Schiller found what he expected, sympathy and brotherhood with men of kindred minds. To Goethe he was not introduced ; 1 but Herder and Wieland received him with a cordial welcome ; with the latter he soon formed a most friendly intimacy. Wieland, the Nestor of German letters, was grown gray in the service : Schiller rev- erenced him as a father, and he was treated by him as a son. ‘ We shall have bright hours,’ he said ; ‘ Wieland is still young, when he loves.’ Wieland had long edited the Deutsche Mer- cur : in consequence of their connexion, Schiller now took part in contributing to that work. Some of his smaller poems, one or two fragments of the History of the Netherlands, and the Letters on Don Carlos, first appeared here. His own Thalia still continued to come out at Leipzig. With these for his in- cidental employments, Avith the Belgian Revolt for his chief study, and the best society in Germany for his leisure, Schiller felt no wish to leave Weimar. The place and what it held contented him so much, that he thought of selecting it for his permanent abode. ‘ You know the men,’ he writes, ‘of whom Germany is proud ; a Herder, a Wieland, with their brethren ; and one wall uoav encloses me and them. What excellencies 1 Doering says, ‘ Goethe was at this time absent in Italy ; ’ an error, as will by and by appear. 92 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. are in Weimar ! In this city, at least in this territory. I mean to settle for life, and at length once more to get a country.’ So occupied and so intentioned, he continued to reside at Weimar. Some months after his arrival, he received an invi- tation from his early patroness and kind protectress, Madam von Wollzogen, to come and visit her at Bauerbach. Schiller went accordingly to this his ancient city of refuge ; he again found all the warm hospitality, which he had of old experi- enced when its character could less be mistaken ; but his ex- cursion thither produced more lasting effects than this. At Rudolstadt, where he stayed for a time on occasion of this journey, he met with a new friend. It was here that he first saw the Fraulein Lengefeld, a lady whose attractions made him loth to leave Rudolstadt, and eager to return. Next year he did return ; he lived from May till November there or in the neighbourhood. He was busy as usual, and he visited the Lengefeld family almost every day. Schiller’s views on marriage, his longing for ‘ a civic and domestic ex- istence,’ we already know. ‘ To be united with a person,’ he had said, ‘that shares our sorrows and our joys, that responds to our feelings, that moulds herself so pliantly, so closely to our humours ; reposing on her calm and warm affection, to relax our spirit from a thousand distractions, a thousand wild wishes and tumultuous passions ; to dream away all the bit- terness of fortune, in the bosom of domestic enjoyment ; this is the true delight of life.’ Some years had elapsed since he expressed these sentiments, which time had confirmed, not weakened : the presence of the Fraulein Lengefeld awoke them into fresh activity. He loved this lady ; the return of love, with which she honoured him, diffused a sunshine over all his troubled world ; and, if the wish of being hers excited more impatient thoughts about the settlement of his condi- tion, it also gave him fresh strength to attain it. He was full of occupation, while in Rudolstadt ; ardent, serious, but not unhappy. His literary projects were proceeding as before ; and, besides the enjoyment of virtuous love, he had that of intercourse with many worthy and some kindred minds. Among these, the chief in all respects was Goethe. It was SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 93 during liis present visit, that Schiller first met with this illus- trious person ; concerning whom, both by reading and report, his expectations had been raised so high. No two men, both of exalted genius, could be possessed of more different sorts of excellence, than the two that were now bi’ought together, in a large company of their mutual friends. The English reader may form some approximate conception of the con- trast, by figuring an interview between Shakspeare and Mil- ton. How gifted, how diverse in their gifts ! The mind of the one plays calmly, in its capricious and inimitable graces, over all the provinces of human interest ; the other concen- trates powers as vast, but far less various, on a few subjects ; the one is catholic, the other is sectarian. The first is en- dowed with an all-comprehending spirit ; skilled, as if by per- sonal experience, in all the modes of human passion and opin- ion ; therefore, tolerant of all ; peaceful, collected ; fighting for no class of men or principles ; rather looking on the world, and the various battles waging in it, with the quiet eye of one already reconciled to the futility of their issues ; but pouring- over all the forms of many-coloured life the light of a deep and subtle intellect, and the decorations of an overflowing fancy ; and allowing men and things of every shape and hue to. have their own free scope in his conception, as they have it in the world where Providence has placed them. The other is earnest, devoted ; struggling with a thousand mighty proj- ects of improvement ; feeling more intensely as he feels more narrowly ; rejecting vehemently, choosing vehemently ; at war with the one half of things, in love with the. other half ; hence dissatisfied, impetuous, without internal rest, and scarcely conceiving the possibility of such a state. Apart from the difference of their opinions and mental culture, Shakspeare and Milton seem to have stood in some such relation as this to each other, in regard to the primary structure of their minds. So likewise, in many points, was it with Goethe and Schiller. The external circumstances of the two were, more- over, such as to augment their several peculiarities. Gtoethe was in his thirty-ninth year ; and had long since found his proper rank and settlement in life. Schiller was ten years 04 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. younger, and still without a fixed destiny ; on both of which accounts, his fundamental scheme of thought, the principles by which he judged and acted, and maintained his individ- uality, although they might be settled, were less likely to be sobered and matured. In these circumstances we can hardly wonder that on Schiller’s part the first impression was not very pleasant. Goethe sat talking of Italy, and art, and travelling, and a thousand other subjects, with that flow of brilliant and deep sense, sarcastic humour, knowledge, fancy and good nature, which is said to render him .the best talker now alive. 1 Schiller looked at him in quite a different mood ; he felt his natural constraint increased under the influence of a man so opposite in character, so jjotent in resources, so sin- gular and so expert in using them ; a man whom he could not agree with, and knew not how to contradict. Soon after their interview, he thus writes : ‘ On the whole, this personal meeting has not at all dimin- ished the idea, great as it was, which I had previously formed of Goethe ; but I doubt whether we shall ever come into any close communication with each other. Much that still inter- ests me has already had its epoch with him. His whole nat- ure is, from its very origin, otherwise constructed than mine ; his world is not my world ; our modes of .conceiving things appear to be essentially different. From such a combination, no secure, substantial intimacy can result. Time will try.’ The aid of time was not, in fact, unnecessary. On the part of Goethe there existed prepossessions no less hostile ; and derived from sources older and deeper than the present tran- sitory meeting, to the discontents of which they probably con- tributed. He himself has lately stated them with his accustomed frankness and good humour, in a paper, part of which some readers may peruse with an interest more than merely bio- graphical. ‘ On my return from Italy,’ he says, * where I had been en- deavouring to train myself to greater purity and precision in all departments of art, not heeding what meanwhile was going on in Germany, I found here some older and some more re- 1 1S25. SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 95 cent works of poetry, enjoying kiglr esteem and wide circula- tion, while unhappily their character to me was utterly offen- sive. I shall only mention Heinse’s Ardinghello and Schiller’s Robbers. The first I hated for its having undertaken to ex- hibit sensuality and mystical abstruseness, ennobled and sup- ported by creative art : the last, because in it, the very para- doxes moral and dramatic, from which I was struggling to get liberated, had been laid hold, of by a powerful though an im- mature genius, and poured in a boundless rushing flood over all our country. ‘ Neither of these gifted individuals did I blame for what he had performed or purposed : it is the nature and the privi- lege of every mortal to attempt working in his own peculiar way ; he attempts it first without culture, scarcely with the consciousness of what he is about ; and continues it with consciousness increasing as his culture increases ; whereby it happens that so many exquisite and so many paltry things are to be found circulating in the world, and one perplexity is seen to rise from the ashes of another. , ‘ But the rumour which these strange productions had ex- cited over Germany, the approbation paid to them by every class of persons, from the wild student to the polished court- lady, frightened me ; for I now thought all my labour was to prove in vain ; the objects, and the way of handling them, to which I had been exercising all my powers, appeared as if defaced and set aside. And what grieved me still more was, that all the friends' connected with me, Heinrich Meyer and Moritz, as well as their fellow-artists Tischbein and Bury, seemed in danger of the like contagion. I was much hurt. Had it been possible, I would have abandoned the study of creative art, and the practice of poetry altogether ; for where was the prospect of surpassing those performances of genial worth and wild form, in the qualities which recommended them ? Conceive my situation. It had been my object and my task to cherish and impart the purest exhibitions of poetic art ; and here was I hemmed in between Ardinghello and Franz von Moor ! ‘ It happened also about this time that Moritz returned from 96 THE LIFE OF FRTEDRIC'Il SCHILLER. Italy, and stayed with me awhile ; during which, he violently confirmed himself and me in these persuasions. I avoided Schiller, who was now at Weimar, in my neighbourhood. The appearance of Don Carlos was not calculated to approximate us ; the attempts of our common friends I resisted ; and thus we still continued to go on our way apart.’ By degrees, however, both parties found that they had been mistaken. The course of accidents brought many things to light, which had been hidden ; the time character of each be- came unfolded more and more completely to the other ; and the cold, measured tribute of respect was on both sides animated and exalted by feelings of kindness, and ultimately of affec- tion. Ere long, Schiller had by gratifying proofs discovered that ‘ this Goethe was a very worthy man ; ’ and Goethe, in his love of genius, and zeal for the interests of literature, was per- forming for Schiller the essential duties of a friend, even while his personal repugnance continued unabated. A strict similarity of characters is not necessary, or perhaps very favourable, to friendship. To render it complete, each party must no doubt be competent to understand the other ; both must be possessed of dispositions kindred in their great lineaments : but the pleasure of comparing our ideas and emotions is heightened when there is ‘likeness in unlikeness.’ The same sentiments, different opinions, Bousseau conceives to be the best material of friendship : reciprocity of kind words and actions is more effectual than all. Luther loved Melanc- thon ; Johnson was not more the friend of Edmund Burke than of poor old Dr. Levitt. Goethe and Schiller met again ; as they ultimately came to live together, and to see each other oftener, they liked each other better ; they became associates, friends ; and the harmony of them intercourse, strengthened by many subsequent communities of object, was never interrupted, till death put an end to it. Goethe, in his time, has done many glorious things ; but few on which he should look back with greater pleasure than his treatment of Schiller. Literary friendships are said to be precarious, and of rare occurrence : the rivalry of interest disturbs them con- tinuance ; a rivalry greater, where the subject of competition SCHILLER AT WELHAR. 97 is one so vague, impalpable and fluctuating, as the favour of the public ; where the feeling to be gratified is one so nearly allied to vanity, the most irritable, arid and selfish feeling of the human heart. Had Goethe’s prime motive been the love of fame, he must have viewed with repugnance, not the mis- direction but the talents of the rising genius, advancing with such rapid strides to dispute with him the palm of intellect- ual primacy, nay as the million thought, already in possession of it ; and if a sense of his own dignity had withheld him from offering obstructions, or uttering any whisper of dis- content, there is none but a truly patrician spirit that would cordially have offered aid. To being secretly hostile and openly indifferent, the next resource was to enact the patron ; to solace vanity, by helping the rival whom he could not hin- der, and who could do without his help. Goethe adopted neither of these plans. It reflects much credit on him that he acted as he did. Eager to forward Schiller’s views by ex- erting all the influence within his power, he succeeded in effecting this ; and what was still more difficult, in suffering the character of benefactor to merge in that of equal. They became not friends only, but fellow-labourers : a connection productive of important consequences in the history of both, particularly of the younger and more undirected of the two. Meanwhile the History of the Revolt of the United Nether- lands was in part before the world ; the first volume came out in 1788. Schiller’s former writings had given proofs of powers so great and various, such an extent of general in- tellectual strength, and so deep an acquaintance, both practi- cal and scientific, with the art of composition, that in a sub- ject like history, no ordinary work was to be looked for from his hands. With diligence in accumulating materials, and patient care in elaborating them, he could scarcely fail to at- tain distinguished excellence. The present volume was well calculated to fulfil such expectations. The Revolt of the Neth- erlands possesses all the common requisites of a good history, and many which are in some degree peculiar to itself. The information it conveys is minute and copious ; we have all the 7 98 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. circumstances of the case, remote and near, set distinctly be- fore us. Yet, such is the skill of the arrangement, these are at once briefly and impressively presented. The work is not stretched out into a continuous narrative ; but gathered up into masses, which are successively exhibited to view, the minor facts being grouped around some leading one, to which, as to the central object, our attention is chiefly directed. This method of combining the details of events, of proceeding as it were, per saltum, from eminence to eminence, and thence surveying the surrounding scene, is undoubtedly the most philosophical of any : but few men are equal to the task of effecting it rightly. It must be executed by a mind able to look on all its facts at once ; to disentangle their perplexities, referring each to its proper head ; and to choose, often with extreme address, the station from which the reader is to view them. Without this, or with this inadequately done, a work on such a plan would be intolerable. Schiller has accom- plished it in great perfection ; the whole scene of affairs was evidently clear before his own eye, and he did not want ex- pertness to disci’iminate and seize its distinctive features. The bond of cause and consequence he never loses sight of ; and over each successive portion of his narrative he poms that flood of intellectual and imaginative brilliancy, which all his prior writings had displayed. His reflections, expressed or implied, are the fruit of strong, comprehensive, penetrating thought. His descriptions are vivid ; his characters are stud- ied with a keen sagacity, and set before us in their most strik- ing points of view ; those of Egmont and Orange occur to every reader as a rare union of perspicacity and eloquence. The work has a look of order ; of beauty joined to calm re- posing force. Had it been completed, it might have ranked as the very best of Schiller’s prose compositions. But no second volume ever came to light ; and the first concludes at the entrance of Alba into Brussels. Two fragments alone, the Siege of Antwerp, and the Passage of Alba’s Army, both living pictures, show us still farther what he might have done had he proceeded. The surpassing and often liighly-pict- uresque movements of this War, the devotedness of the Dutch, SCHILLER AT JENA. 99 their heroic achievement of liberty, were not destined to be painted by the glowing pen of Schiller, whose heart and mind were alike so qualified to do them justice . 1 The accession of reputation, which this work procured its author, was not the only or the principal advantage he derived from it. Eichhorn, Professor of History, was at this time about to leave the University of Jena : Goethe had already introduced his new acquaintance Schiller to the special notice of Amelia, the accomplished regent of Saclisen-Weimar ; he now joined with Yoigt, the head Chaplain of the Court, in soliciting the vacant chair for him. Seconded by the general voice, and the persuasion of the Princess herself, he succeeded. Schiller was appointed Professor at Jena ; he went thither in 1789. With Schiller’s removal to Jena begins a new epoch in his public and private life. His connection with Goethe here first ripened into friendship, and became secured and ce- mented by frequency of intercourse . 2 Jena is but a few miles distant from Weimar ; and the two friends, both settled in public offices belonging to the same Government, had daily opportunities of interchanging visits. Schiller’s wanderings were now concluded : with a heart tired of so fluctuating an existence, but not despoiled of its capacity for relishing a calmer one ; with a mind experienced by much and varied intercourse with men ; full of knowledge and of plans to turn it to account, he could now repose himself in the haven of domestic comforts, and look forward to days of more un- broken exertion, and more wholesome and permanent enjoy- 1 If we mistake not, Madame de Stael, in her Revolution Francctise, had this performance of Schiller’s in her eye. Her work is constructed on a similar though a rather looser plan of arrangement : the execution of it hears the same relation to that of Schiller ; it is less irregular ; more ambitious in its rhetoric ; inferior in precision, though often not in force of thought and imagery'. 1 The obstacles to their union have already been described in the words of Goethe ; the steps by which these were surmounted, are de- scribed by him in the same paper with equal minuteness and effect. It is interesting, but cannot be inserted here. See Appendix, No. 3. 100 THE LIFE CF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. ment than hitherto had fallen to liis lot. In the February following liis settlement at Jena, be obtained the hand of Fraulein Lengefeld ; a happiness, with the prospect of which he had long associated all the pleasures which he hoped for from the future. A few months after this event, he thus ex- presses himself, in writing to a friend : ‘ Life is quite a different thing by the side of a beloved wife, than so forsaken and alone ; even in Summer. Beau- tiful Nature ! I now for the first time fully enjoy it, live in it. The world again clothes itself around me in poetic forms ; old feelings are again awakening in my breast. What a life I am leading here ! I look w T ith a glad mind around me ; my heart finds a perennial contentment without it ; my spirit so fine, so refreshing a nourishment. My existence is set- tled in harmonious composure ; not strained and impas- sioned, but peaceful and clear. I look to my future destiny with a cheerful heart ; now when standing at the wisked-for goal, I wonder with myself how it all has happened, so far beyond my expectations. Fate has conquered the difficulties for me ; it has, I may say, forced me to the mark. From the future I expect everything. A few years, and I shall live in the full enjoyment of my spirit ; nay, I think my very youth will be renewed ; an inward poetic life will give it me again.’ To what extent these smiling hopes were realised will be seen in the next and concluding Part of this Biography. PART III. FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA TO HIS DEATH. ( 1790 - 1805 .) The duties of bis new office naturally called upon Schiller to devote himself with double zeal to History : a subject, which from choice he had already entered on with so much eager- ness. In the study of it, we have seen above how his strong- est faculties and tastes v T ere exercised and gratified : and new opportunities were now combined with new motives for per- sisting in his efforts. Concerning the plan or the success of his academical prelections, we have scarcely any notice : in his class, it is said, he used most frequently to speak extem- pore ; and his delivery was not distinguished by fluency or grace, a circumstance to be imputed to the agitation of a pub- lic appearance ; for, as Woltmann assures us, £ the beauty, the elegance, ease, and true instructiveness with which he could continuously express himself in private, were acknowledged and admired by all his friends.’ His matter, we suppose, would make amends for these deficiencies of manner : to judge from his introductory lecture, preserved in his works, with the title, What is Universal History , and with ivhat views should it he studied, there perhaps has never been in Europe another course of history sketched out on principles so magnificent and phil- osophical . 1 But college exercises were far from being his 1 Tlie paper entitled Hints on the Origin of Human Society, as indi- cated in the Mosaic Records, the Mission of Moses, the Laws of Solon and Lycurgus, are pieces of the very highest order ; fnll of strength and beauty ; delicious to the lovers of that plastic philosophy, which em- ploys itself in giving form and life to the ‘ dry bones ’ of those antique events, that lie before us so inexplicable in the brief and enigmatic pages of then- chroniclers. The Glance over Europe at the period of the 102 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. ultimate object, nor did be rest satisfied with mere visions of perfection : the compass of the outline he had traced, for a proper Historian, was scarcely greater than the assiduity with which he strove to fill it up. His letters breathe a spirit not only of diligence but of ardour ; he seems intent with all his strength upon this fresh pursuit ; and delighted with the vast prospects of untouched and attractive speculation, which were opening around him on every side. He professed himself to be ‘ exceedingly contented with his business ; 5 his ideas on the nature of it were acquiring both extension and distinct- ness ; and every moment of his leisure was employed in reduc- ing them to practice. He was now busied with the History of the Thirty-Years War. This work, which appeared, in 1791, is considered by the German critics as his chief performance in this department of literature : The Revolt of the Netherlands , the only one which could have vied with it, never was completed ; otherwise, in our opinion, it might have been superior. Either of the two would have sufficed to secure for Schiller a distinguished rank among historians, of the class denominated philosophical ; though even both together, they afford but a feeble exemplifi- cation of the ideas which he entertained on the manner of com- posing history. In his view, the business of history is not merely to record, but to interpret ; it involves not only a clear conception and a lively exposition of events and characters, but a sound, enlightened theory of individual and national morality, a general philosophy of human life, whereby to judge of them, and measure then- effects. The historian now stands on higher ground, takes in a wider range than those that went before him ; he can now survey vast tracts of human action, and deduce its laws from an experience extending over many climes and ages. With his ideas, moreover, his feelings ought to be enlarged : he should regard the interests not of any sect or state, but of mankind ; the progress not of any class of arts or opinions, but of universal happiness and refinement. His first Crusade ; the Times of the Emperor Frederick I. ; the Troubles in France, are also masterly sketches, in a simpler and more common style. SCHILLER AT JENA. 103 narrative, in short, should be moulded according to the science, and impregnated with the liberal spirit of his time. Voltaire is generally conceived to have invented and intro- duced a new method of composing history ; the chief histo- rians that have followed him have been by way of eminence denominated philosophical. This is hardly correct. Voltaire wrote history with greater talent, but scarcely with a new species of talent : he applied the ideas of the eighteenth cen- tury to the subject ; but in this there was nothing radically new. In the hands of a thinking writer history has always been ‘ philosophy teaching by experience ; ’ that is, such phi- losophy as the age of the historian has afforded. For a Greek or Homan, it was natural to look upon events with an eye to their effect on his own city or country ; and to try them by a code of principles, in which the prosperity or extension of this formed a leading object. For a monkish chronicler, it was natural to estimate the progress of affairs by the number of abbeys founded ; the virtue of men by the sum-total of do- nations to the clergy. And for a thinker of the present day, it is equally natural to measure the occurrences of history by quite a different standard : by their influence upon the gen- eral destiny of man, their tendency to obstruct or to forward him in his advancement towards liberty, knowledge, true re- ligion and dignity of mind. Each of these narrators simply measures by the scale which is considered for the time as ex- pressing the great concerns and duties of humanity. Schiller’s views on this matter were, as might have been expected, of the most enlarged kind. ‘It seems to me,’ said he in one of his letters, ‘ that in writing history for the mod- erns, we should try to communicate to it such an interest as the History of the Peloponnesian War had for the Greeks. Now this is the problem : to choose and arrange your mate- rials so that, to interest, they shall not need the aid of deco- ration. We moderns have a source of interest at our disposal, which no Greek or Roman was acquainted with, and which the patriotic interest does not nearly equal. This last, in general, is chiefly of importance for unripe nations, for the youth of the world. But we may excite a very different sort 104 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCIULLER. of interest if we represent eacli remarkable occurrence that happened to men as of importance to man. It is a poor and little aim to write for one nation ; a philosophic spirit cannot tolerate such limits, cannot bound its views to a fonn of human nature so arbitrary, fluctuating, accidental. The most powerful nation is but a fragment ; and thinking minds will not grow warm on its account, except in so far as this nation or its fortunes have been influential on the progress of the species.’ That there is not some excess in this comprehensive cosmo- politan philosophy, may perhaps be liable to question. Nature herself has, wisely no doubt, partitioned us into ‘ kindreds, and nations, and tongues it is among our instincts to grow warm in behalf of our country, simply for its own sake ; and the business of Reason seems to be to chasten and direct our in- stincts, never to destroy them. We require individuality in our attachments : the sympathy which is expanded over all men will commonly be found so much attenuated by the proc- ess, that it cannot be effective on any. And as it is in nature, so it is in art, which ought to be the image of it. Universal philanthropy forms but a precarious and very powerless rule of conduct ; and the * progress of the species ’ will turn out equally unfitted for deeply exciting the imagination. It is not with freedom that we can sympathise, but with free men. There ought, indeed, to be in history a spiiit superior to petty distinctions and vulgar partialities ; our particular affec- tions ought to be enlightened and purified ; but they should not be abandoned, or, such is the condition of humanity, our feelings must evaporate and fade away in that extreme diffu- sion. Perhaps, in a certain sense, the surest mode of pleasing and instructing all nations is to write for one. This too Schiller was aware of, and had in part attended to. Besides, the Thirty-Years War is a subject in which nationality of feeling may be even wholly spared, better than in almost any other. It is not a German but a European subject ; it forms the concluding portion of the Reformation, and this is an event belonging not to any country in particular, but to the human race. Yet, if we mistake not, this over tendency SCHILLER AT JENA. 105 to generalisation, botli in thought and sentiment, has rather hurt the present work. The philosophy, with which it is em- bued, now and then grows vague from its abstractness, ineffect- ual from its refinement : the enthusiasm which pervades it, ele- vated, strong, enlightened, would have told better on our hearts, had it been confined within a narrower space, and directed to a more specific class of objects. In his extreme attention to the philosophical aspects of the period, Schiller has neglected to take advantage of many interesting circum- stances, which it offered under other points of view. The Thirty-Years War abounds with what may be called pictur- esqueness in its events, and still more in the condition of the people who carried it on. Harte’s History of Gustavus, a wil- derness which mere human patience seems unable to explore, is yet enlivened here and there with a cheerful spot, when he tells us of some scalade or camisado, or speculates on troop- ers rendered bullet-proof by art-magic. His chaotic records have, in fact, afforded to our Novelist the raw materials of Dugald Dalgetty, a cavalier of the most singular equipment, of character and manners which, for many reasons, merit study and description. To much of this, though, as he after- wards proved, it was well known to him, Schiller paid com- paratively small attention ; his work has lost in liveliness by the omission, more than it has gained in dignity or instruc- tiveness. Yet, with all its imperfections, this is no ordinary history. The speculation, it is true, is not always of the kind we wish ; it excludes more moving or enlivening topics, and sometimes savours of the inexperienced theorist who had passed his days remote from practical statesmen ; the subject has not sufficient unity ; in spite of every effort, it breaks into fragments towards the conclusion : but still there is an energy, a vigorous beauty in the work, which far more than redeems its failings. Great thoughts at every turn arrest our attention, and make us pause to confirm or contradict them ; happy metaphors , 1 some vivid 1 Yet we scarcely meet with one so happy as that in the Revolt of the Netherlands, where he finishes his picture of the gloomy silence and dismay that reigned in Brussels on the first entrance of Alba, by this 106 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. descriptions of events and men, remind us of the author of Fiesco and Don Carlos. The characters of Gustavus and Wal- lenstein are finely developed in the course of the narrative. Tilly’s passage of the Lech, the battles of Leipzig and Liitzen figure in our recollection, as if our eyes had witnessed them : the death of Gustavus is described in terms which might draw e iron tears ’ from the eyes of veterans.' If Schiller had in- clined to dwell upon the mere visual or imaginative depart- ment of his subject, no man could have painted it more graphically, or better called forth our emotions, sympathetic or romantic. But this, we have seen, was not by any means his leading aim. On the whole, the present work is still the best historical performance which Germany can boast of. Muller’s histones are distinguished by merits of another sort ; by condensing, in a given space, and frequently in lucid order, a quantity of information, copious and authentic beyond example : but as intellectual productions, they" cannot rank with Schiller’s. Woltmann of Berlin has added to the Thirty-Years War an- other work of equal size, by way of continuation, entitled History of the Peace of Munster ; with the first negotiations of which treaty the former concludes. Woltmann is a person of ability ; but we dare not say of him, what Wieland said of Schiller, that by his first historical attempt he ‘ has discovered a decided capability of rising to a level with Hume, Bobertson and Gibbon.’ He will rather rise to a level with Belsham or Smollett. This first complete specimen of Schiller’s art in the histori- cal department, though but a small fraction of what he meant to do, and could have done, proved in fact to be the last he ever undertook. At present very different cares awaited him : in 1791, a fit of sickness overtook him ; he had to exchange striking simile : ‘ Now that the City had received the Spanish General within its walls, it had the air as of a man that has drunk a cup of poison, and with shuddering expectation watches, every moment, for its deadly agency. ’ 1 See Appendix, No. 4. SCHILLER AT JENA. 107 the inspiring labours of literature for the disgusts and disquie- tudes of physical disease. His disorder, which had its seat in the chest, was violent and threatening ; and though nature overcame it in the present instance, the blessing of entire health nevermore returned to him. The cause of this severe affliction seemed to be the unceasing toil and anxiety of mind, in which his days had hitherto been passed : his frame, which, though tall, had never been robust, was too weak for the vehe- ment and sleepless soul that dwelt within it ; and the habit of nocturnal study had, no doubt, aggravated all the other mis- chiefs. Ever since his residence at Dresden, his constitution had been weakened : but this rude shock at once shattered its remaining strength ; for a time the strictest precautions were required barely to preserve existence. A total cessation from every intellectual effort was one of the most peremptory laws prescribed to him. Schiller’s habits and domestic circumstan- ces equally rebelled against this measure ; with a beloved wife depending on him for support, inaction itself could have pro- cured him little rest. His case seemed hard ; his prospects of innocent felicity had been too banefully obscured. Yet in this painful and difficult position, he did not yield to despond- ency ; and at length, assistance, and partial deliverance, reached him from a very unexpected quarter. Schiller had not long been sick, when the hereditary Prince, now reigning Duke of Holstein-Augustenburg, jointly with the Count Yon Schimmelmann, conferred on him a pension of a thousand crowns for three years . 1 No stipulation was added, but merely that he should be careful of his health, and use every atten- tion to recover. This speedy and generous aid, moreover, was presented with a delicate politeness, which, as Schiller said, touched him more than even the gift itself. We should re- member this Count and this Duke ; they deserve some admira- tion and some envy. This disorder introduced a melancholy change into Schiller’s circumstances : he had now another enemy to strive with, a secret and fearful impediment to vanquish, in which much 1 It was to Denmark likewise that Klopstock owed the means of com- pleting his Messias. 108 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. resolute effort must be sunk without producing any positive result. Pain is not entirely synonymous with Evil ; but bodily pain seems less redeemed by good than almost any other kind of it. From the loss of fortune, of fame, or even of friends, Philosophy pretends to draw a certain compensat- ing benefit ; but in general the permanent loss of health will bid defiance to her alchymy. It is a universal diminution ; the diminution equally of our resources and of our capacity to guide them ; a penalty unmitigated, save by love of Mends, which then first becomes truly dear and precious to us ; or by comforts brought from beyond this earthly sphere, from that serene Fountain of peace and hope, to which our weak Philosophy cannot raise her wing. For all men, in itself, disease is misery ; but chiefly for men of finer feelings and endowments, to whom, in return for such superiorities, it seems to be sent most frequently and in its most distressing forms. It is a cruel fate for the poet to have the sunny land of his imagination, often the sole territory he is lord of, dis- figured and darkened by the shades of pain ; for one whose highest happiness is the exertion of his mental faculties, to have them chained and paralysed in the imprisonment of a distempered frame. "With external activity, with palpable pursuits, above all, with a suitable placidity of nature, much even in certain states of sickness may be performed and en- joyed. But for him whose heart is already over-keen, whose world is of the mind, ideal, internal ; when the mildew of lingering disease has struck that world, and begun to blacken and consume its beauty, nothing seems to remain but de- spondency and bitterness and desolate sorrow, felt and antici- pated, to the end. Woe to him if his Mil likewise falter, if his resolution fail, and his spirit bend its neck to the yoke of this new enemy ! Idleness and a disturbed imagination will gain the mastery of him, and let loose then thousand fiends to harass bim. to tor- ment him into madness. Alas ! the bondage of Algiers is freedom compared with this of the sick man of genius, whose heart has fainted and sunk beneath its load. His clay dwell- SCHILLER AT JENA. 109 ing’ is changed into a gloomy prison ; every nerve is become an avenue of disgust or anguish ; and the soul sits within, in her melancholy loneliness, a prey to the spectres of despair, or stupefied with excess of suffering, doomed as it were to a ‘ life in death/ to a consciousness of agonised existence, without the consciousness of power which should accom- pany it. Happily, death, or entire fatuity, at length puts an end to such scenes of ignoble misery ; which, however, ignoble as they are, we ought to view with pity rather than contempt. Such are frequently the fruits nf protracted sickness, in men otherwise of estimable qualities. and gifts, but whose sensibil- ity exceeds their strength of mind. In Schiller, its worst effects were resisted by the only availing antidote, a strenuous determination to neglect them. His spirit was too 'vigorous and ardent to yield even in this emergency : he disdained to dwindle into a pining valetudinarian ; in the midst of his in- firmities, he persevered with unabated zeal in the great busi- ness of his life. As he partially recovered, he returned as strenuously as ever to his intellectual occupations ; and often, in the glow of poetical conception, he almost forgot his mal- adies. By such resolute and manly conduct, he disarmed sickness of its crudest power to wound ; his frame might be in pain, but his spirit retained its force, unextinguished, almost unimpeded ; he did not lose his relish for the beautiful, the grand, or the good, in any of them shapes ; he loved his friends as formerly, and wrote his finest and sublimest works when his health was gone. Perhaps no period of his life dis- played more heroism than the present one. After this severe attack, and the kind provision which he had received from Denmark, Schiller seems to have relaxed his connexion with the University of Jena : the weightiest duties of his class appear to have been discharged by proxy, and his historical studies to have been forsaken. Yet this was but a change, not an abatement, in the activity of his mind. Once partially free from pain, all his former diligence awoke ; and being also free from the more pressing calls of duty and economy, he was now allowed to turn his attention 110 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. to objects which attracted it more. Among these one of the most alluring was the Philosophy of Kant. The transcendental system of the Konigsberg Professor had, for the last ten years, been spreading over Germany, which it had now filled with the most violent contentions. The powers and accomplishments of Kant were universally acknowledged ; the high pretensions of his system, pretensions, it is true, such as had been a thousand times put forth, a thousand times found wanting, still excited notice, when so backed by ability and reputation. The air of mysticism connected with these doctrines was attractive to th.e German mind, with which the vague and the vast are always pleasing qualities ; the dreadful array of first principles, the forest huge of terminology and definitions, where the panting intellect of weaker men wanders as in pathless thickets, and at length sinks powerless to the earth, oppressed with fatigue, and suffocated with scholastic miasma, seemed sublime rather than appalling to the Ger- mans ; men who shrink not at toil, and to whom a certain de- gree of darkness appears a native element, essential for giving play to that deep meditative enthusiasm which forms so im- portant a feature in their character. Kant’s Philosophy, ac- cordingly, found numerous disciples, and possessed them with zeal unexampled since the days of Pythagoras. This, in fact,, resembled spiritual fanaticism rather than a calm ardour in the cause of science ; Kant’s warmest admirers seemed to re- gard him more in the light of a prophet than of a mere earthly sage. Such admiration was of course opposed by correspond- ing censure ; the transcendental neophytes had to encounter sceptical gain sayers as determined as themselves. Of this lat- ter class the most remarkable were Herder and Wieland. Herder, then a clergyman of Weimar, seems never to have comprehended what he fought against so keenly : he de- nounced and condemned the Kantean metaphysics, because he found them heterodox. The young divines came back from the University of Jena with their minds well nigh deliri- ous ; full of strange doctrines, which they explained to the examinators of the Weimar Consistorium in phrases that ex- cited no idea in the heads of these reverend persons, but much SCIIILLER AT JENA. Ill horror in their hearts . 1 Hence reprimands, and objurgations, and excessive bitterness between the applicants for ordination and those appointed to confer it : one young clergyman at "Weimar shot himself on this account ; heresy, and jarring, and unprofitable logic, were universal. Hence Herder’s vehement attacks on this ‘ pernicious quackery ; ’ this delusive and destructive ‘ system of words .’ 2 Wieland strove against it for another reason. He had, all his life, been labouring to give currency among his countrymen to a species of diluted epicurism ; to erect a certain smooth, and elegant, and very slender scheme of taste and morals, borrowed from our Shaftesbury and the French. All this feeble edifice the new doctrine was sweeping before it to utter ruin, with the vio- lence of a tornado. It grieved Wieland to see the work of half a century destroyed : he fondly imagined that but for Kant’s philosophy it might have been perennial. With scep- ticism quickened into action by such motives, Herder and he went forth as brother champions against the transcendental metaphysics ; they were not long without a multitude of hot assailants. The uproar produced among thinking men by the conflict, has scarcely been equalled in Germany since the days of Luther. Fields were fought, and victories lost and won ; %i early all the minds of the nation were, in secret or openly, arrayed on this side or on that. Goethe alone seemed alto- gether to retain his wonted composure ; he was clear for allow- ing the Kantean scheme to ‘ have its day, as all things have.’ Goethe has already lived to see the wisdom of this sentiment, so characteristic of his genius and turn of thought. In these controversies, soon pushed beyond the bounds of 1 Schelling has a hook on the ‘ Soul of the World: ’ Fichte’s expres- sion to his students, “Tomorrow, gentlemen, I shall create God,” is known to most readers. 2 See Herder's Leben , by his Widow. That Herder was not usually troubled with any unphilosophical scaptirism, or aversion to novelty, may be inferred from his patronising Dr. Gall’s system of Phrenology, or ‘ Skull-doctrine ’ as they call it in Germany. But Gall had referred with acknowledgment and admiration to the Philosophic dev Uescliichte der Men*chheit. Here lay a difference. 112 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. temperate or wholesome discussion, Schiller took no part : but the noise they made afforded him a fresh inducement to investigate a set of doctrines, so important in the general esti- mation. A system which promised, even with a very little plausibility, to accomplish all that Kant asserted his complete performance of ; to explain the difference between Matter and Spirit, to unravel the perplexities of Necessity and Freewill ; to show us the true grounds of our belief in God, and what hope nature gives us of the soul’s immortality ; and thus at length, after a thousand failures, to interpret the enigma of our being,- — -hardly needed that additional inducement to make such a man as Schiller grasp at it with eager curiosity. His progress also was facilitated by his present circumstances ; Jena had now become the chief well-spring of Kantean doc- trine, a distinction or disgrace it has ever since continued to deserve. Reinhold, one of Kant’s ablest followers, was at this time Schiller’s fellow-teacher and daily companion : he did not fail to encourage and assist his friend in a path of study, which, as he believed, conducted to such glorious results. Under this tuition, Schiller was not long in discovering, that at least the ‘ new philosophy was more poetical than that of Leibnitz, and had a grander character ; ’ persuasions which of course confirmed him in his resolution to examine it. * How far Schiller penetrated into the arcana of transcenden- talism it is impossible for us to say. The metaphysical and logical branches of it seem to have afforded him no solid satis- faction, or taken no firm hold of his thoughts ; their influence is scarcely to be traced in any of his subsequent writings. The only department to which he attached himself with his ordinary zeal was that which relates to the principles of the imitative arts, with their moral influences, and which in the Kantean nomenclature has been designated by the term L Esthetics or the doctrine of sentiments and emotions. On these subjects he had already amassed a multitude of thoughts ; to see which expressed bf new symbols, and arranged in systematic form, and held together by some common theory, 1 From the verb aia-davo^at, to fed. — The term is Baumgarten's ; prior to Kant (1845). SCHILLER AT JENA. 113 would necessarily yield enjoyment to liis intellect, and inspire I n' in with fresh alacrity in prosecuting such researches. The new light which dawned, or seemed to dawn, upon him, in the course of these investigations, is reflected, in various treatises, evincing, at least, the honest diligence with which he studied, and the fertility with which he could produce. Of these the largest and most elaborate are the essays on Grace and Dig- nity ; on Naive and Sentimental Poetry ; and the Letters on the AEsthetic Culture of Man : the other pieces are on Tragic Art / on the Pathetic ; on the Cause of our Delight in Tragic Ob- jects ; on Employing the Low and Common in Art. Being cast in the mould of Kantism, or at least clothed in its garments, these productions, to readers unacquainted with that system, are encumbered here and there with difficulties greater than belong intrinsically to the subject. In perusing them, the uninitiated student is mortified at seeing so much powerful thought distorted, as he thinks, into such fantastic forms : the principles of reasoning, on which they rest, are apparently not those of common logic ; a dimness and doubt overhangs their conclusions ; scarcely anything is proved in a convincing manner. But this is no strange quality in such writings. To an esoteric reader the philosophy of Kant al- most always appears to invert the common maxim ; its end and aim seem not to be ‘ to make abstruse things simple, but to make simple things abstruse.’ Often a proposition of in- scrutable and dread aspect, when resolutely grappled with, and tom from its shady den, and its bristling entrenchments of uncouth terminology, and dragged forth into the open light of day, to be seen by the natural eye, and tried by merely human understanding, proves to be a very harmless truth, familiar to us from of old, sometimes so familiar as to be a truism. Too frequently, the anxious novice is reminded of Dryden in the Battle of the Books : there is a helmet of rusty iron, dark, grkn, gigantic ; and within it, at the farthest comer, is a head no bigger than a walnut. These are the general errors of Ivantean criticism ; in the present works, they are by no means of the worst or most pervading kind ; and there is a fundamental merit which does more than 8 1U THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. counterbalance them. By the aid of study, the doctrine set before us can, in general, at length be comprehended ; and Schiller’s fine intellect, recognisable even in its masquerade, is ever and anon peering forth in its native form, which all may understand, which all must relish, and presenting us with passages that show like bright verdant islands in the misty sea of metaphysics. We have been compelled to offer these remarks on Kant’s Philosophy ; but it is right to add that they are the result of only very limited acquaintance with the subject. We cannot wish that any influence of ours should add a note, however feeble, to the loud and not at all melodious cry which has been raised against it in this country. When a class of doctrines so involved in difficulties, yet so sanctioned by illustrious names, is set before us, curiosity must have a theory respect- ing them, and indolence and other humbler feelings are too ready to afford her one. To call Kant’s system a laborious dream, and its adherents crazy mystics, is a brief method, brief but false. The critic, whose philosophy includes the craziness of men like these, so easily and smoothly in its formulas, should render thanks to Heaven for having gifted him with science and acumen, as few in any age or country have been gifted. Meaner men, however, ought to recollect that where we do not understand, we should postpone decid- ing, or, at least, keep our decision for our own exclusive benefit We of England may reject this Kantean system, perhaps with reason ; but it ought to be on other grounds than are yet before us. Philosophy is science, and science, as Schiller has observed, cannot always be explained in 1 conver- sations by the parlour fire,’ or in written treatises that re- semble such. The cui bono of these doctrines may not, it is true, be expressible by arithmetical computations : the subject also is perplexed with obscurities, and probably with manifold delusions ; and too often its interpreters with us have been like ‘ tenebrific stars,’ that ‘ did ray out darkness ’ on a matter itself sufficiently dark. But what then ? Is the jewel always to be found among the common dust of the highway, and al- ways to be estimated by its value in the common judgment ? SCHILLER AT JENA. 115 It lies embosomed in the depths of the mine ; rocks must be vent before it can be reached ; skilful eyes and hands must separate it fi’om the rubbish where it lies concealed, and kingly purchasers alone can prize it and buy it. This law of ostracism is as dangerous in science as it was of old in poli- tics. Let us not forget that many things are true which can- not be demonstrated by the rules of Watts’s Logic ; that many truths are valuable, for which no price is given in Paternoster Row, and no preferment offered at St. Stephen’s ! Whoever reads these treatises of Schiller with attention, will perceive that they depend on principles of an immensely higher and more complex character than our ‘ Essays on Taste,’ and our ‘Inquiries concerning the Freedom of the Will.’ The laws of criticism, which it is their purpose to establish, are derived from the inmost nature of man ; the scheme of morality, which they inculcate, soars into a brighter region, very far beyond the ken of our ‘Utilities’ and ‘Reflex-senses.’ They do not teach us ‘to judge of poetry and art as we judge of dinner,’ merely by observing the impressions it produced in us ; and they do derive the duties and chief end of man from other grounds than the philosophy of Profit and Loss. These Letters on JEsthetic Culture, without the aid of anything which the most sceptical could designate as superstition, trace out and attempt to sanction for us a system of morality, in which the sublimest feelings of the Stoic and the Christian are repre- sented but as stages in our progress to the pinnacle of true human grandeur ; and man, isolated on this fragment of the universe, encompassed with the boundless desolate Unknown, at war with Fate, without help or the hope of help, is confi- dently called upon to rise into a calm cloudless height of in- ternal activity and peace, and be, what he has fondly named himself, the god of this lower world. When such are the results, who would not make an effort for the steps by which they are attained? In Schiller’s treatises, it must be owned, the reader, after all exertions, will be fortunate if he can find them. Yet a second perusal will satisfy him better than the first ; and among the shapeless immensities which fill the Night of Kantism, and the meteoric coruscations, which per- 116 • THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. plex him rather than enlighten, he will fancy he descries some streaks of a serener radiance, which he w r ill pray devoutly that time may purify and ripen into perfect day. The Philos- ophy of Kant is probably combined with errors to its very core ; but perhaps also, this ponderous unmanageable dross may bear in it the everlasting gold of truth ! Mighty spirits have already laboured in refining it : is it wise in us to take up with the base pewter of Utility 7 , and renounce such projects altogether? We trust, not . 1 That Schiller’s genius profited by this laborious and ar- dent study of ^Esthetic Metaphysics, has frequently been doubted, and sometimes denied. That, after such investiga- tions, the process of composition would become more difficult, might be inferred from the nature of the case. That also the principles of this critical theory were in part erroneous, in still greater part too far-fetched and fine-spun for application to the business of writing, we may 7 farther venture to assert. But excellence, not ease of composition, is the thing to be de- sired ; and in a mind like Schiller’s, so full of energy, of im- ages and thoughts and creative power, the more sedulous practice of selection was little likely to be detrimental. And though considerable errors might mingle with the rules by which he judged himself, the habit of judging carelessly, or not at all, is far worse than that of sometimes judging wrong. Besides, once accustomed to attend strictly to the operations of his genius, and rigorously to try 7 ' its products, such a man as Schiller could not fail in time to discover what was false in the principles by 7 which he tried them, and consequently, in the end, to retain the benefits of this procedure without its evils. There is doubtless a purism in taste, a rigid fantastical demand of perfection, a horror at approaching the limits of impropriety, which obstructs the free impulse of the faculties, and if excessive, would altogether deaden them. But the ex- cess on the other side is much more frequent, and, for high 1 Are our hopes from Mr. Coleridge always to be fruitless ? Sneers at the common-sense philosophy of the Scotch are of little use : it is a poor philosophy, perhaps ; but not so poor as none at all, which seems to be the state of matters here at present. SCHILLER AT JENA. 117 endowments, infinitely more pernicious. After the strongest efforts, there may be little realised ; without strong efforts, there must be little. That too much care does hurt in any of our tasks is a doctrine so flattering to indolence, that we ought to receive it with extreme caution. In works impressed with the stamp of true genius, their quality, not their extent, is what we value : a dull man may spend his lifetime writing lit- tle ; better so than writing much ; but a man of powerful mind is liable to no such danger. Of all our authors, Gray is perhaps the only one that from fastidiousness of taste has written less than he should have done : there are thousands that have erred the other way. What would a Spanish reader give, had Lope de Vega composed a hundred times as little, and that little a hundred times as well ! Schiller’s own ideas on these points appear to be sufficiently sound : they are sketched in the following extract of a letter, interesting also as a record of his purposes and intellectual condition at this period : ‘ Criticism must now make good to me the damage she herself has done. And damaged me she most certainly has ; for the boldness, the living glow which I felt before a rule was known to me, have for several years been wanting. I now see myself create and form : I watch the play of inspira- tion ; and my fancy, knowing she is not without witnesses of her movements, no longer moves with equal freedom. I hope, however, ultimately to advance so far that art shall become a second nature, as polished manners are to well-bred men ; then Imagination w T ill regain her former freedom, and submit to none but voluntary limitations.’ Schiller’s subsequent writings are the best proof that in these expectations he had not miscalculated. The historical and critical studies, in which he had been so extensively and seriously engaged, could not remain without effect on Schiller’s general intellectual character. He had spent five- active years in studies directed almost solely to the understanding, or the faculties connected with it ; and such 118 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. industry united to such ardour had produced an immense ac- cession of ideas. History had furnished him with pictures of manners and events, of strange conjunctures and conditions of existence ; it had given him more minute and truer con- ceptions of human nature in its many forms, new and more accurate opinions on the character and end of man. The do- main of his mind was both enlarged and enlightened ; a mul- titude of images and detached facts and perceptions had been laid up in his memory ; and his intellect was at once enriched by acquired thoughts, and strengthened by increased exercise on a wider circle of knowledge. But to understand was not enough for Schiller ; there were in him facilities which this could not employ, and therefore could not satisfy. The primary vocation of his nature was poetry : the acquisitions of his other faculties served but as the materials for his poetic faculty to act upon, and seemed imperfect till they had been sublimated into the pure and perfect forms of beauty, which it is the business of this to elicit from them. New thoughts gave birth to new feelings : and both of these he was now called upon to body forth, to represent by visible types, to animate and adorn with the magic of creative genius. The first youthful blaze of poetic ardour had long since passed away ; but this large increase of knowledge awakened it anew, refined by years and ex- perience into a steadier and clearer flame. Yague shadows of unaccomplished excellence, gleams of ideal beauty, were now hovering fitfully across his mind : he longed to turn them into shape, and give them a local habitation and a name. Criticism, likewise, had exalted his notions of art : the mod- ern writers on subjects of taste, Aristotle, the ancient poets, he had lately studied ; he had carefully endeavoured to ex- tract the truth from each, and to amalgamate their principles with his own ; in choosing, he was now more difficult to satisfy. Minor poems had all along been partly occupying his attention ; but they yielded no space for the intensity of his impulses, and the magnificent ideas that were rising in his fancy. Conscious of his strength, he dreaded not engaging with the highest species of his art : the perusal of the Greek SCHILLER AT JENA. 119 tragedians had given rise to some late translations ; 1 the perusal of Homer seems now to have suggested the idea of an epic poem. The hero whom he first contemplated was Gustavus Adolphus ; he afterwards changed to Frederick the Great of Prussia. Epic poems, since the time of the Epigoniad, and Leonidas, and especially since that of some more recent attempts, have with us become a mighty dull affair. That Schiller aimed at something infinitely higher than these faint and superannuated imitations, far higher than even Klopstock has attained, will appear by the following extract from one of his letters : ‘ An epic poem in the eighteenth century should be quite a different thing from such a poem in the childhood of the world. And it is that very circumstance which attracts me so much towards this project. Our manners, the finest essence of our philosophies, our politics, economy, arts, in short, of all we know and do, would require to be introduced without con- straint, and interwoven in such a composition, to live there in beautiful harmonious freedom, as all the branches of Greek culture live and are made visible in Homer’s Iliad. Nor am I disinclined to invent a species of machinery for this purpose ; being anxious to fulfil, with hairsbreadth accuracy, all the requisitions that are made of epic poets, even on the side of form. Besides, this machinery, which, in a subject so mod- ern, in an age so prosaic, appears to present the greatest diffi- culty, might exalt the interest in a high degree, were it suit- ably adapted to this same modern spirit. Crowds of confused ideas on this matter are rolling to and fro within my head ; something distinct will come out of them at last. ‘ As for the sort of metre I would choose, this I think you will hardly guess : no other than ottave rime. All the rest, except iambic, are become insufferable to me. And how beau- tifully might the earnest and the lofty be made to play in these light fetters ! What attractions might the epic substance gain by the soft yielding form of this fine rhyme ! For, the 1 These were a fine version of Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulide, and a few scenes of his Phcenissce. 120 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. . poem must, not in name only,- but in very deed, be capable of being sung ; as the Iliad was sung by tbe peasants of Greece, as tbe stanzas of Jerusalem Delivered are still sung by tbe Venetian gondoliers. ‘The epoch of Frederick’s life that would fit me best, I have considered also. I should wish to select some unhappy situation ; it would allow me to unfold his mind far more poetically. The chief action should, if possible, be very sim- ple, perplexed with no complicated circumstances, that the whole might easily be comprehended at a glance, though the episodes were never so numerous. In this respect there is no better model than the Iliad.’ Schiller did not execute, or even commence, the project he has here so philosophically sketched : the constraints of his present situation, the greatness of the enterprise compared with the uncertainty of its success, were sufficient to deter him. Besides, he felt that after all his wide excursions, the. true home of his genius was the Drama, the department where its powers had first been tried, and were now by habit or nature best qualified to act. To the Drama he accordingly returned. The History of the Thirty-Years li ar had once sug- gested the idea of Gustavus Adolphus as the hero of an epic poem ; the same work afforded him a subject for a tragedy : he now decided on beginning Wallenstein. In this undertak- ing it was no easy task that he contemplated ; a common play did not now comprise his aim ; he required some magnificent and comprehensive object, in which he could expend to ad- vantage the new poetical and intellectual treasures which he had for years been amassing ; something that should at once exemplify his enlarged ideas of art, and give room and shape to his fresh stores of knowledge and sentiment. As he studied the history of Wallenstein, and viewed its capabilities on every side, new ideas gathered round it : the subject grew in mag- nitude, and often changed in form. His progress in actual composition, was, of course, irregular and smalL Vet the difficulties of the subject, increasing with his own wider, more ambitious conceptions, did not abate his diligence : JlaZ- lenstem, with many interruptions and many alterations, some- SCHILLER AT JENA. 121 times stationary, sometimes retrograde, continued on the whole, though slowly, to advance. This was for several years his chosen occupation, the task to which he consecrated his brightest hours, and the finest part of his faculties. For humbler employments, demanding rather industry than inspiration, there still remained abun- dant leisure, of which it was inconsistent with his habits to waste a single hour. His occasional labours, accordingly, were numerous, varied, and sometimes of considerable ex- tent. In the end of 1792, a new object seemed to call for his attention ; he once about this time seriously meditated min- gling in politics. The French Revolution had from the first affected him with no ordinary hopes ; which, however, the course of events, particularly the imprisonment of Louis, were now fast converting into fears. For the ill-fated monarch, and the cause of freedom, which seemed threatened with dis- grace in the treatment he was likely to receive, Schiller felt so deeply interested, that he had determined, in his case a de- termination not without its risks, to address an appeal on these subjects to the French people and the world at large. The voice of reason advocating liberty as well as order might still, he conceived, make a salutary impression in this period of terror and delusion ; the voice of a distinguished man would at first sound like the voice of the nation, which he seemed to represent. Schiller was inquiring for a proper French translator, and revolving in his mind the various argu- ments that might be used, and the comparative propriety of using or forbearing to use them ; but the progress of things superseded the necessity of such deliberation. In a few months, Louis perished on the scaffold ; the Bourbon family were murdered, or scattered over Europe ; and the French government was changed into a frightful chaos, amid the tumultuous and bloody horrors of which, calm truth had no longer a chance to be heard. Schiller turned away from these repulsive and appalling scenes, into other regions where his heart was more familiar, and his powers more likely to pro- duce effect. The French Revolution had distressed and shocked him ; but it did not lessen his attachment to liberty, 122 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. tlie name of which had been so desecrated in its wild con- vulsions. Perhaps in his subsequent writings we can trace a more respectful feeling towards old establishments ; more reverence for the majesty of Custom ; and with an equal zeal, a weaker faith in human perfectibility : changes indeed which are the common fruit of years themselves, in whatever age or climate of the world our experience may be gathered. Among the number of fluctuating engagements, one, which for ten years had been constant with him, was the editing of the Thalia. The principles and performances of that work he had long looked upon as insufficient : in particular, ever since his settlement at Jena, it had been among his favourite projects to exchange it for some other, conducted on a more liberal scheme, uniting more ability in its support, and em- bracing a much wider compass of literary interests. Many of the most distinguished persons in Germany had agreed to assist him in executing such a plan ; Goethe, himself a host, undertook to go hand in hand with him. The Thalia was in consequence relinquished at the end of 1793 : and the fust number of the Horen came out early in the following year. This publication was enriched with many valuable pieces on points of philosophy and criticism ; some of Schiller’s finest essays first appeared here : even without the foreign aids which had been promised him, it already bade fair to outdo, as he had meant it should, every previous work of that descrip- tion. The Musen-Almanach, of which he likewise undertook the superintendence, did not aim so high : like other works of the same title, which are numerous in Germany, it was in- tended for preserving and annually delivering to the world, a series of short poetical effusions, or other fugitive composi- tions, collected from various quarters, and often having no connexion but their juxtaposition. In this work, as well as in the Horen , some of Schiller’s finest smaller poems made their first appearance ; many of these pieces being written about this period, especially the greater part of his ballads, the idea of attempting which took its rise in a friendly rivalry with Goethe. But the most noted composition sent foi'th iu SCHILLER AT JENA. 123 the pages of the Musen- Almanack, was the Xenien • 1 a col- lection of epigrams which originated partly, as it seems, in the mean or irritating conduct of various contemporary authors. In spite of the most flattering promises, and of its own intrinsic character, the Horen, at its first appearance, in- stead of being hailed with welcome by the leading minds of the country, for whom it was intended as a rallying point, met in many quarters with no sentiment but coldness or hos- tility. The controversies of the day had sown discord among literary men ; Schiller and Goethe, associating together, had provoked ill-will from a host of persons, who felt the justice of such mutual preference, but liked not the inferences to be drawn from it ; and eyed this intellectual duumvirate, how- ever meek in the discharge of its functions and the wearing of its honours, with jealousy and discontent. The cavilling of these people, awkwardly contrasted with their personal absurdity and insipidity, at length provoked the serious notice of the two illustrious associates : the result was this German Dunciad ; a production of which the plan was, that it should comprise an immense multitude of detached couplets, each conveying a complete thought within itself, and furnished by one of the joint operators. The subjects were of unlimited variety ; £ the most,’ as Schiller says, ‘were wild satire, glan- cing at writers and writings, intermixed with here and there a flash of poetical or philosophic thought.’ It was at first intended to provide about a thousand of these pointed monodistichs ; unity in such a work appearing to consist in a certain bound- lessness of size, which should hide the heterogeneous nature of the individual parts : the whole were then to be arranged and elaborated, till they had acquired the proper degree of consistency and symmetry ; each sacrificing something of its own peculiar spiiit to preserve the spirit of the rest. This number never was completed : and, Goethe being now busy with his Wilhelm Meisler, the project of completing it was at length renounced ; and the Xenien were published as uncon- ' So called from £<=vcov, miinus hospitale ; a title borrowed from Mar- tial, who lias thus designated a series of personal epigrams in his Thir- teenth Book. 124 THE LIFE OF FRIED RICE SCHILLER. nected particles, not pretending to constitute a whole. Enough appeared to create unbounded commotion among the parties implicated : the Xenien were exclaimed against, abused, and replied to, on all hands ; but as they declared war not on persons but on actions ; not against Gleim, Nicolai, Manso, but against bad taste, duhiess, and affectation, nothing criminal could be sufficiently made out against them. 1 The Musen- Almanack, where they appeared in 1797, continued to be published till the time of Schiller’s leaving Jena : the Horen ceased some months before. The cooperation of Goethe, which Schiller had obtained so readily in these pursuits, was of singular use to him in many others. Both possessing minds of the first order, yet con- structed and trained in the most opposite modes, each had much that was valuable to learn of the other, and suggest to him. Cultivating different kinds of excellence, they could joyfully admit each other's merit ; connected by mutual ser- vices, and now by community of literary interests, few un- kindly feelings could have place between them. For a man of high qualities, it is rare to find a meet companion ; painful and injurious to want one. Solitude exasperates or deadens the heart, perverts or enervates the faculties ; association with inferiors leads to dogmatism in thought, and self-will even in affections. Kousseau never should have lived in the Val de Montmorenci ; it had been good for Warburton that Hurd had not existed ; for Johnson never to have known Boswell or Davies. From such evils Schiller and Goethe were delivered ; their intimacy seems to have been equal, frank and cordial ; from the contrasts and the endowments of their minds, it must have had peculiar charms. In his critical theories, Schiller had derived much profit from communicating with an intellect as excursive as his own, but far cooler and more sceptical : as he lopped off from his creed the excrescences of Kantism, Goethe and he, on comparing their ideas, often found in them a striking similarity ; more striking and more 1 Tliis is hut a lame account of the far-famed Xenien and their results. See more of the matter in Franz Horn’s Poesie und Beredtsamkeit ; in Carlyle s Miscellanies (i. 46) ; &c. ( Note of 1845.) SCHILLER AT JENA. 125 gratifying, when it was considered from what diverse premises these harmonious conclusions had been drawn. On such sub- jects they often corresponded when absent, and conversed when together. They were in the habit of paying long visits to each other’s houses ; frequently they used to travel in com- pany between Jena and Weimar. ‘ At Triesnitz, a couple of English miles from Jena, Goethe and he,’ we are told, ‘ might sometimes be observed sitting at table, beneath the shade of a spreading tree ; talking, and looking at the current of pas- sengers.’ — There are some who would have ‘ travelled fifty miles on foot’ to join the party ! Besides this intercourse with Goethe, he was happy in a kindly connexion with many other estimable men, both in literary and in active life. Dalberg, at a distance, was to the last his friend and warmest admirer. At Jena, he had Schiitz, Paul, Hufland/ Beinhold. Wilhelm von Humboldt, also, brother of the celebrated traveller, had come thither about this time, and was now among his closest associates. At Weimar, excluding less important persons, there were still Herder and Wieland, to divide his attention with Goethe. And what to his affectionate heart must have been the most grateful circumstance of all, his aged parents were yet living to participate in the splendid fortune of the son whom they had once lamented and despaired of, but never ceased to love. In 1793 he paid them a visit in Swabia, and passed nine cheerful months among the scenes dearest to his recollection : enjoying the kindness of those unalterable friends whom Nature had given him ; and the admiring deference of those by whom it was most delightful to be honoured, — -those who had known him in adverse and humbler circumstances, whether they might have respected or contemned him. By the Grand Duke, his ancient censor and patron, he was not interfered with ; that prince, iu answer to a previous applica- tion on the subject, having indirectly engaged to take no notice of this journey. The Grand Duke had already inter- fered too much with him, and bitterly repented of his inter- ference. Next year he died ; an event which Schiller, who had long forgotten past ill-treatment, did not learn without 126 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. true sorrow, and grateful recollections of bygone kindness. The new sovereign, anxious to repair the injustice of his pred- ecessor, almost instantly made offer of a vacant Tubingen pro- fessorship to Schiller ; a proposal flattering to the latter, but which, by the persuasion of the Duke of Weimar, he respect- fully declined. Amid labours and amusements so multiplied, amid such variety of intellectual exertion and of intercourse with men, Schiller, it was clear, had not suffered the encroachments of bodily disease to undermine the vigour of his mental or moral powers. No period of his life displayed in stronger colours the lofty and determined zeal of his character. He had already written much ; his fame stood upon a firm basis ; domestic wants no longer called upon him for incessant effort ; and his frame was pining under the slow canker of an incurable malady. Yet he never loitered, never rested ; his fervid spirit, which had vanquished opposition and oppression in his youth ; which had struggled against harassing uncer- tainties, and passed unsullied through many temptations, in his earlier manhood, did not now yield to this last and most fatal enemy. The present was the busiest, most productive season of his literary life ; and with all its drawbacks, it was probably the happiest. Violent attacks from his disorder were of rare occurrence ; and its constant influence, the dark vapours with which it would have overshadowed the faculties of his head and heart, were repelled by diligence and a coura- geous exertion of his will. In other points, he had little to complain of, and much to rejoice in. He was happy in his family, the chosen scene of his sweetest, most lasting satisfac- tion ; by the world he was honoured and admired ; his wants were provided for ; he had tasks which inspired and occupied him ; friends who loved him, and whom he loved. Schiller had much to enjoy, and most of it he owed to himself. In his mode of life at Jena, simplicity and uniformity were the most conspicuous qualities ; the single excess which he admitted being that of zeal in the pursuits of literature, the sin which all his life had most easily beset him. His health had suffered much, and principally, it was thought, from the SCHILLER AT JENA. 127 practice of composing by night : yet the charms of this prac- tice were still too great for his self-denial ; and, except in severe fits of sickness, he could not discontinue it. The highest, proudest pleasure of his mind was that glow of in- tellectual production, that ‘fine frenzy,’ which makes the poet, while it lasts, a new and nobler creature ; exalting him into brighter regions, adorned by visions of magnificence and beauty, and delighting all his faculties by the intense con- sciousness of their exerted power. To enjoy this pleasure in perfection, the solitary stillness of night, diffusing its solemn influence over thought as well as earth and air, had at length in Schiller’s case grown indispensable. For this purpose, accordingly, he was accustomed, in the present, as in former periods, to invert the common order of things : by day he read, refreshed himself with the aspect of nature, conversed or corresponded with his friends ; but he wrote and studied in the night. And as his bodily feelings were too often those of languor and exhaustion, he adopted, in impatience of such mean impediments, the pernicious expedient of stimulants, which yield a momentary strength, only to waste our remain- ing fund of it more speedily and surely. ‘ During summer, his place of study was in a garden, which at length he purchased, in the suburbs of Jena, not far from the Weselh5fts’ house, where at that time was the office of the Allgemeine Litter atur-Zeitung. Beckoning from the market-place of Jena, it lies on the south-west border of the town, between the Engelgatter and the Neuthor, in a hollow defile, through which a part of the Leutrabach flows round the city. On the top of the acclivity, from which there is a beautiful prospect into the valley of the Saal, and the fir mountains of the neighbouring forest, Schiller built himself a small house, with a single chamber. 1 It was his favourite abode" during hours of composition ; a great part of the works he then wrote were written here. In winter he likewise dwelt apart from the noise of men ; in the Griesbachs’ house, on the outside of the city-trench. * * * On sitting down 1 ‘The street leading from Schiller’s dwelling-house to this, was Ly some wags named the Xenien-gcme ; a name not yet entirely disused. ’ 128 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. to liis desk at night, he was wont to keep some strong coffee, or wine-chocolate, but more frequently a flask of old Ehenish, or Champagne, standing by him, that he might from tirpe to time repair the exhaustion of nature. Often the neighbours used to hear him earnestly declaiming, in the silence of the night : and whoever had an opportunity of Watching him on such occasions, a thing very easy to be done from the heights lying opposite his little garden-house, on the other side of the dell, might see him now speaking aloud and walking swiftly to and fro in his chamber, then suddenly throwing himself down into his chair and writing ; and drinking the while, sometimes more than once, from the glass standing near him. In winter he was to be found at his desk till four, or even five o’clock in the morning ; in summer, till towards three. He then went to bed, from which he seldom rose till nine or ten.’ 1 Had prudence been the dominant quality in Schiller’s char- acter, this practice would undoubtedly have been abandoned, or rather never taken up. It was an error so to waste his strength ; but one of those which increase rather than dimin- ish our respect ; originating, as it did, in generous ardour for what was best and grandest, they must be cold censurers that can condemn it harshly. For ourselves, we but lament and honour this excess of zeal ; its effects were mournful, but its origin was noble. Who can picture Schiller’s feelings iu this solitude, without participating in some faint reflection of their grandeur ! The toil-worn but devoted soul, alone, under the silent starry canopy of Night, offering up the troubled mo- ments of existence on the altar of Eternity ! For here the splendour that gleamed across the spirit of a mortal, transient as one of us, was made to be perpetual ; these images and thoughts Avere to pass into other ages and distant lands ; to glow in human hearts, when the heart that conceived them had long been mouldered into common dust. To the lovers of genius, this little garden-house might liaA'e been a place to visit as a chosen shrine ; nor Avill they learn Avithout regret that the Avails of it, yielding to the hand of time, have already ‘Doering, pp. 118-131. SCHILLER AT JENA. 129 crumbled into ruin, and are now no longer to be traced. The piece of ground that it stood on is itself hallowed with a glory that is bright, pure and abiding ; but the literary pilgrim could not have surveyed, without peculiar emotion, the simple chamber, in which Schiller wrote the Reich der Schatten, the Spaziergang, the Ideal , and the immortal scenes of Wallen- stein. The last-named work had cost him many an anxious, given him many a pleasant, hour. For seven years it had continued in a state of irregular, and oft-suspended progress ; sometimes * lying endless and formless ’ before him ; sometimes on the point of being given up altogether. The multitude of ideas, which he wished to incorporate in the structure of the piece, retarded him ; and the difficulty of contenting his taste, re- specting the manner of effecting this, retarded him still more. In Wallenstein he wished to embody the more enlarged no- tions which experience had given him of men, especially which history had given him of generals and statesmen ; and while putting such characters in action, to represent whatever was, or could be made, poetical, in the stormy period of the Thirty- Years War. As he meditated on the subject, it continued to expand ; in his fancy, it assumed successively a thousand forms ; and after all due strictness of selection, such was still the extent of materials remaining on his hands, that he found it necessary to divide the play into three parts, distinct in their arrangements, but in truth forming a continuous drama of eleven acts. In this shape it was sent forth to the world, in 1799 ; a work of labour and persevering anxiety, but of anxiety and labour, as it then appeared, which had not been bestowed in vain. Wallenstein is by far the best performance he had yet produced ; it merits a long chapter of criticism by itself ; and a few hurried pages are all that we can spend on it. As a porch to the great edifice stands Part first, entitled Wallenstein’s Camp, a piece in one act. It paints, with much humour and graphical felicity, the manners of that rude tu- multuous host which Wallenstein presided over, and had made the engine of his ambitious schemes. Schiller’s early experi- ence of a military life seems now to have stood him in good 9 130 THE LIVE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. stead : liis soldiers are delineated with the distinctness of actual observation ; in rugged sharpness of feature, they some- times remind us of Smollett’s seamen. Here are all the wild lawless spirits of Europe assembled within the circuit of a single trench. Violent, tempestuous, unstable is the life they lead. Ishmaelites, their hands against every man, and every man’s hand against them ; the instruments of rapine ; tar- nished with almost every vice, and knowing scarcely any vir- tue but those of reckless bravery and uncalculating obedience to their leader, their situation still presents some aspects which affect or amuse us ; and these the poet has seized with his accustomed skill. Much of the cruelty and repulsive harsh- ness of these soldiers, we are taught to forget in contemplating their forlorn houseless wanderings, and the practical magna- nimity, with which even they contrive to wring from Fortune a tolerable scantling of enjoyment. Their manner of exist- ence Wallenstein has, at an after period of the action, rather movingly expressed : ‘ Our life was but a battle and a march, And, like the wind’s blast, never-resting, homeless, We storm d across the war-convulsed Earth.’ Still farther to soften the asperities of the scene, the dialogue is cast into a rude Hudibrastic metre, full of forced rhymes, and strange double-endings, with a rhythm ever changing, ever rough and lively, which might almost be compared to the hard, irregular, fluctuating sound of the regimental drum. In this ludicrous doggerel, with phrases and figures of a correspondent cast, homely, ridiculous, graphic, these men of service paint their hopes and doings. There are ranks and kinds among them ; representatives of all the constituent parts of the mot- ley multitude, which followed this prince of Condoltieri. The solemn pedantry of the ancient Wachtmeister is faithfully given ; no less so are the jocund ferocity and heedless daring of Holky’s Jagers, or the iron corn-age and stern camp-philoso- phy of Pappenlieim’s Cuirassiers. Of the Jager the sole prin- ciple is military obedience ; he does not reflect or calculate ; SCHILLER AT JENA. 131 liis business is to do whatever he is ordered, and to enjoy whatever he can reach. ‘ Free wished I to live,’ he says, ‘ Free wished I to live, and easy and gay, And see something new on each new day ; In the joys of the moment lustily sharing, ’Bout the past or the future not thinking or caring : To the Kaiser, therefore, I sold my bacon, And by him good charge of the whole is taken. Order me on ’mid the whistling fiery' shot, Over the Rhine-stream rapid and roaring wide, A third of the troop must go to pot, — Without loss of time, I mount and ride ; But farther, I beg very much, do you see, That in all things else you would leave me free.’ The Pappenheimer is an older man, more sedate and more in- domitable ; he has wandered over Europe, and gathered settled maxims of soldierly principle and soldierly privilege : he is not without a rationale of life ; the various professions of men have passed in review before him, but no coat that he has seen has pleased him like his own ‘ steel doublet,’ cased in which, it is his wish, ‘ Looking down on the world’s poor restless scramble, Careless, through it, astride of his nag to ramble.’ Yet at times with this military stoicism there is blended a dash of homely pathos ; he admits, ‘ This sword of ours is no plough or spade, You cannot delve or reap with the iron blade ; For us there falls no seed, no corn-field grows, Neither home nor kindred the soldier knows : Wandering over the face of the earth, Warming his hands at another’s hearth : From the pomp of towns he must onward roam ; In the village-green with its cheerful game, In the mii-tli of the vintage or harvest-home, No part or lot can the soldier claim. Tell me then, in the place of goods or pelf, What has he unless to honour himself ? Leave not even this his own, what wonder The man should burn and kill and plunder ? ’ 132 TIIE LIFE OF FRIED RICH SCHILLER. But the camp of "Wallenstein is full of bustle as well as speculation ; there are gamblers, peasants, sutlers, soldiers, recruits. Capuchin friars, moving to and fro in restless pursuit of their several purposes. The sermon of the Capuchin is an unparalleled composition ; 1 a medley of texts, puns, nick- names, and verbal logic, conglutinated by a stupid judgment, and a fiery catholic zeal. It seems to be delivered with great unction, and to find fit audience in the camp : towards the con- clusion they rush upon him, and he narrowly escapes killing or ducking, for having ventured to glance a censure at the Gen- eral. The soldiers themselves are jeering, wrangling, jostling ; discussing their wishes and expectations ; and, at last, they combine in a profound deliberation on the state of their affairs. A vague exaggerated outline of the coming events and person- ages is imaged to us in their coarse conceptions. We dimly discover the precarious position of Wallenstein ; the plots which threaten him, which he is meditating : we trace the leading qualities of the principal officers ; and form a high estimate of the potent spirit which binds this fierce discordant mass together, and seems to be the object of universal rever- ence where nothing else is revered. In the Two Ticcolomini, the next division of the work, the generals for whom we have thus been prepared appear in per- son on the scene, and spread out before us their plots and counterplots ; Wallenstein, through personal ambition and evil counsel, slowly resolving to revolt ; and Octavio Picco- lomini, in secret, undermining his influence among the lead- era, and preparing for him that pit of ruin, into which, in the third Part, Wallenstein’s Death, we see him sink with all his fortunes. The military spirit which pervades the former piece is here well sustained. The ruling motives of these captains and colonels are a little more refined, or more disguised, than 1 Said to tie by Goetlie ; the materials faithfully extracted from a real sermon (by the Jesuit Santa Clara) of the period it refers to. — There were various Jesuits Santa Clara, of that period : this is the German one, Abraham by name ; specimens of whose Sermons, a fervent kind of preacliing-run-mad, have been reprinted in late years, for dilettante purposes. {Note of 1845. ) SCIULLER AT JENA. 133 those of the Cuirassiers and Jagers ; but they are the same in substance ; the love of present or future pleasure, of action, reputation, money, power ; selfishness, but selfishness dis- tinguished by a superficial external propriety, and gilded over with the splendour of military honour, of courage inflexible, yet light, cool and unassuming. These are not imaginary heroes, but genuine hired men of war : we do not love them ; yet there is a pomp about their operations, which agreeably fills up the scene. This din of war, this clash of tumultuous conflicting interests, is felt as a suitable accompaniment to the affecting or commanding movements of the chief characters whom it envelops or obeys. Of the individuals that figure in this world of war, Wallen- stein himself, the strong Atlas which supports it all, is by far the most imposing. Wallenstein is the model of a high- souled, great, accomplished man, whose ruling passion is am- bition. He is daring to the utmost pitch of manhood ; he is enthusiastic and vehement ; but the fire of his soul burns hid beneath a deep stratum of prudence, guiding itself by calcula- tions which extend to the extreme limits of his most minute concerns. This prudence, sometimes almost bordering on irresolution, forms the outward rind of his character, and for a while is the only quality which we discover in it. The im- mense influence which his genius appears to exert on every individual of his many followers, prepares us to expect a great man ; and, when Wallenstein, after long delay and much fore- warning, is in fine presented to us, we at first experience something like a disappointment. We find him, indeed, pos- sessed of a staid grandeur ; yet involved in mystery ; wavering between two opinions ; and, as it seems, with all his wisdom, blindly credulous in matters of the highest import. It is only when events have forced decision on him, that he rises in his native might, that his giant spirit stands unfolded in its strength before us ; ‘ Night must it he, ere FriedlancTs star will beam : ’ amid difficulties, darkness and impending ruin, at which the boldest of his followers grow pale, he himself is calm, and first 134 THE LIFE OF FRIED RICH SCHILLER. in this awful crisis feels the serenity and conscious strength of his soul return. Wallenstein, in fact, though preeminent in power, both external and internal, of high intellect and commanding will, skilled in war and statesmanship beyond the best in Europe, the idol of sixty thousand feai'less hearts, is not yet removed above our sympathy. We are united with him by feelings which he reckons weak, though they belong to the most generous parts of his nature. His indecision partly takes its rise in the sensibilities of his heart, as well as in the cast-ion of his judgment : his belief in astrology, which gives force and confirmation to this tendency, originates in some soft kindly emotions, and adds a new interest to the spirit of the warrior ; it humbles him, to whom the earth is subject, before those mysterious Powers which weigh the des- tinies of man in their balance, in whose eyes the greatest and the least of mortals scarcely differ in littleness. Wallenstein’s confidence in the friendship of Octavio, his disinterested love for Max Piccolomini, his paternal and brotherly kindness, are feelings which cast an affecting lustre over the harsher, more heroic qualities wherewith they are combined. His treason to the Emperor is a crime, for which, provoked and tempted as he was, we do not greatly blame him ; it is forgotten in our admiration of his nobleness, or recollected only as a venial trespass. Schiller has succeeded well with Wallenstein, where it was not easy to succeed. The truth of history lias been but little violated ; yet we are compelled to feel that Wallenstein, whose actions individually are trifling, unsuccessful, and un- lawful, is a strong, sublime, commanding character ; we look at him with interest, our concern at his fate is tinged with a shade of kindly pity. In Octavio Piccolomini, his war-companion, we can find less fault, yet we take less pleasure. Octavio’s qualities are chiefly negative : he rather walks by the letter of the moral law, than by its spirit ; his conduct is externally correct, but there is no touch of generosity within. He is more of the corn-tier than of the soldier : his weapon is intrigue, not force. Believing firmly that ‘ whatever is, is best,’ he distrusts all new and ex- traordinary things ; he has no faith in human nature, and SCHILLER AT JENA. 135 seems to be virtuous himself more by calculation than by im- pulse. We scarcely thank him for his loyalty ; serving his Emperor, he ruins and betrays his friend : and, besides, though he does not own it, personal ambition is among his leading motives ; he wishes to be general and prince, and Wallenstein is not only a traitor to his sovereign, but a bar to this advancement. It is true, Octavio does not personally tempt him towards his destruction ; but neither does he warn him from it ; and perhaps he knew that fresh tempta- tion was superfluous. Wallenstein did not deserve such treat- ment from a man whom he had trusted as a brother, even though such confidence was blind, and guided by visions and starry omens. Octavio is a skilful, prudent, managing states- man ; of the kind praised loudly, if not sincerely, by their friends, and detested deeply by their enemies. His object may be lawful or even laudable ; but his ways are crooked ; we dislike him but the more that we know not positively how to blame him. Octavio Piccolomini and Wallenstein are, as it were, the two opposing forces by which this whole universe of military politics is kept in motion. The struggle of magnanimity and strength combined with treason, against cunning and apparent virtue, aided by law, gives rise to a series of great actions, which are here vividly presented to our Hew. We mingle in the clashing interests of these men of war ; we see them at their gorgeous festivals and stormy consultations, and partici- pate in the hopes or fears that agitate them. The subject had many capabilities ; and Schiller has turned them all to profit. Our minds are kept alert by a constant succession of animat- ing scenes of spectacle, dialogue, incident : the plot thickens and darkens as we advance ; the interest deepens and deepens to the very end. But among the tumults of this busy multitude, there are two forms of celestial beauty that solicit our attention, and whose destiny, involved with that of those around them, gives it an importance in our eyes which it could not otherwise have had. Max Piccolomini, Octavio’s son, and Thekla, the daughter of Wallenstein, diffuse an ethereal radiance over all 13(3 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. this tragedy ; they call forth the finest feelings of the heart, where other feelings had already been aroused ; they superadd to the stirring pomp of scenes, which had already kindled our imaginations, the enthusiasm of bright unworn humanity, ‘ the bloom of young desire, the purple light of love.’ The history of Mas and Thekla is not a rare one in poetry ; but Schiller has treated it with a skill which is extremely rare. Both of them are represented as combining every excellence ; their affection is instantaneous and unbounded ; yet the cool- est, most sceptical reader is forced to admire them, and be- lieve in them. Of Max we are taught from the first to form the highest expectations : the common soldiers and their captains speak of him as of a perfect hero ; the Cuirassiers had, at Pappen- heim’s death, on the field of Liitzen, appointed him their colo- nel by unanimous election. His appearance answers these ideas : Max is the very spirit of honour, and integrity, and young ardour, personified. Though but passing into maturer age, he has already seen and suffered much ; but the experi- ence of the man has not yet deadened or dulled the enthusi- asm of the boy. He has lived, since his very childhood, con- stantly amid the clang of war, and with few ideas but those of camps ; yet here, by a native instinct, his heart has attracted to it all that was noble and graceful in the trade of arms, rejecting all that was impulsive or ferocious. He loves Wal- lenstein his patron, his gallant and majestic leader : he loves his present way of life, because it is one of peril and excite- ment, because he knows no other, but chiefly because his young unsullied spirit can shed a resplendent beauty over even the wastes! region in the destiny of man. Yet though a soldier, and the bravest of soldiers, he is not this alone. He feels that there are fairer scenes in life, which these scenes of havoc and distress but -deform or destroy ; his first ac- quaintance with the Princess Thekla unveils to him another world, which till then he had not dreamed of ; a land of peace and serene elysian felicity, the charms of which he paints with simple and unrivalled eloquence. Max is not more daring than affectionate ; he is merciful and gentle, though SCHILLER AT JENA. 137 liis training has been under tents ; modest and altogether unpretending, though young and universally admired. We conceive his aspect to be thoughtful but fervid, dauntless but mild : he is the very poetry of war, the essence of a youthful hero. We should have loved him anywhere ; but here, amid barren scenes of strife and danger, he is doubly dear to us. His first appearance wins our favour ; his eloquence in sen- timent prepares us to expect no common magnanimity in action. It is as follows : Octavio and Questenberg are consult- ing on affairs of state ; Max enters : he is just returned from convoying the Princess TheJcla and her mother, the daughter and the wife of Friedland, to the camp at Pilsen. Act I. Scene IV. Max Piccolomini, Octavio Piccolomini, Questenberg. Max. ’Tis lie himself ! My father, welcome, welcome ! [He embraces Mm : on turning round , he observes Questenberg, and draws coldly back. Busied, I perceive ? I will not interrupt you. Oct. How now, Max ? View this stranger better ! An old friend deserves regard and kindness ; The Kaiser’s messenger should be rever’d ! Max [drily]. Von Questenberg ! If it is good that brings you To our head-quarters, welcome ! Quest [lias taken Ms hand ]. Nay, draw not Your hand away, Count Piccolomini ! Not on mine own account alone I grasp it, And nothing common will I say therewith. Octavio, Max, Piccolomini ! [ Taking both their hands. Names of benignant solemn import ! Never Can Austria’s fortune fail while two such stars, To guide and guard her, gleam above our hosts. Max. You play it wrong, Sir Minister ! To praise, I wot, you come not hither ; to blame and censure You are come. Let me be no exception. Oct. [to Max\. He comes from Court, where every one is not So well contented with the Duke as here. Max And what new fault have they to charge him with ? That he alone decides what he alone Can understand ? Well! Should it not be so ? It should and must ! This man was never made 133 TIIE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. To ply and mould himself like wax to others : It goes against his heart ; he cannot do it, He has the spirit of a ruler, and The station of a ruler. Well for us It is so ! Few can rule themselves, can use Their wisdom wisely : happy for the whole Where there is one among them that can be A centre and a hold for many thousands ; That can plant himself like a firm column, For the whole to lean on safely ! Such a one Is Wallenstein ; some other man might better Serve the Court, none else could serve the Army. Quest. The Army, truly ! Max. And it is a pleasure To behold how all awakes and strengthens And revives around him ; how men s faculties Come forth ; their gifts grow plainer to themselves ! From each he can elicit his endowment, His peculiar power ; and does it wisely ; Leaving each to be the man he found him, Watching only that he always be so I’ th’ proper place : and thus he makes the talents Of all mankind his own. Quest. No one denies him Skill in men, and skill to use them. His fault is That in the ruler he forgets the servant, As if he had been born to be commander. Max. And is he not ? By birth he is invested With all gifts for it, and with the farther gift Of finding scope to use them ; of acquiring For the ruler's faculties the ruler’s office. Quest. So that how far the rest of us have rights Or influence, if any, lies with Friedland ? Max. He is no common person ; he requires No common confidence : allow him space ; The proper limit he himself will set. Quest. The trial shows it ! Max. Ay ! Thus it is with them ! Still so ! All frights them that has any depth ; Nowhere are they at ease but in the shallows. Oct. [to Quest. ] Let him have his way, my friend ! The argument Will not avail irs. Max. They invoke the spirit I’ th’ hour of need, and shudder when he rises. The great, the wonderful, must be accomplished SCIIILLER AT JENA. 139 Like a tiling of course ! — In war, in battle, A moment is decisive ; on tlie spot Must be determin’d, in the instant done. With ev’ry noble quality of nature The leader must be gifted : let him live, then, In their noble sphere ! The oracle within him, The living spirit, not dead books, old forms, Not mould’ring parchments must he take to counsel. Oct. My Son ! despise not these old narrow forms ! They are as barriers, precious walls and fences, Which oppressed mortals have erected To mod’rate the rash will of their oppressors. For the uncontrolled has ever been destructive. The way of Order, though it lead through windings, Is the best. Right forward goes the lightning And the cannon-ball : quick, by the nearest path, They come, op’ning with murderous crash their way, To blast and ruin ! My Son ! the quiet road Which men frequent, where peace and blessings travel, Follows the river’s course, the valley’s bendings; Modest skirts the cornfield and the vineyard, Revering property’s appointed bounds ; And leading safe though slower to the mark. Quest. O, hear your Father ! him who is at once A hero and a man ! Oct. It is the child O’ th’ camp that speaks in thee, my Son : a war Of fifteen years has nursed and taught thee ; peace Thou hast never seen. My Son, there is a worth Beyond the worth of warriors : evil in war itself The object is not war. The rapid deeds Of power, tli’ astounding wonders of the moment — It is not these that minister to man Aught useful, aught benignant or enduring. In haste the wandering soldier comes, and builds With canvas his light town : here in a moment Is a rushing concourse ; markets open ; Roads and rivers crowd with merchandise And people ; Traffic stirs his hundred arms. Ere long, some morning, look,— and it is gone! The tents are struck, the host lias marched away ; Dead as a churchyard lies the trampled seed-field, And wasted is the harvest of the year. Max. O Father ! that the Kaiser would make peace ! The bloody laurel I would gladly change 140 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCIIILLER. For the first violet Spring should, offer us, The tiny pledge that Earth again was young ! Oct. How’s this ? What is it that affects thee so ? Max. Peace I have never seen ? Yes, I have seen it ! Ev'n now I come from it : My journey led me Through lands as yet unvisited by war. O Father ! life has charms, of which we know not : We have but seen the barren coasts of life ; Like some wild roving crew of lawless pirates, Who, crowded in their narrow noisome ship, Upon the rude sea, with rude manners dwell ; Naught of the fair land knowing but the bays, Where they may risk their hurried thievish landing. Of the loveliness that, in its peaceful dales, The land conceals — O Father! — O, of this, In our wild voyage we have seen no glimpse. Oct. [ gives increased attention ]. And did this journey show thee much of it ? Max. ’Twas the first holida}' of my existence. Tell me, where’s the end of all this labour, ■ This grinding labour that has stolen my youth, And left my heart uncheer’d and void, my spirit Uncultivated as a wilderness ? This camp’s unceasing din ; the neighing steeds ; The trumpet’s clang ; the never-changing round Of service, discipline, parade, give nothing To the heart, the heart that longs for nourishment. There is no soul in this insipid bus’ness ; Life has another fate and other joys. Oct. Much hast thou learn'd, my Son, in this short journey Max. O blessed bright day, when at last the soldier Shall turn back to life, and be again a man ! Through tli’ merry lines the colours are unfurl’ d, And homeward beats the thrilling soft peace-march ; All hats and helmets deck’d with leafy spraj-s, The last spoil of the fields ! The city’s gates Fly up ; now needs not the petard to burst them : The walls ai-e crowded with rejoicing people ; Their shouts ring through the air : from every tower Blithe bells are pealing forth the merry vesper Of that bloody day. From town and hamlet Flow the jocund thousands ; with their hearty Kind impetuosity our march impeding. The old man, weeping that he sees this day, Embraces his long-lost son : a stranger SCHILLER AT JENA. 141 He revisits liis old liome ; with spreading boughs The tree o’ershadows him at his return, Which waver’d as a twig when he departed ; And modest blushing conies a maid to meet him, Whom on her nurse’s breast he left. O happy, For whom some kindly door like this, for whom Soft arms to clasp him shall he open'd ! — Quest, [with emotion']. O that The time you speak of should he so far distant! Should not he tomorrow, he today ! Max. And who’s to blame for it but you at Court ? I will deal plainly with you, Questenberg : When I observ'd you here, a twinge of spleen And bitterness went through me. It is you That hinder peace ; yes, you. The General Must force it, and you ever keep tormenting him, Obstructing all his steps, abusing him ; For what ? Because the good of Europe lies Hearer his heart, than whether certain acres More or less of dirty land be Austria's ! You call him traitor, rebel, God knows what, Because he spares the Saxons ; as if that Were not the only way to peace ; for how If during war, war end not, can peace follow ? Go to ! go to ! As I love goodness, so I hate This paltry work of yours : and here I vow to God, For him, this rebel, traitor Wallenstein, To shed my blood, my heart’s blood, drop by drop, Ere I will see you triumph in his fall ! The Princess Thekla is perhaps still dearer to us. Thekla, just entering on life, with ‘ timid steps,’ with the brilliant vis- ions of a cloister yet undisturbed by the contradictions of reality, beholds in Max, not merely her protector and escort to her father’s camp, but the living emblem of her shapeless yet glowing dreams. She knows not deception, she trusts and is trusted : their spirits meet and mingle, and ‘ clasp each other firmly and forever.’ All this is described by the poet with a quiet inspiration which finds its way into our deepest sympathies. Such beautiful simplicity is irresistible. ‘ How long,’ the Countess Terzky asks, How loug is it since you disclosed your heart ? 142 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Max. This morning first I risked a word of it. COUN. Not till this morning during twenty days ? Max. ’Twas at the castle where you met us, ’twixt this And Nepomuk, the last stage of the journey. On a balcony she and I were standing, our looks In silence turn d upon the vacant landscape ; And before us the dragoons were riding, Whom the Duke had sent to be her escort. Heavy on my heart lay thoughts of parting, And with a faltering voice at last I said : All this reminds me, Fraulein, that today I must be parted from my happiness ; In few hours you will find a father, Will see yourself encircled by new friends ; And I shall be to you naught but a stranger, Forgotten in the crowd — “ Speak with AuntTerzky ! ” Quick she interrupted me ; I noticed A quiv'ring in her voice ; a glowing blush Spread o’er her cheeks ; slow rising from the ground, Her eyes met mine : I could control myself No longer — [The Princess appears at the door , and stops ; the Countess, but not Piccolomini, observing her. I clasp’d her wildly in my arms, My lips were join'd with hers. Some footsteps stirring I’ th’ next room parted us ; ’twas you ; what then Took place, you know. Coun. And can you be so modest. Or incurious, as not once to ask me For my secret, in return ? Max. Your secret ? Coun. Yes, sure ! On coming in the moment after, How my niece receiv’d me, what i’ th' instant Of her first surprise she — Max. Ha ? Theki.a [enters hastily] . Spare yourself The trouble, Aunt ! That he can learn from me. ***** We rejoice in the ardent, pure and confiding affection of these two angelic beings : but oui- feeling is changed and made more poignant, when we think that the inexorable hand of Destiny is already lifted to smite their world with black- SCHILLER AT JENA. 143 ness and desolation. Thekla lias enjoyed ‘ two little hours of heavenly beauty ; ’ but her native gaiety gives place to serious anticipations and alarms ; she feels that the camp of Wallen- stein is not a place for hope to dwell in. The instructions and explanations of her aunt disclose the secret : she is not to love Max ; a higher, it may be a royal, fate awaits her ; but she is to tempt him from his duty, and make him lend his in- fluence to her father, whose daring projects she now for the first time discovers. From that moment her hopes of happi- ness have vanished, never more to return. Yet her own sor- rows touch her less than the ruin w T hich she sees about to overwhelm her tender and affectionate mother. For herself, she waits with gloomy patience the stroke that is to crush her. She is meek, and soft, and maiden-like ; but she is Fried- land’s daughter, and does not shrink from what is unavoid- able. There is often a rectitude, and quick inflexibility of resolution about Thekla, which contrasts beautifully with her inexperience and timorous acuteness of feeling : on discover- ing her father’s treason, she herself decides that Max ‘ shall obey his first impulse,’ and forsake her. There are few scenes in poetry more sublimely pathetic than this. We behold the sinking but still fiery glory of Wal- lenstein, opposed to the impetuous despair of Max Piccolo- mini, torn asunder by the claims of duty and of love ; the calm but broken-hearted Thekla, beside her broken-hearted mother, and surrounded by the blank faces of Wallenstein’s desponding followers. There is a physical pomp correspond- ing to the moral grandeur of the action ; the successive re- volt and departure of the troops is heard without the walls of the Palace ; the trumpets of the Pappenheimers reecho the wild feelings of their leader. What follows too is equally af- fecting. Max being forced away by his soldiers from the side of Thekla, rides forth at their head in a state bordering on frenzy. Next day come tidings of his fate, which no heart is hard enough to hear unmoved. The effect it produces upon Thekla displays all the hidden energies of her soul. The first accidental hearing of the news had almost overwhelmed her ; but she summons up her strength : she sends for the 141 THE LIVE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. messenger, that she may question him more closely, and listen to his stern details with the heroism of a Spartan virgin. Act IV. Scene X. Thekla ; the Swedish Captain ; Fkaulein Neubkunn. Capt. [ approaches respectfully']. Princess — I — must pray you to forgive me My most rasli unthinking words : I could not — Thekla [ with nolle dignity]. You saw me in my grief ; a sad chance made you At once my confidant, who were a stranger. Capt. I fear the sight of me is hateful to you : They were mournful tidings I brought hither. Thekla. The blame was mine ! ’Twas I that forced them from you ; Your voice was but the voice of Destiny. My terror interrupted your recital : Finish it, I pray you. Capt. ’Twill renew your grief ! Tiiekla. I am prepared for’t, I will be prepared. Proceed ! How went the action ? Let me hear. Capt. At Neustadt, dreading no surprise, we lay Slightly entrench’d ; when towards night a cloud Of dust rose from the forest, and our outposts Rush’d into the camp, and cried : The foe was there ! Scarce had we time to spring on horseback, when The Pappenheimers, coming at full gallop, Dash’d o’er the palisado, and next moment These fierce troopers pass’d our camp-trench also. But thoughtlessly their courage had impelled them To advance without support ; their infantry Was far behind ; only the Pappenheimers Boldly following their bold leader — [Thekla makes a movement. The Captain pauses for a moment, till she beckons lum to proceed. On front and flank with all our horse we charged them ; And ere long forc’d them back upon the trench, Where rank’d in haste our infantry presented An iron hedge of spikes to stop their passage. Advance they could not, nor retreat a step, Wedg’d in this narrow prison, death on all sides. Then 'the Rheingraf call’d upon their leader, In fair battle, fairly to surrender : SCHILLER AT JENA. 145 But Colonel Piccolomini— [I’helda, tottering , catches hy a seat. — We knew liim By’s helmet-plume and his long flowing hair, The rapid ride had loosen’d it : to the trench He points ; leaps first himself his gallant steed Clean over it ; the troop plunge after him : But — in a twinkle it was done ! — his horse Run through the body by a partisan, Rears in its agony, and pitches far Its rider ; and fierce o’er him tramp the steeds O’ th’ rest, now heeding neither bit nor bridle. [ Thekla , who has listened to the last words with increasing an- guish, falls into a violent tremor ; she is sinking to the ground ; Fraulein Neubrunn hastens to her , and receives her in her. arms. Neu. Lady, dearest mistress— Capt. [moved]. Let me begone. Thekla. ’Tis past ; conclude it. Capt. Seeing their leader fall, A grim inexorable desperation Seiz’d the troops : their own escape forgotten, Like wild tigers they attack us ; their fury Provokes our soldiers, and the battle ends not Till the last man of the Pappenlieimers falls. Thekla [with a quivering voice]. And where — where is— you have not told me all. Capt. [after a qiav.se]. This morning we'interr’d him He was borne By twelve youths of the noblest families, And all our host accompanied the bier. A laurel deck’d his coffin ; and upon it The Rheingraf laid his own victorious sword. Nor were tears wanting to his fate : for many Of us had known his noble-mindedness, And gentleness of manners ; and all hearts Were mov’d at his sad end. Fain would the Rheingraf Have saved him ; but himself prevented it ; ’Tis said he wish’d to die. Neu. [with emotion, to Thekla, who hides her face]. O ! dearest mistress, Look up I # O, why would you insist on this ? Thekla. Where is his grave ? Capt. I’ th’ chapel of a cloister At Neustadt is he laid, till we receive Directions from his father. 10 146 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Thekla. What is its name ? Capt. St. Catharine’s. Thekla. Is’t far from this ? Capt. Seven leagues. Thekla. How goes the way ? Capt. You come hy Tirschenreit And Falkenberg, and through our farthest outposts. Thekla. Who commands them ? Capt. Colonel Seckendorf. Thekla [steps to a table and takes a ring from her jewel-box]. You have seen me in my grief, and shown me A sympathising heart: accept a small Memorial of this hour [ giving him the ring]. How leave me. Capt. [overpowered]. Princess ! [ Thekla silently makes him a sign to go, and turns from him. He lingers, and attempts to speak ; Ffeubrunn repeats the sign ; he goes. Scene XI. Neubrunn ; Thekla. Thekla [falls on Heubrunn’s neck], Now, good Neubrunn, is the time to show the love Which thou hast always vow’d me. Prove thyself A true friend and attendant ! We mxrst go, This very night. Neu. Go ! This very night ! And whither ? Thekla. Whither ? There is but oue place in the world, The place where he lies buried : to his grave. Netj. Alas, what would you there, my dearest mistress ? Thekla. What there ? Unhappy girl ! Thou wouldst not ask If thou hadst ever lov’d. There, there, is all That yet remains of him ; that one small spot Is all the earth to me. Do not detain me ! O, come ! Prepare, think how we may escape. Neu. Have you reflected on your father's anger ? Thekla. I dread no mortal’s anger now. Neu. The mockery Of the world, the wicked tongue of slander ! Thekla. I go to seek one that is cold and low : Am I, then, hastening to my lover’s arms ? % O God ! I am but hastening to his grave ! Neu. And we alone ? Two feeble,' helpless women ? Thekla. We will arm ourselves ; my hand shall guard thee. Neu. In the gloomy night-time ? SCHILLER AT JENA. Thekla. Night will hide us. Neu. In this rude storm ? Tiiekla. Was Ms bed made of down, When the horses’ hoofs went o’er him ? Neu. O Heaven ! • And then the many Swedish posts ! They will not Let us pass. Thekla. Are they not men ? Misfortune Passes free through all the earth. Neu. So far ! So — Thekla. Does the pilgrim count the miles, when journeying To the distant shrine of grace ? Neu. How shall we Even get out of Eger ? Thekla. Gold opens gates. Go ! Do go ! Neu. If they should recognise us ? Thekla. In a fugitive despairing woman No one will look to meet with Friedland's daughter. Neu. And where shall we get horses for our flight ? Thekla. My Equerry will find them. Go and call him. Neu. Will he venture without his master’s knowledge ? Thekla. He will, I tell thee. Go ! O, linger not ! Neu. Ah ! And what will your mother do when you Are vanish’d ? Thekla [ recollecting this, and gazing with a look of anguisli\. O my mother ! Neu. Your good mother ! She has already had so much to suffer. Must this last heaviest stroke too fall on her ? Thekla. I cannot help it. Go, I prithee, go ! Neu. Think well what you are doing. Thekla. All is thought That can be thought, already. Neu. Were we there, What would you do ? Thekla. God will direct me, there. Neu. Your heart is full of trouble : O my lady ! This way leads not to peace. Thekla. To that deep peace Which he has found. O, hasten ! Go! No words! There is some force, I know not what to call it, Pulls me irresistibly, and drags me On to his grave : there I shall find some solace Instantly ; the strangling band of sorrow 14S THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Will be loosen’d ; tears will flow. O, hasten ! Long time ago we might have been o’ th’ road. No rest for me till I have fled these walls : They fall upon me, some dark power repels me • From them — Ha ! What's this ? The chamber’s filling With pale gaunt shapes ! No room is left for me ! More ! more ! The crowding spectres press on me, And push me forth from this accursed house. Next. You frighten me, my lady : I dare stay No longer ; quickly I’ll call Rosenberg. Scehte XII. Thekla. It is his spirit calls me ! ’Tis the host Of faithful souls that sacrificed themselves In fiery vengeance for him. They upbraid me For this ioit’ring : they in death forsook him not, Who in their life had led them ; their rude hearts Were capable of this : and I can live ? No ! No ! That laurel-garland which they laid Upon his bier was twined for both of us ! What is this life without the light of love ? I cast it from me, since its worth is gone. Yes, when we found and lov’d each other, life Was something ! Glittering lay before me The golden morn ; I had two hours of Heaven. Thou stoodest at the threshold of the scene Of busy life ; with timid steps I cross’d it : How fair it lay in solemn shade and sheen ! And thou beside me, like some angel, posted To lead me out of childhood’s fairy land On to life’s glancing summit, hand in hand ! My first thought was of joy no tongue can tell, My first look on thy spotless spirit fell. [She sinks into a reverie, then with signs of horror proceeds. And Fate put forth his hand : inexorable, cold, My friend it grasp’d and clutch’d with iron hold, And — under th’ hoofs of their wild horses hurl’d : Such is the lot of loveliness i’ th’ world ! Tlielda lias yet another pang to encounter ; the parting with her mother : but she persists in her determination, and goes forth to die beside her lover’s grave. The heart-rending SCHILLER AT JENA. 149 emotions, which this amiable creature has to undergo, are described with an almost painful effect : the fate of Max and Thekla might draw tears from the eyes of a stoic. Less tender, but not less sublimely poetical, is the fate of Wallenstein himself. We do not pity Wallenstein ; even in ruin he seems too great for pity. His daughter having van- ished like a fair vision from the scene, we look forward to Wallenstein’s inevitable fate with little feeling save expectant awe : This kingly Wallenstein, whene'er he falls, Will drag a world to ruin down with him ; And as a ship that in the midst of ocean Catches fire, and shiv ’ring springs into the air, And in a moment scatters between sea and sky The crew it bore, so will he hurry to destruction • Ev’ry one whose fate was join’d with his. Yet still there is some touch of pathos in his gloomy fall ; some visitings of nature in the austere grandeur of his slowly- coming, but inevitable and annihilating doom. The last scene of his life is among the finest which poetry can boast of. Thekla’s death is still unknown to him ; but he thinks of Max, and almost weeps. He looks at the stars : dim shadows of superstitious dread pass fitfully across his spirit, as he views these fountains of light, and compares their glorious and en- during existence with the fleeting troubled life of man. The strong spirit of his sister is subdued by dark forebodings ; omens are against him ; his astrologer entreats, one of the relenting conspirators entreats, his own feelings call upon him, to -watch and beware. But he refuses to let the resolution of his mind be over-mastered ; he casts away these warnings, and goes cheerfully to sleep, with dreams of hope about his pillow, unconscious that the javelins are already grasped which will send him to his long and dreamless sleep. The death of Wallenstein does not cause tears ; but it is perhaps the most high-wrought scene of the play. A shade of horror, of fateful dreariness, hangs over it, and gives additional effect to the fire of that brilliant poetry, which glows in every line of it. Except in Macbeth or the conclusion of Othello , we know not 150 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. where to match it. Schiller’s genius is of a kind much nar- rower than Shakspeare’s ; hut in his own peculiar province, the exciting of lofty, earnest, strong emotion, he admits of no superior. Others are finer, more piercing, varied, thrilling, in their influence : Schiller, in his finest mood, is overwhelm- ing. • This tragedy of Wallenstein, published at the close of the eighteenth century, may safely be rated as the greatest dra- matic work of which that century can boast. France never rose into the sphere of Schiller, even in the days of her Cor- neille : nor can our own country, since the times of Elizabeth, name * any dramatist to be compared with him in general strength of mind, and feeling, and acquired accomplishment. About the time of Wallenstein ’ s appearance, we of this gifted land were shuddering at The Castle Spectre! Germany, indeed, boasts of Goethe : and on some rare occasions, it must be owned that Goethe has shown talents of a higher order than are here manifested ; but he has made no equally regular or powerful exertion of them : Faust is but a careless effusion compared 'with Wallenstein. The latter is in truth a vast and magnificent work. What an assemblage of images, ideas, emotions, disposed in the most felicitous and impressive order ! We have conquerors, statesmen, ambitious generals, maraud- ing soldiers, heroes, and heroines, all acting and feeling as they would in nature, all faithfully depicted, yet all embel- lished by the spirit of poetry, and all made conducive to heighten one paramount impression, our sympathy with the tlmee chief characters of the piece . 1 1 Wallenstein lias been translated into French by M. Benjamin Con- stant ; and the last two parts of it have beep faithfully rendered into English by Mr. Coleridge. As to the French version, we know nothing, save that it is an improved one ; but that little is enough : Schiller, as a dramatist, improved by M. Constant, is a spectacle we feel no wish to witness. Mr. Coleridge’s translation is also, as a whole, unknown to us : but judging from many large specimens, we should pronounce it. ex- cepting Sotheby’s Oberon , to be the best, indeed the only sufferable, translation from the German with which our literature has yet been en- riched. SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 151 Soon after the publication of Wallenstein, Scliiller once more changed his abode. The ‘ mountain air of Jena ’ was conceived by his physicians to be prejudicial in disorders of the lungs ; and partly in consequence of this opinion, he de- termined henceforth to spend his winters in Weimar. Per- haps a weightier reason in favour of this new arrangement was the opportunity it gave him of being near the theatre, a con- stant attendance on which, now that he had once more be- come a dramatist, seemed highly useful for his farther im- provement. The summer he, for several years, continued still to spend in Jena ; to which, especially its beautiful environs, he declared himself particularly attached. His little garden- house was still his place of study during summer ; till at last he settled constantly at Weimar. Even then he used fre- quently to visit Jena ; to which there was a fresh attraction in later years, when Goethe chose it for his residence, which, we understand, it still occasionally is. With Goethe he often stayed for months. This change of place produced little change in Schiller’s habits or employment : he was now as formerly in the pay of the Duke of Weimar ; now as formerly engaged in dramatic composition as the great object of his life. What the amount of his pension was, we know not : that the Prince behaved to him in a princely manner, we have proof sufficient. Four years before, when invited to the University of Tubingen, Schil- ler had received a promise, that, in case of sickness or any other cause preventing the continuance of his literary labour, his salary should be doubled. It was actually increased on occasion of the present removal ; and again still farther in 1804, some advantageous offers being made to him from Berlin. Schiller seems to have been, what he might have wished to be, neither poor nor rich : his simple unostentatious economy went on without embarrassment : and this was all that he re- quired. To avoid pecuniary perplexities was constantly among his aims : to amass wealth, never. We ought also to add that, in 1802, by the voluntary solicitation of the Duke, he was en- nobled ; a fact which we mention, for his sake by whose kind- ness this honour was procured ; not for the sake of Schiller, 152 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. who accepted it with gratitude, but had neither needed nor desired it. The official services expected of him in return for so much kindness seem to have been slight, if any. Chiefly or alto- gether of his own accord, he appears to have applied himself to a close inspection of the theatre, and to have shared with Goethe the task of superintending its concerns. The re- hearsals of new pieces commonly took place at the house of one of these friends ; they consulted together on all such subjects, frankly and copiously.* Schiller was not slow to profit by the means of improvement thus afforded him ; in the mechanical details of his art he grew more skilful : by a constant observa- tion of the stage, he became more acquainted with its capa- bilities and its laws. It was not long till, with his character- istic expansiveness of enterprise, he set about turning this new knowledge to account. In conjunction with Goethe, he re- modelled his own Don Carlos and his friend’s Count Egmont, altering both according to his latest views of scenic propriety. It was farther intended to treat, in the same manner, the whole series of leading German plays, and thus to produce a national stock of dramatic pieces, formed according to the best rules ; a vast project, in which some progress continued to be made, though other labours often interrupted it. For the present, Schiller was engaged with his Maria Stuart : it appeared in 1800. This tragedy will not detain us long. It is upon a subject, the incidents of which are now getting trite, and the moral of which has little that can peculiarly recommend it. To exhibit the repentance of a lovely but erring woman, to show us how her soul may be restored to its primitive nobleness, by suffer- ings, devotion and death, is the object of Maria Stuart. It is a tragedy of sombre and mournful feelings ; with an air of melancholy and obstruction pervading it ; a looking backward on objects of remorse, around on imprisonment, and forward on the grave. Its object is undoubtedly attained. We are forced to pardon and to love the heroine ; she is beautiful, and miserable, and lofty-minded ; and her crimes, however dark, have been expiated by long years of weeping and woe. Con- SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 153 sidering also that they were the fruit not of calculation, but of passion acting on a heart not dead, though blinded for a time, to their enormity, they seem less hateful than the cold premeditated villany of which she is the victim. Elizabeth is selfish, heartless, envious ; she violates no law, but she has no virtue, and she lives triumphant : her arid, artificial character serves by contrast to heighten our sympathy with her warm- hearted, forlorn, ill-fated rival. These two Queens, particu- larly Mary, are well delineated : their respective qualities are vividly brought out, and the feelings they were meant to ex- cite arise within us. There is also Mortimer, a fierce, impetu- ous, impassioned lover ; driven onward chiefly by the heat of his blood, but still interesting by his vehemence and un- bounded daring. The dialogue, moreover, has many beauties ; there are scenes which have merited peculiar commendation. Of this kind is the interview between the Queens ; and more especially the first entrance of Mary, when, after long seclu- sion, she is once more permitted to behold the cheerful sky. In the joy of a momentary freedom, she forgets that she is still a captive ; she addresses the clouds, the ‘ sailors of the air,’ who c are not subjects of Elizabeth,’ and bids them carry tid- ings of her to the hearts that love her in other lands. With- out doubt, in all that he intended, Schiller has succeeded ; Maria Stuart is a beautiful tragedy ; it would have formed the glory of a meaner man, but it cannot materially alter his. Compared with Wallenstein, its purpose is narrow, and its re- sult is common. We have no manners or true historical delin- eation. The figure of the English court is not given ; and Elizabeth is depicted more like one of the French Medici, than like our own politic, capricious, coquettish, imperious, yet on the whole true-hearted, ‘good Queen Bess.’ W'ith abundant proofs of genius, this tragedy produces a comparatively small effect, especially on English readers. We have already w T ept enough for Mary Stuart, both over prose and verse ; and the persons likely to be deeply touched with the moral or the in- terest of her story, as it is recorded here, are rather a separate class than men in general. Madame de Stael, we observe, is her principal admirer. 154 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Next year, Schiller took possession of a province more pecul- iarly his own : in 1801, appeared his Maid of Orleans ( Jung- frau von Orleans) ; the first hint of which was suggested to him by a series of documents, relating to the sentence of Jeanne d’Arc, and its reversal, first published about this time by De l’Averdy of the Academie des Inscriptions. Schiller had been moved in perusing them : this tragedy gave voice to his feelings. Considered as an object of poetry or history, Jeanne d’Arc, the most singular personage of modern times, presents a char- acter capable of being viewed under a great variety of aspects, and with a corresponding variety of emotions. To the Eng- lish of her own age, bigoted imtheir creed, and baffled by her prowess, she appeared inspired by the Devil, and was natu- rally burnt as a sorceress. In this light, too, she is painted in the poems of Shakspeare. To Voltaire, again, whose trade it was to war with every kind of superstition, this child of fa- natic ardour seemed no better than a moonstruck zealot ; and the people who followed her, and believed in her, something worse than lunatics. The glory of what she had achieved was forgotten, when the means of achieving it were recollected ; and the Maid of Orleans was deemed the fit subject of a poem, the wittiest and most profligate for which literature has to blush. Our illustrious Don Juan hides his head when con- trasted with Voltaire’s Pucelle : Juan’s biographer, with all his zeal, is but an innocent, and a novice, by the side of this arch- scorner. Such a manner of considering the Maid of Orleans is evi- dently not the right one. Feelings so deep and earnest as hers can never be an object of ridicule : whoever pursues a purpose of any sort with such fervid devotedness, is entitled to awaken emotions, at least of a serious kind, in the hearts of others. Enthusiasm puts on a different shape in every different age : always in some degree sublime, often it is dangerous ; its very essence is a tendency to error and exaggeration ; yet it is the fundamental quality of strong souls ; the tine nobility of blood, in which all greatness of thought or action has its rise. Quicquid vult valdi vult is ever the first and surest test of SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 155 mental capability. This pleasant girl, who felt within her such fiery vehemence of resolution, that she could subdue the minds of kings and captains to her will, and lead armies on to battle, conquering, till her country was cleared of its in- vaders, must evidently have possessed the elements of a ma- jestic character. Benevolent feelings, sublime ideas, and above all an overpowering will, are here indubitably marked. Nor does the form, which her activity assumed, seem less adapted for displaying these qualities, than many other forms in which we praise them. The goi’geous inspirations of the Catholic religion are as real as the phantom of posthumous renown ; the love of our native soil is as laudable as ambition, or the principle of military honour. Jeanne d’Arc must have been a creature of shadowy yet far-glancing dreams, of unut- terable feelings, of ‘ thoughts that wandered through Eternity.’ AVI io can tell the trials and the triumphs, the splendours and the terrors, of which her simple spirit was the scene ! ‘ Heart- less, sneering, God-forgetting French ! ’ as old Suwarrow called them, — they are not worthy of this noble maiden. Hers were errors, but errors which a generous soul alone could have committed, and which generous souls would have done more than pardon. Her darkness and delusions were of the under- standing only ; they but make the radiance of her heart more touching and apparent ; as clouds are gilded by the orient light into something more beautiful than azure itself. It is under this aspect that Schiller has contemplated the Maid of Orleans, and endeavoured to make fis contemplate her. For the latter purpose, it appears that more than one plan had occurred to him. His first idea was, to represent Joanna, and the times she lived in, as they actually were : to exhibit the superstition, ferocity, and wretchedness of the period, in all their aggravation ; and to show us this patriotic, and religious enthusiast beautifying the tempestuous scene by her presence ; swaying the fierce passions of her country- men ; directing their fury against the invaders of France ; till at length, forsaken and condemned to die, she perished at the stake, retaining the same steadfast and lofty faith, which had ennobled and redeemed the errors of her life, and was now to 156 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. glorify the ignominy of her death. This project, after much deliberation, he relinquished, as too difficult. By a new mode of management, much of the homeliness and rude horror, that defaced and encumbered the reality, is thrown away. The Dauphin is not here a voluptuous weakling, nor is his court the centre of vice and cruelty and imbecility : the misery of the time is touched but lightly, and the Maid of Arc herself is invested with a certain faint degree of mysterious dignity, ultimately represented as being in truth a preternatural gift ; though whether preternatural, and if so, whether sent from above or from below, neither we nor she, except by faith, are absolutely sure, till the conclusion. The propriety of this arrangement is liable to question ; in- deed, it has been more than questioned. But external blem- ishes are lost in the intrinsic grandeur of the piece : the spirit of Joanna is presented to us with an exalting and pathetic force sufficient to make us blind to far greater improprieties. Joanna is a pure creation, of half-celestial origin, combining the mild charms of female loveliness with the awful majesty of a prophetess, and a sacrifice doomed to perish for her country. She resembles, in Schiller’s view, the Iphigenia of the Greeks ; and as such, in some respects, he has treated her. The woes and desolation of the land have kindled in Joan- na’s keen and fervent heart a fire, xfhich the loneliness of hex- life, and her deep feelings of religion, have noui-islxed and fanned into a holy flame. She sits in solitude with her flocks, beside the mountain chapel of the Virgin, under the ancient Druid oak, a wizard spot, the haunt of evil spirits as well as of good ; and visions are revealed to her such as human eyes behold not. It seems the foi-ce of her own spirit, expressing its feelings in foi-ms which react upon itself. The strength of her impulses persuades her that she is called from on high to deliver her native France ; the intensity of her own faith per- suades othei-s ; she goes forth on her mission ; all bends to the fiery vehemence of her will ; she is inspired because she thinks herself so. There is something beautiful and moving in the aspect of a noble enthusiasm, fostered in the secret soul, amid obstructions and depressions, and at length burst- SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 157 ing forth with an overwhelming force to accomplish its ap- pointed end : the impediments wdiich long hid it are now become testimonies of its power ; the -very ignorance, and meanness, and error, which still in part adhere to it, increase our sympathy without diminishing our admiration ; it seems the triumph, hardly contested, and not wholly carried, but still the triumph, of Mind over Fate, of human volition over ma- terial necessity. All this Schiller felt, and has presented with even more than his usual skill. The secret mechanism of Joanna’s mind is concealed from us in a dim religious obscurity ; but its active movements are distinct ; w r e behold the lofty heroism 'of her feelings ; she affects us to the very heart. The quiet, devout innocence of her early years, when she lived silent, shrouded in herself, meek and kindly though not communing with others, makes us love her : the celestial splendour which illu- minates her after-life adds reverence to our love. Her words and actions combine an overpowering force with, a calm un- pretending dignity : we seem to understand how they must have carried in their favour the universal conviction. Joanna is the most noble being in tragedy. We figure her with her slender lovely form, her mild but spirit-speaking countenance ; ‘ beautiful and terrible ; ’ bearing the banner of the Virgin before the hosts of her country ; travelling in the strength of a rapt soul ; irresistible by faith ; ‘ the lowly herdsmaid,’ greater in the grandeur of her simple spirit than the kings and queens of this world. Yet her breast is not entirely in- sensible to human feeling, nor her faith never liable to w T aver. When that inexorable vengeance, which had shut her ear against the voice of mercy to the enemies of France, is sus- pended at the sight of Lionel, and her heart experiences the first touch of mortal affection, a baleful cloud overspreads the serene of her mind ; it seems as if Heaven had forsaken her, or from the beginning permitted demons or earthly dreams to deceive her. The agony of her spirit, fnvolved in endless and horrid labyrinths of doubt, is powerfully portrayed. She has crowned the king at Rheims ; and all is joy, and pomp, and jubilee, and almost adoration of Joanna : but Joanna’s 158 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. thoughts are not of joy. The sight of. her poor but kind and true-hearted sisters in the crowd, moves her to the soul. Amid the tumult and magnificence of this royal pageant, she sinks into a reverie ; her small native dale of Arc, between its quiet hills, rises on her mind’s eye, with its straw-roofed huts, and its clear greensward ; where the sun is even then shining so brightly, and the sky is so blue, and all is so calm and. motherly and safe. She sighs for the peace of that se- questered home ; then shudders to think that she shall never see it more. Accused of witchcraft, by her own ascetic melan- cholic father, she utters no word of denial to the charge ; for her heart is dark, it is tarnished by earthly love, she dare not raise her thoughts to Heaven. Parted from her sisters ; cast out with horror by the people she had lately saved from de- spair, she wanders forth, desolate, forlorn, not knowing whith- er. Yet she does not sink under this sore trial : as she suffers from without, and is forsaken of men, her mind grows clear and strong, her confidence returns. She is now more firmly fixed in our admiration than before ; tenderness is united to our other feelings ; and her faith has been proved by sharp vicissitudes. Her countrymen recognise their error ; Joanna closes her career by a glorious death ; we take farewell of her in a solemn mood of heroic pity. Joanna is the animating principle of this tragedy ; the scenes employed in developing her character and feelings con- stitute its great charm. Yet there are other personages in it, that leave a distinct and pleasing impression of themselves in our memory. Agnes Sorel, the soft, languishing, generous mistress of the Dauphin, relieves and heightens by compaiison the sterner beauty of the Maid. Dunois, the Bastard of Or- leans, the lover of Joanna, is a blunt, frank, sagacious soldier, and well described. And Talbot, the gray veteran, delineates his dark, unbelieving, indomitable soul, by a few slight but expressive touches : he sternly passes down to the land, as he thinks, of utter nothingness, contemptuous even of the fate that destroys him, and ‘ On the soil of France lie sleeps, as does A hero on the shield he would not quit.' SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 159 A few scattered extracts may in part exhibit some of these inferior personages to our readers, though they can afford us no impression of the Maid herself. Joanna’s character, like every finished piece of art, to be judged of must be seen in all its bearings. It is not in parts, but as a whole, that the de- lineation moves us ; by light and manifold touches, it works upon our hearts, till they melt before it into that mild rap- ture, free alike from the violence and the impurities of Nature, which it is the highest triumph of the Artist to com- municate. Act III. Scene IV. [The Dauphin Charles, with his suits: afteneards Joanna. She is in armour , hut without her helmet ; and wears a garland in her hair. Dunois [steps forward] . My heart made choice of her while she was lowly ; This new honour raises not her merit Or my love. Here, in the presence of my King And of this holy Archbishop, I offer her My hand and princely rank, if she regard me As worthy to he hers. Charles. ' Resistless Maid, Thou addest miracle to miracle ! Henceforward I believe that nothing is Impossible to thee. Thou hast subdued This haughty spirit, that till now defied Tli’ omnipotence of Love. La Hire [steps forward]. If I mistake not Joanna’s form of mind, what most adorns hel- ls her modest heart. * The rev’rence of the great She merits ; but her thoughts will never rise So high. She strives not after giddy splendours : The true affection of a faithful soul Contents her, and the still, sequester’d lot Which with this hand I offer her. Charles. Thou too, La Hire ? Two valiant suitors, equal in Heroic virtue and renown of war ! — Wilt thou, that hast united my dominions. Soften’d my opposers, part my firmest friends ? Both may not gain thee, each deserving thee : Speak, then! Thy heart must here be arbiter. 160 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Agnes Sorel [ approaches ]. Joanna is embarrass’d and surprised ; I see the bashful crimson tinge her cheeks. Let her have time to ask her heart, to open Her clos’d bosom in trustful confidence With me. The moment is arriv’d when I In sisterly communion also may Approach the rigorous Maid, and offer her The solace of my faithful, silent breast. First let us women sit in secret judgment On this matter that concerns us ; then expect What we shall have decided. Charles [about: to go\. Be it so, then ! Joanna. Not so, Sire ! ’Twas not the embarrassment Of virgin shame that dy'd my cheeks in crimson : To this lady I have nothing to confide, Which I need blush to speak of before meii. Much am I honour’d by the preference Of these two noble Knights ; but it was not To chase vain worldly grandeurs, that I left The shepherd moors ; not in my hair to bind The bridal garland, that I girt myself With warlike armour. To far other work Am I appointed : and the spotless virgin Alone can do it. I am the soldier Of the God of Battles ; to no living man Can I be wife. Archbishop. As kindly help to man Was woman born ; and in obeying Nature She best obeys and reverences Heaven. When the command of God who summon’d thee To battle is fulfill’d, thou wilt lay down Thy weapons, and return to that soft sex’ Which thou deny’st, which is not call’d to do The bloody work of war. J oanna. Father, as yet I know not how the Spirit will direct me : When the needful time comes round, His voice Will not be silent, and I will obey it. For the present, I am bid complete the task He gave me. My sov’reign’s brow is yet uncrown’d, His head unwetted by the holy oil, He is not yet a King. Chari, es. We are journeying Towards Kheirns. SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 1G1 Joanna. Let us not linger by the way. Our foes are busy round us, shutting up Thy passage : I will lead thee through them all. Dunois. And when the work shall he fulfill’d, when we Have marched in triumph into Rlieims, Will not Joanna then— Joanna If God see meet That I return with life and vict’ry from These broils, my task is ended, and the herdsmaid Has nothing more to do in her King’s palace. Charles [ taking her hand ]. It is the Spirit's voice impels thee now, And Love is mute in thy inspired bosom. Believe me, it will not be always mute ! Our swords will rest ; and Victory will lead Meek Peace by th’ hand, and Joy will come again To ev’ry breast, and softer feelings waken In every heart : in thy heart also waken ; And tears of sweetest longing wilt thou weep, Such as thine eyes have never shed. This heart, Now fill’d by Heav’n, will softly open To some terrestrial heart. Thou hast begun By blessing thousands ; but thou wilt conclude By blessing one. Joanna. Dauphin ! Art thou weary Of the heavenly vision, that thou seekest To deface its chosen vessel, wouldst degrade To common dust the Maid whom God has sent thee ? Ye blind of heart ! O ye of little faith ! Heaven's brightness is about you, before your eyes Unveils its wonders ; and ye see in me Naught but a woman. Dare a woman, think ye, Clothe herself in iron harness, and mingle In the wreck of battle ? Woe, woe tome, If bearing in my hand th’ avenging sword Of God, I bore in my vain heart a love To earthly man ! Woe to me ! It were better That I never had been born. No more, No more of this ! Unless ye would awake the wrath Of Him that dwells in me ! The eye of man Desiring me is an abomination And a horror. Charles. Cease ! ’Tis vain to urge her. Joanna. Bid the trumpets sound ! This loit'ring grieves And harasses me. Something chases me 11 162 TEE LIFE OF FEIEDE1CE SOHILLEE. From sloth, and drives me forth to do my mission, Stern beck'ning me to my appointed doom. Scene V. A Knight [in haste]. Charles. How now ? Knight. The enemy has pass’d the Marne ; Is forming as for battle. Joanna [as if inspired]. Arms and battle ! My soul has cast away its bonds ! To arms ! Prepare yourselves, while I prepare the' rest ! [She hastens out. ***** [ Trumpets sound with a piercing tone , and while the scene is changing pass into a wild tumultuous sound of battle.] Scene YI. [ The scene changes to an open space encircled with trees. During the mu- sic, soldiers are seen hastily retreating across the background.] Talbot, leaning upon Fastolf, and accompanied by Soldiers. Soon after, Lionel. Talbot. Here set me down beneath this tree, and you Betake yourselves again to battle : quick ! I need no help to die. Fastolf. O day of woe ! [Lionel enters. Look, what a sight awaits you, Lionel ! Our General expiring of his wounds ! Lionel. Now God forbid ! Rise, noble Talbot ! This Is not a time for you to faint aud sink. Yield not to Death ; force faltering Nature By your strength of soul, that life depart not ! Talbot. In vain ! The day of Destiny is come That prostrates with the dust our power in France. In vain, in the fierce clash of desp’rate battle, Have I risk’d our utmost to withstand it : The bolt has smote and crush’d me, and I lie To rise no more forever. Rheims is lost ; Make haste to rescue Paris. Lionel. * Paris has surrender’d To the Dauphin : an express is just arriv'd With tidings. SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 163 Talbot [ tears away Ms bandages']. Then flow out, ye life-streams ; I am grown to loathe this Sun. Lionel. They want me ! Fastolf, hear him to a place of safety : We can hold this post few instants longer, The coward knaves are giving way on all sides, Irresistible the Witch is pressing on. Talbot. Madness, thou conquerest, and I must yield ; Stupidity can baffle the very gods. High Reason, radiant Daughter of God’s Head, Wise Foundress of the system of the Universe, Conductress of the stars, who art thou, then, If, tied to tli’ tail o’ tli’ wild horse Superstition, Thou must plunge, eyes open, vainly shrieking, Sheer down with that drunk Beast to the Abyss ? Cursed who sets his life upon the great And dignified ; and with forecasting spirit Forms wise projects! The Fool-king rules this world. Lionel. O, Death is near you ! Think of your Creator ! Talbot. Had we as brave men been defeated By brave men, we might have consoled ourselves With co mm on thoughts of Fortune’s fickleness : But that a sorry farce should be our ruin ! — Did our earnest toilsome struggle merit No graver end than this ? Lionel, [grasps Ms Lind], Talbot, Farewell ! 9 The meed of bitter tears I’ll duly pay you, When the fight is done, should I outlive it. Now Fate calls me to the field, where yet She wav’ring sits, and shakes her doubtful urn. Farewell ! we meet beyond the unseen shore. Brief parting for long friendship ! God be with you ! Talbot. Soon it is over, and to tli’ Earth I render, To the everlasting Sun, the atoms, Which for pain and pleasure join’d to form me ; And of the mighty Talbot, whose renown Once fill d the world, remains nought but a handful Of light dust. Thus man comes to his end ; And our one conquest in this fight of life Is the conviction of life’s nothingness, And deep disdain of all that sorry stufE We once thought lofty and desirable. 104 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Scene VII. Enter Charles ; Burgundy ; Dunois ; Du Chatel ; and Soldiers. Burgun. Tlie trench is storm'd. Dunoit. The victory is ours. Charles [ observing Talbot ]. Ha ! who is this that to the light of day Is bidding his constrained and sad farewell ? His bearing speaks no common man : go, haste, Assist him, if assistance yet avail. [Soldiers from the Dauphin's suite step forward. Fastolf. Back ! Keep away ! Approach not the Departing, Whom in life ye never wish’d too near you. Burgun. What do I see ? Lord Talbot in his blood ! [He (joes towards him. Talbot gazes fixedly at him , and dies. Fastolf. Off, Burgundy ! With th’ aspect of a traitor Poison not the last look of a hero. Dunois. Dreaded Talbot ! stern, unconquerable ! . Dost thou content ih.ee with a space so narrow, And the wide domains of France once could not Stay the striving of thy giant spirit ? — Now for the first time, Sire, I call you King : The crown but totter’d on your head, so long As in this body dwelt a soul. Charles [after looking at the dead in silence']. It was A higher hand that conquer’d him, not we. Here on the soil of France he sleeps, as does A hero on the shield he would not quit. Bring him away. [Soldiers lift the corpse , and carry it off. And peace be with his dust ! A fair memorial shall arise to him I’ th’ midst of France : here, where the hero’s course And life were finished, let his hones repose. Thus far no other foe has e’er advanced. His epitaph shall be the place he fell on. SCHILLER AT WEIMAR. 165 . Scene IX. Another empty space in the field of battle. In the distance are seen the towers of Rheims illuminated by the sun. A Knight cased in black armour icith his visor shut. Joanna follows him to the front of the scene where he stops and awaits her. Joanna. Deceiver ! Now I see thy craft. Thou hast, By seeming flight, enticed me from the battle, And warded death and destiny from off the head Of many a Briton. Now they reach thy own. Knight. ‘ Why dost thou follow me, and track my steps With murd’rous fury ? I am not appointed To die by thee. Joanna. Deep in my lowest soul I hate thee as the Night, which is thy colour. To sweep thee from the face of Earth, I feel Some irresistible desire impelling me. Who art thou ? Lift thy visor : had not I Seen Talbot fall, I should have named thee Talbot. Knight. Speaks not the prophesying Spirit in thee ? Joanna. It tells me loudly, in my inmost bosom, That Misfortune is at hand. Knight. Joanna d’Arc ! Up to the gates of Rheims hast thou advanced, Led on by victory. Let the renown Already gain’d suffice thee ! As a slave Has Fortune serv’d thee : emancipate her, Ere in wrath she free herself ; fidelity She hates ; no one obeys she to the end. Joanna. How say’st thou, in the middle of my course, That I should pause and leave my work unfinish’d ? I will conclude it, and fulfil my vow. Knight. Nothing can withstand thee ; thou art most strong ; In ev’ry battle thou prevailest. But go Into no other battle. Hear my warning ! Joanna. This sword I quit not, till the English yield. Knight. Look ! Yonder rise the towers of Rheims, the goal And purpose of thy march ; thou seest the dome Of the cathedral glittering in the sun : There wouldst thou enter in triumphal pomp, To crown thy sov’reign and fulfil thy vow. Enter not there. Turn homewards. Hear my warning ! Joanna. Who art thou, false, double-tongued betrayer, 1G6 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER That wouldst frighten and perplex me ? Dar’st thou Utter lying oracles to me ? [27 le Black Knight attempts to go ; she steps in his way. No! Thou shalt answer me, or perish by me ! \_She lifts her arm to strike him. Knight [ touches her with his hand : she stands immovable ]. Kill what is mortal ! [Darkness, lightning and thunder. The Knight sinks. Joanna [stands first amazed, but soon recovers herself]. It was nothing earthly. Some delusive form of Hell, some spirit Of Falsehood, sent from th’ everlasting Pool To tempt and terrify my fervent soul ! Bearing the sword of God, what do I fear ? Victorious will I end my fated course ; Though Hell itself with all its fiends assail me, My heart and faith shall never faint or fail me. [y the birth of a daughter, Luise, waited but a short time in Ludwigsburg till the Father brought them over Per Ilerr, die Quelle oiler Freude, Verhleibe stets lhr Trost und Tlicil ; ■ Sein Wort sei Hires Herzens Wtide , Und Jesus lhr erumnschtes Heil. Ich dank’ von alle Liebes-Proben, Von alle Sonjfalt und Geduld, Mein Herz soil alle Gilte loben, Und trosten sich stets Hirer Huld. Gehorsam, Fleiss und zarte Liebe Verspreche ich auf dieses Jahr. Per Herr shenk' mir nur gute Treibe, Und maclie all' mein Wunschen todhr. Amen. Johann Christoph Friedrich SchllIer. Per 1 Januarii Anno 1769 . 214 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. to the Dew dwelling at Solitude. Fritz, on the removal of his Parents, was given over as boarder to his actual Teacher, the rigorous pedant Jahn ; and remained yet two years at the Latin school in Ludwigsburg. During this time, the lively, and perhaps also sometimes mischievous Boy, was kept in the strictest fetters ; and, by the continual admonitions, exhorta- tions, and manually practical corrections of Father and of Teacher, not a little held down and kept in fear. The fact, for instance, that he liked more the potent Bible-words and pious songs of a Luther, a Paul Gerhard, and Gellert, than he did the frozen lifeless catechism-drill of the Ludwigsburg In- stitute, gave surly strait-laced Jahn occasion to lament from time to time to the alarmed Parents, that “ their Son had no feeling whatever for religion.” In this respect, however, the otherwise so irritable Father easily satisfied himself, not only by his own observations of an opposite tendency, but chiefly by stricter investigation of one little incident that was reported to him. The teacher of religion in the Latin school, Superin- tendent Zilling, whose name is yet scornfully remembered, had once, in his dull awkwardness, introduced even Solomon’s Song as an element of nurture for his class ; and was droning out, in an old-fashioned way, his interpretation of it as sym- bolical of the Christian Church and its Bridegroom Christ, when he was, on a sudden, to his no small surprise and anger, interrupted by the audible inquiry of little Schiller, “ But was this Song, then, actually sung to the Church ? ” Schiller Senior took the little heretic to task for this rash act ; and got as justification the innocent question, “Has the Church really got teeth of ivory? ” The Father was enlightened enough to take the Boy’s opposition for a natural expression of sound human sense ; nay, he could scarcely forbear a laugh ; whirled swiftly round, and murmured to himself, “ Occasionally she has Wolf’s teeth.” And so the thing was finished. 1 ‘At Ludwigsburg Schiller and Christophine first saw a Thea- tre ; where at that time, in the sumptuous Duke’s love of splendour, only pompous operas and ballets were given. The first effect of this new enjoyment, which Fritz and his Sister 1 Saupe, p. 18. SUPPLEMENT. 215 strove to repeat as often as they could, was that at home, with little clipped and twisted paper dolls, they set about repre- senting scenes ; and on Christophiue’s part it had the more important result of awakening and nourishing, at an early age, her aesthetic taste. Schiller considered her, ever after these youthful sports, as a true and faithful companion in his poetic dreams and attempts ; and constantly not only told his Sister, whose silence on such points could be perfect, of all that he secretly did in the way of verse-making in the Karl’s School, — which, as we shall see, he entered in 1773,- — but if possible brought it upon the scene with her. Scenes from the lyrical operetta of Semele were acted by Schiller and Christophine, on those terms ; which appears in a complete shape for the first time in Schiller’s Anthology, printed 1782. 1 ‘ So soon as Friedrich had gone through the Latin school at Ludwigsburg, which was in 1772, he was, according to the standing regulation, to enter one of the four Lower Cloister- schools ; and go through the farther curriculum for a Wiir- temberg clergyman. But now there came suddenly from the Duke to Captain Schiller an offer to take his Son, who had been represented to him as a clever boy, into the new Military Training-School, founded by liis Highness at Solitude, in 1771 ; where he would be brought up, and taken charge of, free of cost. ‘ In the Schiller Family this offer caused great consterna- tion and painful embarrassment. The Father was grieved to be obliged to sacrifice a long-cherished paternal plan to the whim of an arbitrary ruler ; and the Son felt himself cruelly hurt to be torn away so rudely from his hope and inclination. Accordingly, how dangerous soever for the position of tlj.e Family a declining of the Ducal grace might seem, the straightforward Father ventured nevertheless to lay open to the Duke, in a clear and distinct statement, how his purpose had always been to devote his Son, in respect both of his in- clination and his hitherto studies, to the Clerical Profession ; for wlii*ch in the new Training-School he could not be prfe- 1 Saupe, p. 109. 210 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. pared. The Duke showed no auger at this step of the elder Schiller’s ; hut was just as little of intention to let a capable and hopeful scholar, who was also the Son of one his Officers and Dependents, escape him. He simply, with brevity, re- peated his wish, and required the choice of another study, in which the Boy would have a better career and outlook than in the Theological Department, Hill they, will they, there was nothing for the Parents but compliance with the so plainly intimated will of this Duke, on whom their Family’s welfare so much depended. ‘Accordingly, 17th January 1773, Friedrich Schiller, then in his fourteenth year, stept over to the Military Training- School at Solitude. ‘In September of the following year, Schiller’s Parents had, conformably to a fundamental law of the Institution, to ac- knowledge and engage by a written Bond, “That their Son, in virtue of his entrance into this Ducal Institution, did wholly devote himself to the service of the Wurfcemberg Ducal House ; that he, without special Ducal permission, was not empowered to go out of it ; and that he had, with his best care, to observe not only this, but all other regulations of the Institute.” By this time, indeed directly upon signature of this strict Bond, young Schiller had begun to study Jurisprudence ; — which, however, when nest year, 1775, the Training-School, raised now to be a “Military Academy,” had been transferred to Stuttgart, he either of his own accord, or in consequence of a discourse and interview of the Duke with his Father, ex- changed for the Study of Medicine. ‘ From the time when Schiller entered this “ Karl's School ” ’ (Military Academy, in official style), ‘ he was nearly altogether withdrawn from any tutelage of his Father ; for it was only to Mothers, and to Sisters still under age, that the privilege of visiting their Sons and Brothers, and this on the Sunday only, was granted : beyond this, the Karl's Scholars, within their monastic cells, were cut off from family and the world, by iron-doors and sentries guarding them. This rigorous se- clusion from actual life and all its friendly impressions, still more the spiritual constraint of the Institution, excluding SUPPLEMENT. 217 every free activity, and all will of your own, appeared to the Son in a more hateful light than to the Father, who, himself an old soldier, found it quite according to order that the young people should be kept in strict military discipline and subordination. "What filled the Son with bitter discontent and indignation, and at length brought him to a kind of po- etic outburst of revolution in the Bobbers, therein the Father saw only a wholesome regularity, and indispensable substitute for paternal discipline. Transient complaints of individual teachers and superiors little disturbed the Father’s mind ; for, on the whole, the official testimonies concerning his Son were steadily favourable. The Duke too treated young Schiller, whose talents had not escaped his sharpness of insight, with particular good-will, nay distinction. To this Prince, used to the accurate discernment of spiritual gifts, the complaints of certain Teachers, that Schiller’s slow jmogress in Juris- prudence proceeded from want of head, were of no weight whatever; and he answered expressly, “Leave me that one alone ; he will come to something yet! ” But that Schiller gave his main strength to what in the Karl’s School was a strictly forbidden object, to poetry namely, this I believe was entirely hidden from his Father, or appeared to him, on occa- sional small indications, the less questionable, as he saw that, in spite of this, the Marketable-Sciences were not neglected. * At the same age, viz. about twenty-two, at which Captain Schiller had made his first military sally into the Netherlands and the Austrian-Succession War, his Son issued from the Karl’s School, 15th December 1780 ; and was immediately ap- pointed Regimental-Doctor at Stuttgart, with a monthly pay of twenty-three gulden ’ (2 1. 6s. = 11s. and a fraction per week). ‘ With this appointment, Schiller had, as it w r ere, openly altogether outgrown all special paternal guardianship or guidance ; and was, from this time, treated by his Father as come to majority, and standing on his owu feet. If he came out, as frequently happened, with a comrade to Solitude, he was heartily welcome there, and the Father’s looks often dwelt on him with visible satisfaction. If in the conscientious 21S THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER and rigorous old man, with his instructive and serious expe- riences of life, there might jet various anxieties and doubts arise when he heard of the exuberantly genial ways of his hopeful Son at Stuttgart, he still looked upon him with joyful pride, in remarking how those so promising Karl’s Scholars, who had entered into the world along with him, recognised his superiority of mind, and willingly ranked themselves under him. Nor could it he otherwise than highly gratifying to his old heart to remark always with what deep love the gifted Son constantly regarded his Parents and Sisters.’ ' — Of Schil- ler’s first procedures in Stuttgart, after his emancipation from the Karl’s School, and appointment as Regimental-Surgeon, or rather of his general behaviour and way of life there, which are said to have been somewhat wild, genially, or even unge- nially extravagant, and to have involved him in many paltry en- tanglements of debts, as one bad consequence, — there will be some notice in the next Section, headed “ The Mother.” His Regimental Doctorsliip, and stay in Stuttgart altogether, lasted twenty-two months. This is Schiller’s bodily appearance, as it first presented it- self to an old School-fellow, who, after an interval of eighteen months, saw him again on Parade, as Doctor of the Regiment Auge, — more to his astonishment than admiration. £ Crushed into the stiff tasteless Old-Prussian Uniform ; on each of his temples three stiff rolls as if done with gypsum ; the tiny three-cocked hat scarcely covering his crown ; so much the thicker the long pigtail, with the slender neck crammed into a very narrow horsehair stock ; the felt put under the white spatterdashes, smirched by traces of shoe- blacking, giving to the legs a bigger diameter than the fihighs, squeezed into their tight-fitting breeches, could boast of. Hardly, or not at all, able to bend his knees, the whole man moved like a stork.’ ‘The Poet’s form,’ says this Witness elsewhere, a bit of a dilettante artist it seems, ‘ had somewhat the following appear- ance : Long straight stature ; long in the legs ; long in the arms; pigeon-breasted; his neck very long ; something rigor- 1 Saupc, p. 25. SUPPLEMENT. 219 on sly stiff ; in gait and carriage not the smallest elegance. His brow was broad ; the nose thin, cartilaginous, white of colour, springing out at a notably sharp angle, much bent, — a parrot-nose, and very sharp in the point (according to Dan- necker the Sculptor, Schiller, who took snuff, had pulled it out so with his hand). The red eyebrows, over the deep-lying dark-gray eyes, were bent too close together at the nose, which gave him a pathetic expression. The lips were thin, ener- getic ; the under-lip protruding, as if pushed forward by the inspiration of his feelings ; the chin strong ; cheeks pale, rather hollow than full, freckly ; the eyelids a little inflamed ; the bushy hair of the head dark red ; the whole head rather ghostlike than manlike, but impressive even in repose, and all expression when Schiller declaimed. Neither the features nor the somewhat slirieky voice could he subdue. Dan- necker,’ adds the satirical Witness, ‘ has unsurpassably cut this head in marble for us.’ 1 ‘ The publication of the Robbers ’ (Autumn 1781), — ‘which Schiller, driven on by rage and desperation, had composed in the fetters of the Karl’s School, — raised him on the sudden to a phenomenon on which all eyes in Stuttgart were turned. What, with careless exaggeration, he had said to a friend some months before, on setting forth his Elegy on the Death of a Young Man, “The thing has made my name hereabouts more famous than twenty years of practice would have done ; but it is a name like that of him who burnt the Temple of Ephesus : God be merciful to me a sinner ! ” might now with all seriousness be said of the impression his Robbers made on the harmless townsfolk of Stuttgart. But how did Father Schiller at first take up this eccentric product of his Son, which openly declared war on all existing order ? Astonish- ment and terror, anger and detestation, boundless anxiety, with touches of admiration and pride, stormed alternately through the solid honest man’s paternal breast, as he saw the frank picture of a Prodigal Son rolled out before him ; and had to gaze into the most revolting deeps of the passions and 1 Schwab, Schiller’s Leben (Stuttgart, 1841), p. 68. 220 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCIIILLER. vices. Yet he felt himself irresistibly dragged along by the uncommon vivacity of action in this wild Drama ; and at the same time, powerfully attracted by the depth, the tenderness, and fulness of true feeling manifested in it : so that, at last, out of those contradictory emotions of his, a clear admiration and pride for his Sou’s bold and rich spirit maintained the upper hand. By Schiller’s friends and closer connections, especially by his Mother and Sisters, all pains were of course taken to keep up this favourable humour in the Father, and carefully to hide from him all disadvantageous or disquieting tidings about the Piece and its consequences and practical effects. Thus he heard sufficiently of the huge excitement and noise which the Robbers was making all over Germany, and of the seductive approval which came streaming-in on the youthful Poet, even out of distant provinces ; but heard noth- ing either of the Duke’s offended and angry feelings over the Robbers, a production horrible to him ; nor of the Son’s secret journeys to Mannheim, and the next consequences of these ’ (his brief arrest, namely), ‘ nor of the rumour circulating in spiteful quarters, that this young Doctor was neglecting his own province of medicine, and meaning to become a play- actor. How could the old man, in these circumstances, have a thought that the Robbers would be the loss of Family and Country to his poor Fritz ! And yet so it proved. ‘ Excited by all kinds of messagings, informings and in- sinuations, the imperious Prince, in spite of his secret pleas- ure in this sudden renown of his Pupil, could in no wise be persuaded to revoke or soften his harsh Order, which “ for- bade the Poet henceforth, under pain of military imprison- ment, either to write anything poetic or to communicate the same to foreign persons ” ’ (non-Wurtembergers). ‘ In vain were all attempts of Schiller to obtain his discharge from Military Service and his “ Entschwabung ” (Un-SuuMzning) ; such petitions had only for result new sharper rebukes and hard threatening expressions, to which the mournful fate of Scliubart in the Castle of Hohenasperg 1 formed a too ques- tionable background. 1 See Appendix, infrd. SUPPLEMENT. 221 ‘ Thus by degrees there ripened in the strong soul of this young man the determination to burst these laming fetters of his genius, by flight from despotic AVurtemberg altogether ; and, in some friendlier counts®, gain for himself the freedom without which his spiritual development was impossible. Only to one friend, who clung to him with almost enthusiastic devotion, did he impart his secret. This was Johann Andreas Streicher of Stuttgart, who intended to go next year to Ham- burg, and there, under Bach’s guidance, study music ; but declared himself ready to accompany Schiller even now, since it had become urgent. Except to this trustworthy friend, Schiller had imparted his plan to his elder Sister Christophine alone ; and she had not only approved of the sad measure, but had undertaken also to prepare their Mother for it. The Father naturally had to be kept dark on the subject ; all the more that, if need were, he might pledge his word as an Officer that he had known nothing of his Son’s intention. ‘ Schiller went out, in company of Madame Meier, AATfe of the Regisseur (Theatre-manager) at Mannheim, a native of Stuttgart, and of this Streicher, one last time to Solitude, to have one more look of it and of his dear ones there ; especially to soothe and calm his Mother. On the way, which they travelled on foot, Schiller kept up a continual discourse about the Mannheim Theatre and its interests, without betraying his secret to Madame Meier. The Father received these wel- come guests with frank joy ; and gave to the conversation, which at first hung rather embarrassed, a happy turn by getting into talk, with cheery circumstantiality, of the grand Pleasure-Hunt, of the Play and of the Illumination, which were to take place, in honour of the Pussian Grand-Prince, afterwards Czar Paul, and his Bride, the Duke of AViirtem- berg’s Niece, on. the 17th September instant, at Solitude. Far other was the poor Mother’s mood ; she was on the edge of betraying herself, in seeing the sad eyes of her Son ; and she could not speak for emotion. The presence of Streicher and a Stranger with whom the elder Schiller was carrying on a, to him, attractive conversation, permitted Mother and Son to withdraw speedily and unremarked. Not till after an hour 222 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. did Schiller reappear, alone now, to the company ; neither this circumstance, nor Schiller’s expression of face, yet strik- ing the preoccuppied Father. Though to the observant Streicher, his wet red eyes betrayed how painful the parting must have been. Gradually on the way back to Stuttgart, amid general talk of the three, Schiller regained some com- posure and cheerfulness. ‘ The bitter sorrow of this hour of parting renewed itself yet once in Schiller’s soul, when on the flight itself, about mid- night of the 17th. In effect it was these same festivities that had decided the young men’s time and scheme of journey ; and under the sheltering noise of which their plan was luck- ily executed. Towards midnight of the above-said day, when the Castle of Solitude, with all its surroundings, was beaming in full splendour of illumination, there rolled past, almost rubbing elbows with it, the humble Schiller Vehicle from Stuttgart, which bore the fugitive Poet with his true Friend on their way. Schiller pointed out to his Friend the spot where his Parents lived, and,- with a half-suppressed sigh and a woe-begone exclamation, “Oh, my Mother!” sank back upon his seat.’ Mannheim, the goal of their flight, is in Baden-Baden, un- der another Sovereign ; lies about 80 miles to >\w. of Stutt- gart. Their dreary journey lasted two days, — arrival not till deep in the night of the second. Their united stock of money amounted to 51 gulden, — Schiller 23, Streicher 28, — 51. 6s. in all. Streicher subsequently squeezed out from home 3 1. more ; and that appears to have been their sum-total, 1 ‘ Great was the astonishment and great the wrath of the Father, when at length he understood that his Son had broken the paternal, written Bond, and withdrawn himself by flight from the Ducal Service. He dreaded, not without reason, the heavy consequences of so rash an action ; and a thousand gnawing anxieties bestormed the heart of the worthy man. Might not the I)uhe, in the first outburst of his indignation, overwhelm forever the happiness of their Family, which there was nothing but the income of his post 1 Schwab, Schiller's Lebcn. SUPPLEMENT. 223 that supported in humble competence ? And what a lot stood before the Son himself, if he were caught in flight, or if, what was nowise improbable, his delivery back was re- quired and obtained ? Sure enough, there had risen on the otherwise serene heaven of the Schiller Family, a threatening thundercloud ; which, any day r , might discharge itself, bring- ing destruction on their heads. ‘ The thing, however, passed away in merciful peace. What- ever may have been the Duke’s motives or inducements to let the matter, in spite of his embitterment, silently drop, — whether his bright festal humour in presence of those high kinsfolk, or the noble frankness with which the Runaway first of all, to save his Family, had in a respectful missive, dated from Mannheim, explained to his Princely Educator the ne- cessity of his flight ; or the expectation, flattering to the Ducal pride, that the future greatness of his Pupil might be a source of glory to him and his Kaii’s-School : enough, on his part, there took place no kind of hostile step against the Poet, and still less against his Family. Captain Schiller again breathed freer when he saw himself delivered from his most crushing anxiety on this side ; but there remained still a sharp sting in his wounded heart. His military feeling of honour was painfully hurt by the thought that they might now look upon his Son as a deserter ; and withal the future of this voluntary Exile appeared so uncertain and wavering, that it did not offer the smallest justification of so great a risk. By degrees, however, instead of anger and blame there rose in him the most sympathetic anxiety for the poor Son’s fate ; to whom, from want of a free, firm and assuring posi- tion in life, all manner of contradictions and difficulties must needs arise. 4 And Schiller did actually, at Mannheim, find himself in a bad and difficult position. The Superintendent of the cele- brated Mannheim Theatre, the greatly powerful Imperial Baron von Dalberg, with whom Schiller, since the bringing out of his Bobbers, had stood in lively' correspondence, drew back when Schiller himself was here ; and kept the Poet at a distance as a political Fugitive ; leaving him to shift as he 224 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. could. In vain liad Schiller explained to him, in manly open words, his economic straits, and begged from him a loan of 300 gulden’ (30 l.) ‘to pay therewith a pressing debt in Stutt- gart, and drag himself along, and try to get started ’ in the world. Dalberg returned the Fiesco, Schiller’s new republican Tragedy, which had been sent him, with the declaration that he could advance no money on the Fiesco in its present form ; the Piece must first be remodelled to suit the stage. During this remodelling, which the otherwise so passionately vivid and hopeful Poet began without murmur, he lived entirely on the journey-money that had been saved up by the faithful Streicher, who would on no account leave him.’ What became of this good Streicher afterwards, I have in- quired considerably, but with very little success. On the total exhaustion of their finance, Schiller and he had to part com- pany,— Schiller for refuge at Bauerbach, as will soon be seen. Streicher continued about Mannheim, not as Schiller’s fellow-lodger any longer, but always at his hand, passionately eager’ to serve him with all his faculties by night or by day ; and they did not part finally till Schiller quitted Mannheim, two years hence, for Leipzig. After which they never met again. Streicher, in Mannheim, seems to have subsisted by his musical talent ; and to have had some connection with the theatre in that capacity. In similar dim positions, with what shiftings, adventures and vicissitudes is quite unknown to me, he long survived Schiller, and, at least fifty years after these Mannheim struggles, wrote some Book of bright and loving Reminiscences concerning him, the exact title of which I can nowhere find, — though passages from it are copied by Biog- rapher Schwab here and there. His affection for Schiller is of the nature of worship rather, of constant adoration ; and probably formed the sunshine to poor Streicher’s life. Schiller nowhere mentions him in his writings or correspondences, after that final parting at Mannheim, 1784. ‘The necessities of the two Friends reached by and by such a height that Schiller had to sell his Watch, although they had already for several weeks been subsisting on loans. To all which now came Dalberg’s overwhelming message, that SUPPLEMENT. 225 even this Bemodelling of Fiesco could not be serviceable ; and of course could not have money paid for it. Schiller there- upon, at once resolute what to do, walked off to the worthy Bookseller Schwan,’ with whom he was already on a trustful, even grateful footing ; ‘and sold him his ms. at one louis-d’or the sheet. At the same time, too, he recognised the neces- sity of quitting Mannheim, and finding a new asylum in Sax- ony ; seeing, withal, his farther continuance here might be as dangerous for him as it was a matter of apprehension to his Friends. For although the Duke of Wurtemberg undertook nothing that was hostile to him, and his Family at Solitude experienced no annoyance, yet the impetuous Prince might, any day, take it into his head to have him put in prison. In the ever-livelier desire after a securely-hidden place of abode, where he might execute in peace his poetic plans and enter- prises, Schiller suddenly took up an earlier purpose, which had been laid aside. ‘ In the Stuttgart time lie had known 'Wilhelm von Wolzo- gen, by and by his Brother-in-law ’ (they married two sisters), ‘ who, with three Brothers, had been bred in the Karl’s School. The two had, indeed, during the academic time, Wolzogen being some years younger, had few points of con- tact, and were not intimate. But now on the appearance of the Robbers , Wolzogen took a cordial affection and enthusiasm for the widely-celebrated Poet, and on closer acquaintanoe with Schiller, also affected his Mother, — who as Widow, for her three Sons’ sake, lived frequently at Stuttgart,- — with a deep and zealous sympathy in Schiller’s fate. Schiller had, with a truly childlike trust, confided himself to this excellent Lady, and after his Arrest, — a bitter consequence of his secret visit to Mannheim, — had confessed to her his purpose to run away. Frau von Wolzogen, who feared no sacrifice when the question was of the fortune of her friends, had then offered him her family mansion, Bauerbach near Meiningen, as a place of refuge. Schiller’s notion had also been to fly thither ; though, deceived by false hopes, he changed that purpose.' He now wrote at once to Stuttgart, and announced to Frau von Wol- zogen his wish to withdraw for some time to Bauerbach.’ 15 226 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. To which, as is well known, the assent was ready and zeal- ous. ‘Before quitting Mannheim, Schiller could not resist the longing - wish to see his Parents yet one time; and wrote to them accordingly, 19 Nov. 1782, in visible haste and excitement : “ Best Parents,— As I am at present in Mannheim, and am to go away forever in five days, I wished to prepare for myself and you the one remaining satisfaction of seeing one another once more. To-day is the 19th, on the 21st you receive this Letter ; — if you therefore, without the least delay (that is in- dispensable), leave Stuttgart, you might on the 22d be at the Post-house in Bretten, which is about half way from Mann- heim, and where you would find me. I think it would be best if Mamma and Christophine, under the pretext of going to Ludwigsburg to Wolzogen, should make this journey. Take the Frau Vischerin ” (a Captain’s Widow, sung of under the name of “Laura,” with whom he had last lodged in Stutt- gart) “ and also Wolzogen with you, as I wish to speak with both of them, perhaps for the last time, Wolzogen excepted. I will give you a Karolin as journey-money ; but not till I see you at Bretten. By the prompt fulfilment of my Prayer, I will perceive whether is still dear to you “Your- ever-grateful Son, “ Schiller.” From Mannheim, Bauerbach or Meiningen lies about 120 miles n.e. ; and from Stuttgart almost as far straight North. Bretten, ‘ a little town on a hill, celebrated as Melancthon’s Birthplace, his Father’s house still standing there,’ is some 35 miles s.e. of Mannheim, and as far n. w. from Stuttgart. From Mannheim, in this wise, it is not at all on the road to Meinin- gen, though only a few miles more remote in direct distance. Schiller’s purpose had been, after this affectionate interview, to turn at once leftward and make for Meiningen, by what road or roads there were from Bretten thither. Schiller's poor guinea (Karolin) was not needed on this occasion ; the ren- dezvous at Bretten being found impossible or inexpedient at the Stuttgart end of it. Our Author continues : ‘ Although this meeting, on which the loving Son and Brother wished to spend his last penny, did not take effect ; SUPPLEMENT. 227 yet this mournful longing of his, evident from the Letter, and from the purpose itself, must have touched the Father’s heart with somewhat of a reconciliatory feeling. Schiller Senior writes accordingly, 8 December 1782, the very day after his Son’s arrival in Bauerbach, to Bookseller Schwan in Mannheim : “ I have not noticed here the smallest symptom that his Du- cal Durchlaucht has any thought of having my Son searched for and prosecuted ; and indeed his post here has long since been filled up ; a circumstance which visibly indicates that they can do without him.” This Letter to Schwan concludes in the following words, which are characteristic: “He (my Son) has, by his untimely withdrawal, against the advice of his true friends, plunged himself into this difficult position ; and it will profit him in soul and body that he feel the pain of it, and thereby become wiser for the future. I am not afraid, however, that want of actual necessaries should come upon him, for in such case I should feel myself obliged to lend a hand.” ‘ And in effect Schiller, during his abode in Bauerbach, did once or twice receive little subventions of money from his Father, although never without earnest and not superfluous admonition to become more frugal, and take better heed in laying-out his'money. For economics were, by Schiller’s owm confession, “not at all his talent ; it cost him less,” he says, “ to execute a whole conspiracy and tragedy-plot than to ad- just his scheme of housekeeping.” — At this time it w r as never the Father himself who wrote to Schiller, but always Christo- jihine, by his commission ; and on the other hand, Schiller too never risked writing directly to his Father, as he felt but too well how little on his part had been done to justify the flight in his Father’s eyes. He writes accordingly, likewise on that 8tli December 1782, to his Publisher Schwan : “ If you can accelerate the printing of my Fiesco, you ’will very much oblige me by doing so. You know that nothing but the pro- hibition to become an Author drove me out of the AY iirtem- berg service. If I now, on this side, don’t soon let my native country hear of me, they will say the step I took was use- less and without real motive.” THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. 1 In Bauerbach Schiller lived about eight months, under the name of Doctor Ritter, unknown to everybody ; and only the Court-Librarian, Reinwald, in Meiningen, afterwards his Brother-in-law,’ as we shall see, ‘ in whom he found a solid friend, had been trusted by Frau von Wolzogen with the name and true situation of the mysterious stranger. The most of Schiller’s time here was spent in dramatic labours, enterprises and dreams. The outcome of all these were his third civic Tragedy, Louise Miller, or Eabale unci Liebe, which was fin- ished in February 1783, and the settling on Don Carlos as a new tragic subject. Many reasons, meanwhile, in the last eight months, had been pushing Schiller into the determina- tion to leave his asylum, and anew turn towards Mannheim. A passionate, though unreturned attachment to Charlotte von Wolzogen at that time filled Schiller’s soul ; and his removal therefore must both to Frau von Wolzogen for her own and her Daughter’s sake, and to Schiller himself, have appeared desirable. It was Frau von Wolzogen’s own advice to him to go for a short time to Mannheim, there to get into clear terms with Dalberg, who had again begun corresponding with him : so, in July 1783, Schiller bade his solitary, and, by this time dear and loved, abode a hasty adieu ; and, much contrary to fond hope, never saw it again. ‘In September 1783, his bargainings with Dalberg had come to this result, That for a fixed salary of 500 gulden,’ 50?. a year, ‘ he was appointed Theatre-Poet here. By this means, to use his own words, the way was open to him gradually to pay-off a considerable portion of his debts, and so escape from the drowning whirlpool, and remain an honest man. Now, furthermore, he thought it permissible to show himself to his Family with a certain composure of attitude ; and opened straightway a regular correspondence with his Parents again. And Captain Schiller volunteers a stiff-starched but true and earnest Letter to the Baron Dalberg himself ; most humbly thanking that gracious nobleman for such beneficent favour shown my poor Son ; and begs withal the far stranger favour that Dalberg would have the extreme goodness to appoint the then inexperienced young man some true friend who might SUPPLEMENT. 229 help him to arrange his housekeeping, and in moral things might be his Mentor ! ‘ Soon after this, an intermittent fever threw the Poet on a sick-bed ; and lamed him above five weeks from all capacity of mental labour. Not even in June of the following year was the disease quite overcome. Visits, acquaintanceships, all kinds of amusements, and more than anything else, over- hasty attempts at work, delayed his cure ; — so that his Father had a perfect right to bring before him his, Schiller’s, own blame in the matter : “ That thou ” ’ ( Er , He ; the then usual tone towards servants and children) ‘ “ for eight whole months hast weltered about with intermittent fever, surely that does little honour to thy study of medicine ; and thou wouldst, with great justice, have poured the bitterest reproaches on any Patient who, in a case like thine, had not held himself to the diet and regimen that were prescribed to him ! ” — ‘ In Autumn 1783, there seized Schiller so irresistible a longing to see his kindred again, that he repeatedly expressed to his Father the great wish he had for a meeting, either at Mannheim or some other place outside the W iirtemberg bor- ders. To the fulfilment of this scheme there were, however, in the sickness which his Mother had fallen into, in the fet- tered position of the Father, and in the rigorously frugal economies of the Family, insuperable obstacles. Whereupon his Father made him the proposal, that he, Friedrich, either himself or by him, the Captain, should apply to the Duke Karl’s Serene Highness ; and petition him for permission to return to his country and kindred. As Schiller to this an- swered nothing, Christophine time after time pressiugly re- peated to him the Father’s proposal. At the risk of again angering his Father, Schiller gave, in his answer to Christo- phine, of 1st January 1781, the decisive declaration that his honour would frightfully suffer if he, without connection with any other Prince, without character and lasting means of sup- port, after his forceful withdrawal from Wurtemberg, should again show face there. “ That my Father,” adds he, as ground of this refusal, “give his name to such a petition -can help me little ; for every one will at once, so long as I cannot 230 THE LIFE OF FRIE 1)1110 11 LG FULLER. make it plain that I no longer need the Duke of Wiirtemberg, suspect in a return, obtained on petition (by myself or by another is all one), a desire to get settled in Wiirtemberg again. Sister, consider with serious attention these circum- stances ; for the happiness of thy Brother may, by rash haste in this matter, suffer an incurable wound. Great part of Ger- many knows my relations to your Duke and of the way I left him. People ‘have interested themselves for me at the ex- pense of this Duke ; how horribly -would the respect of the public (and on this depends my whole future fortune), how miserably would my own honour sink by the suspicion that I had sought this return ; that my circumstances had forced me to repent my former step ; that the support which I had sought in the wide world had misgone, and I was seeking it anew in my Birthland ! The open manlike boldness, -which I showed in my forceful withdrawal, u T ould get the name of a childish outburst of mutiny, a stupid bit of impotent bluster, if I do not make it good. Love for my dear ones, longiug for my Fatherland might perhaps excuse me in the heart of this or the other candid man ; but the world makes no account of all that. “For the rest, if my Father is determined to do it, I cannot hinder him ; only this I say to thee, Sister, that in case even the Duke would permit it, I will not show myself on Wiir- temberg ground till I have at least a character (for which object I shall zealously labour) ; and that in case the Duke refuses, I shall not be able to restrain myself from avenging the affront thereby put upon me by open fooleries (sottisen) and expressions of myself in print.” ‘ The intended Petition to the Duke was not drawn out, — and Father Schiller overcame his anger on the matter ; as, on closer consideration of the Son’s aversion to this step, he could not wholly disapprove him. Yet he did not hide from Schiller Junior the steadfast wish that he. would in some way or other try to draw near to the Duke ; at any rate he, Father Schiller, “ hoped to God that their parting would not last for- ever ; and that, in fine, he might still live to see his only Son near him again.” SUPPLEMENT. 231 ‘ In Mannheim Schiller’s financial position, in spite of his earnest purpose to manage wisely, grew by degrees worse rather than better. Owing to the many little expenses laid upon him by his connections in society, his income would not suffice ; and the cash-box was not seldom run so low that he had not wherewithal to support himself next day. Of as- sistance from home, with the rigorous income of his Father, which scarcely amounted to 40/. a year, there could nothing be expected ; and over and above, the Father himself had, in this respect, very clearly spoken his mind. “Parents and Sisters,” said Schiller Senior, “have as just a right as they have a confidence, in cases of necessity, to expect help and support from a Son.” To fill to overflowing the measure of the Poet’s economical distress, there now stept forth suddenly some secret creditors of his in Stuttgart, demanding imme- diate payment. Whereupon, in quick succession, there came to Captain Schiller, to his great terror, two drafts from the Son, requiring of him, the one 10/., the other 51. The Captain after stern reflection, determined at last to be good for both demands ; but wrote to the Son that he only did so in order that his, the Son’s, labour might not be disturbed ; and in the confident anticipation that the Son, regardful of his poor Sis- ters and their bit of portion, would not leave him in the lurch. ‘ But Schiller, whom still other debts in Stuttgart, un- known to his Father, were pressing hard, could only repay the smaller of these drafts ; and thus the worthy father saw himself compelled to pay the larger, the 10/., out of the sav- ings he had made for outfit of his Daughters. Whereupon, as was not undeserved, he took liis Son tightly to task, and wrote to him: “As long as thou, my Son, skalt make thy reckoning on resources that are still to come, and therefore art still subject to chance and mischance, so long wilt thou continue in thy mess of embarrassments. Furthermore, as long as thou thinkest, This gulden or batzen (shilling or far- thing) can’t help me to get over it ; so long will thy debts become never the smaller : and, what were a sorrow" to me, thou wilt not be able, after a heavy labour of head got done, to recreate thyself in the society of other good men. But, withal. 232 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. to make recreation-days of that kind more numerous than work-days, that surely will not turn out well. Best Son, thy abode in Bauerbach has been of that latter kind. Hinc illce lacrymce ! For these thou art now suffering, and that not by accident. The embarrassment thou now art in is verily a work of Higher Providence, to lead thee off from too great trust in thy own force ; to make thee soft and contrite ; that, laying aside all selfwill, thou mayest follow more the counsel of thy Father and other true friends ; must meet every one with due respectful courtesy and readiness to oblige ; and be- come ever more convinced that our most gracious Duke, in his restrictive plans, meant well with thee ; and that alto- gether thy position and outlooks had now been better, hadst thou complied, and continued in thy country. Many a time I find thou hast wayward humours, that make thee to thy truest friend scarcely endurable ; stiff ways which repel the best-wishing man ; — -for example, when I sent thee my ex- cellent old friend Herr Amtmann Cramer from Altdorf near Speier, who had come to Herr Hofrath Schwan’s in the end of last year, thy reception of him was altogether dry and stingy, though by my Letter I had given thee so good an op- portunity to seek the friendship of this honourable, rational and' influential man (who has no children of his own), and to try whether he might not have been of help to thee. Thou wilt do well, I think, to try and make good this fault on another opportunity.” ‘At the same time the old man repeatedly pressed him to return to Medicine, and graduate in Heidelberg : “ a theatre- poet in Germany,” he signified, “ was but a small light ; and as he, the Son, with all his Three Pieces, had not made any footing for himself, what was to be expected of the future ones, which might not be of equal strength ! Doctorship, on the other hand, would give him a sure income and reputation as well.” — Schiller himself was actually determined to follow his Father’s advice as to Medicine ; but this project and others of the same, which were sometimes taken up, went to nothing, now and always, for want of money to begin with. ■ Amid these old tormenting hindrances, affronts and em- SUPPLEMENT. 233 barrassments, Schiller had also many joyful experiences, to which even his Father was not wholly indifferent. To these belong, besides many others, his reception into the Kur- pfdlzische Deutsche Gesellschaft,’ German Society of the Elec- toral Palatinate, ‘ of this year ; which he himself calls a great step for his establishment ; as well as the stormy applause with which his third Piece, Kabale und Liebe, came upon the boards, in March following. His Father acknowledged re- ceipt of this latter Work with the words, “ That I possess a copy of thy new' Tragedy I tell nobody ; for I dare not, on ac- count of certain passages, let any one notice that it has pleased me.” Nevertheless the Piece, as already The Bobbers had done, came in Stuttgart also to the acting point ; and was received with loud approval. Schiller now, with new pleasure and inspiration, laid hands on his Don Carlos ; and with the happy progress of this Work, there began for him a more confident temper of mind, and a clearing-up of horizon and outlook ; which henceforth only transiently yielded to embarrassments in his outer life. ‘Soon after this, however, there came upon him an unex- pected event so suddenly and painfully that, in his extremest excitement and misery, he fairly hurt the feelings of his Fa- ther by unreasonable requirements of him, and reproaches on their being refused. A principal Stuttgart Cautioner of his, incessantly pressed upon by the stringent measures of the creditors there, had fairly run off, saved himself by flight, from Stuttgart, and been seized in Mannheim, and there put in jail. Were not this Prisoner at once got out, Schiller's honour and peace of conscience were at stake. And so, be- fore his (properly Streicher’s) Landlord, the Architect Holzel, could get together the required 300 gulden, and save this un- lucky friend, the half-desperate Poet had written home, and begged from his Father that indispensable sum. And on the Father’s clear refusal, had answered him with a very unfilial Letter. Not till after the lapse of seven weeks, did the Fa- ther reply ; in a Letter, which, as a luminous memorial of his faithful honest father-heart and of his considerate just char- acter as a man, deserves insertion here : 234: THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. “ Very unwilling,” writes he, “ am I to proceed to the an- swering of thy last Letter, 21st November, of the past year ; which I could rather wish never to have read than now to taste again the bitterness contained there. Not enough that thou, in the beginning of the said Letter, very undeservedly reproachest me, as if I could and should have raised the 300 gulden for thee, — thou continuest to blame me, in a very painful way, for my inquiries about thee on this occasion. Dear Son, the relation between a good. Father and his Son fallen into such a strait, who, although gifted with many faculties of mind, is still, in all that belongs to true greatness and contentment, much mistaken and astray, can never justify the Son in taking up as an injury what the Father has said out of love, out of consideration and experience of his own, and meant only for his Son’s good. As to what concerns those 300 gulden, every one, alas, who knows my position here, knows that it cannot be possible for me to have even 50 gulden, not to speak of 300, before me in store ; and that I should borrow such a sum, to the still further disadvantage of my other children, for a Son, who of the much that he has promised me has been able to perform so little, — there, for certain, were I an unjust Father.” Farther on, the old man takes him up on another side, a private family affair. Schil- ler had, directly and through others, in reference to the pros- pect of a marriage between his elder Sister Christophiue and his friend Eeinwald the Court Librarian of Meiningen, ex- pressed himself in a doubting manner, and thereby delayed the settlement of this affair. In regard to which his Father tells him : “ And now I have something to remark in respect of thy Sister. As thou, my Son, partly straight out, and partly through Frau von Kalb, hast pictured Iteinwald in a way to deter both me and thy Sister in counselling and negotiating in the way we intended, the affair seems to have become quite retrograde : for Eeinwald, these two months past, has not written a word more. Whether thou, my Son, didst well to hinder a match not unsuitable for the age, and the narrow pecuniary circumstances of thy Sister, God, who sees into fu- SUPPLEMENT. 235 turity, knows. As I am now sixty-one years of age, and can leave little fortune when I die ; and as thou, my Son, how happily soever thy hopes be fulfilled, wilt yet have to struggle, years long, to get out of these present embarrassments, and arrange thyself suitably ; and as, after that, thy own probable marriage will always require thee to have more thy own ad- vantages in view, than to be able to trouble thyself much about those of thjr Sisters ; — it would not, all things consid- ered, had been ill if Ckristophine had got a settlement. She would quite certainly, with her apparent regard for Eeinwald, have been able to fit herself into his ways and him ; all the better as she, God be thanked, is not yet smit with ambition, and the wish for great things, and can suit herself to all con- ditions. ” The Eeinwald marriage did take place by and by, in spite of Schiller Junior’s doubts ; and had not Christophine been the paragon of Wives, might have ended very ill for all parties. ‘ jUiter these incidents, Schiller bent his whole strength to disengage himself from the crushing burden of his debts, and to attain the goal marked out for him by his Parents’ wishes, ■ — an enduring settlement and steady way of life. Two things essentially contributed to enliven his activity, and brighten his prospects into the future. One was, the original beginning, which falls in next June 1784, of his friendly intimacy with the excellent Korner ; in whom he was to find not only the first founder of his outer fortune in life, but also a kindred spirit, and cordial friend such as he had never before had. The second was, that he made, what shaped his future lot, ac- quaintance with Duke Karl August of Weimar ; who, after hearing him read the first act of Don Carlos at the Court of Darmstadt, had a long conversation with the Poet, and offi- cially, in consequence of the same, bestowed on him the title of Eath. This new relation to a noble German Prince gave him a certain standing-ground for the future ; and at the same time improved his present condition, by completely securing him in respect of any risk from W urtemberg. The now Schiller, as Court-Counsellor ( Ho/rath ) to the Duke of Wei- mar ; distinguished in this way by a Prince, who was acquainted 236 TIIE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER, with the Muses, and accustomed only to what was excellent, — stept forth in much freer attitude, secure of his position and himself, than the poor fugitive under ban of law hud done. ‘ Out of this, however, and the fact resulting from it, that he now assumed a more decisive form of speech in the Peri- odical “ Thalia ” founded by him, and therein spared the players as little as the public, there grew for him so many and such irritating brabbles and annoyances that he determined to quit his connection with the Theatre, leave Mannheim alto- gether ; and, at Leipzig with his new title of Path, to begin a new honourable career. So soon as the necessary moneys and advices from his friend ’ (Korner) ‘ had arrived, he repaired thither, end of March 1785 ; and remained there all the sum- mer. In October of the same year, he followed his friend Korner to Dresden ; and found in the family of this just- minded, clear-seeing man the purest and warmest sympathy for himself and his fortunes. The year 1787 led him at last to Weimar. But here too he had still long to struggle, u$der the pressure of poverty and want of many things, while the world, in ever-increasing admiration, was resounding with his name, till, in 1789, his longing fora civic existence, and there- with the intensest w T ish of his Parents, was fulfilled. ‘Inexpressible was the joy of the now elderly Father to see his deeply-beloved Son, after so many roamings, mischances and battles, at last settled as Professor in Jena ; and soon thereafter, at the side of an excellent Wife, happy at a hearth of his own. The economic circumstances of the Son were now also shaped to the Father’s satisfaction. If his College salary was small, his literary labours, added thereto, yielded him a sufficient income ; his Wife moreover had come to him quite fitted out, and her mother had given all that belongs to a household. “ Our economical adjustment,” writes Schiller to his Father, some weeks after their marriage, “has fallen out, beyond all my wishes, well ; and the order, the dignity which I see around me here serves greatly to exhilarate my mind. Could you but for a moment get to me, you would rejoice at the happiness of your Sou.” ‘Well satisfied and joyful of heart, from this time, the SUPPLEMENT. 237 Father’s eye followed his Son’s career of greatness and renown upon which the admired Poet every year stepped onwards, powerfuler, and richer in results, without ever, even tran- siently, becoming strange to his Father’s house and his kin- dred there. Quite otherwise, all letters of the Son to Father and Mother bear the evident stamp of true-hearted, grateful and pious filial love. He took, throughout, the heartiest share in all, even the smallest, events that befell in his Father’s house ; and in return communicated to his loved ones all of his own history that could soothe and gratify them. Of this the following Letter, written by him, 26th October 1791, on receipt of a case of wine sent from home, furnishes a convin- cing proof : “Dearest Father, — I have just returned with my dear Lotte from Kudolstadt” (her native place), “where I was passing- part of my holidays ; and find your Letter. Thousand thanks for the thrice-welcome news you give me there, of the im- proving health of our dear Mother, and of the general welfare of you all. The conviction that it goes well with you, and that none of my dear loved ones is suffering, heightens for me the happiness which I enjoy here at the side of my dear Lotte. “You are careful, even at this great distance, for your chil- dren, and gladden our little household wdth gifts. Heartiest thanks from us both for the Wine you have sent ; and with the earliest carriage-post the Hein walds shall have their share. Day after tomorrow we will celebrate your Birthday as if you were present, and with our whole heart drink your health. “Here I send you a little production of my pen, which may perhaps give pleasure to my dear Mother and Sisters ; for it should be at least written for ladies. In the year 1790, Wieland edited the Historical Calendar , and in this of 1791 and in the 1792 that will follow, I have undertaken the task. In- significant as a Calendar seems to be, it is that kind of book which the Publishers can circulate the most extensively, and which accordingly brings them the best payment. To the Authors also they can, accordingly, offer much more. For this Essay on the Thirty-Years War they have given me 80 Louis-d’or, and I have in the middle of my Lectures w-ritten it in four w'eeks. Print, copperplates, binding, Author’s hono- 238 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER rarium cost tlie Publisher 4,500 reichsthaler (675 L), and he counts on a sale of 7,000 copies or more. “ 28 til. Today,” so he continues, after some remarks on a good old friend of his Father's, written after interruption, — • “Today is your Birthday, dearest Father, which we both celebrate with a pious joy that Heaven has still preserved you sound and hapjjy for us thus far. May heaven still watch over your dear life and your health, and preserve your days to the latest age, that so your grateful Son may be able to spread, with all the power he has, joy and contentment over the evening of your life, and pay the debts of filial duty to you ! “ Farewell, my dearest Father ; loving kisses to our dear- est Mother, and my dear Sisters. We will soon write again. “ The Wine has arrived in good condition ; once more re- ceive our hearty thanks. — Your grateful and obedient Son “ Fbiedkich.” ‘In the beginning of this year (1791) the Poet had been seized with a violent and dangerous affection of the chest. The immediate danger was now over ; but his bodily health was, for the rest of his life, shattered to ruin, and required, for the time coming, especially for the time just come, all manner of soft treatment and repose. The worst therefore was to be feared if his friends and he could not manage to place him, for the next few years, in a position freer from economic cares than now. Unexpectedly, in this difficulty, help appeared out of Denmark. Two warm admirers of Schiller’s genius, the then hereditary Prince of Holstein- Augustenburg ’ (Grandfather of the Prince Christian now, 1872, conspicuous in our English Court), ‘ and Count von Schim- melmann, offered the Poet a pension of 1,000 thalers’ (150Z.) ‘ for three years ; and this with a fineness and delicacy of manner, which touched the recipient more even than the offer itself did, and moved him to immediate assent. The Pension was to remain a secret ; but how could Schiller pre- vail on himself to be silent of it to his Parents? With tears of thankfulness the Parents received this glad message : in their pious minds they gathered out of this the beneficent conviction that their Son’s heavy sorrows, and the danger in SUPPLEMENT. 239 ■which his life hung, had only been decreed by Providence to set in its right light the love and veneration which he far and near enjoyed. Schiller himself this altogether unexpected proof of tenderest sympathy in his fate visibly cheered, and strengthened even in health ; at lowest, the strength of his spirit, which now felt itself free from outward embarrassments, subdued under it the weakness of his body. ‘ In the middle of the year 1793, the love of his native country, and the longing after his kindred, became so lively in him that he determined, with his Wife, to visit Swabia. He writes to Korner : “ The Swabian, whom I thought I had alto- gether got done with, stirs himself strongly in me ; but indeed I have been eleven years parted from Swabia ; and Thiiringen is not the country in which I can forget it.” In August he set out, and halted first in the then Reichstadt ’ (Im- perial Free Town) ‘ Heilbronn, where he found the friendliest reception ; and enjoyed the first indescribable emotion in seeing again his Parents, Sisters and early friends. “ My dear ones,” writes he to Korner, 27th August, from Heilbronn, “I found well to do, and, as thou canst suppose, greatly re- joiced to meet me again. My Father, in his seventieth year, is the image of a healthy old age ; and any one who did not know his years would not count them above sixty. He is in continual activity, and this it is which keeps him healthy and youthful.” In large draughts the robust old man enjoyed the pleasure, long forborne, of gazing into the eyes of his Son, ■who now stood before him a completed man. He knew not whether more to admire than love him ; for, in his whole appearance, and all his speeches and doings, there stamped itself a powerful lofty spirit, a tender loving heart, and a pure noble character. His youthful fire was softened, a mild seri- ousness and a friendly dignity did not leave him even in jest ; instead of his old neglect in dress, there had come a dignified elegance ; and his lean figure and his pale face completed the interest of his look. To this was yet added the almost won- derful gift of conversation *upon the objects that were dear to him, whenever he was not borne down by attacks of illness. 240 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. ‘ From Heilbronn, soon after bis arrival, Schiller wrote to Duke Karl, in the style of a grateful former Pupil, whom con- tradictory circumstances had pushed away from his native country. He got no answer from the Duke ; but from Stutt- gart friends he did get sure tidings- that the Duke, on receipt of this Letter, had publicly said, If Schiller came into Wiir- temberg Territory, he, the Duke, would take no notice. To Schiller Senior, too, he had at the same time granted the humble petition that he might have leave to visit his Son in Heilbronn now and then. ‘ Under these circumstances, Schiller, perfectly secure, visited Ludwigsburg and even Solitude, without, as he him- self expressed it, asking permission of the “ Seliwabenkonig.’ And, in September, in the near prospect of his Wife’s confine- ment, he went altogether to Ludwigsburg, where he was a good deal nearer to his kindred ; and moreover, in the clever Court-Doctor von Hoven, a friend of his youth, hoped to find counsel, help and enjoyment. Soon after his removal, Schil- ler had, in the birth of his eldest Son, Karl, the sweet happi- ness of first paternal joy ; and with delight saw fulfilled what he had written to a frienct shortly before his departure from Jena : “I shall taste the joys of a Son and of a Father, and it will, between these two feelings of Nature, go right well with me.” ‘ The Duke, ill of gout, and perhaps feeling that death was nigh, seemed to make a point of strictly ignoring Schiller ; and laid not the least hindrance in his way. On the contrary, he granted Schiller Senior, on petition, the permission to make use of a certain Bath as long as he liked ; and this Bath lay so near Ludwigsburg that he could not but think the meaning merely was, that the Father wished to be nearer his Son. Absence was at once granted by the Duke, useful and necessary as the elder Schiller always was to him at home. For the old man, now Major Schiller, still carried on his over- seeing of the Ducal Gardens and Nurseries at Solitude, and his punctual diligence, fidelity, intelligence and other excel- lences in that function had long be*en recognised. ‘In a few weeks after, 24th October 1793, Duke Kail died ; SUPPLEMENT. 241 aud was, by bis illustrious Pupil, regarded as iu some sort a paternal friend. Scbiller thought only of the great qualities of the deceased, and of the good he had done him ; not of the great faults which as Sovereign, and as man, he had mani- fested. Only to his most familiar friend did he write : “ The death of old Herod has had no influence either on me or my Family, — except indeed that all men who had immediately to do with that Sovereign Herr, as my Father had, are glad now to have the prospect of a man before them. That the new Duke is, in every good, and also in every bad meaning of the word.” Withal, however, his Father, to whom naturally the favour of the new Duke, Ludwig Eugen, was of importance, could not persuade Schiller to welcome him to the Sovereignty with a poem. To Schiller’s feelings it was unendurable to awaken, for the sake of an external advantage from the new Lord, any suspicions as if he welcomed the death of the old .’ 1 Christophine, Schiller’s eldest Sister, whom he always loved the most, was not here in Swabia ; — long hundred miles away, poor Christophine, with her sickly and gloomy Husband at Meiningen, these ten years past ! — but the younger two, Luise and Nanette, were with him, the former daily at his hand. Luise was then twenty-seven, and is described as an excellent domestic creature, amiable, affectionate, even enthusiastic ; yet who at an early period, though full of admiration about her Brother and his affairs, had turned all her faculties and ten- dencies upon domestic practicality, and the satisfaction of being useful to her loved ones in their daily life and wants . 2 Her element was altogether house-management ; the aim of her en- deavour to attain the virtues by which she saw her pious Mother made happy herself, in making others happy in the narrow in- door kingdom. This quiet household vocation, with its mani- fold labours and its simple joys, was Luise’ s world; beyond which she needed nothing and demanded nothing. From her Father she had inherited this feeling for the practical, and this restless activity ; from the Mother her piety, compassion and kindliness ; from both, the love of order, regularity and con- tentment. Luise, in the weak state of Schiller’s Wife’s health, 1 Saupe, p. 60. 2 lb. p. 136 et seqq. 16 242 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. was right glad to take charge of her Brother’s housekeeping ; and, first at Heilbronn and then at Ludwigsburg, did it to the complete satisfaction both of Brother and Sister-in-law. Schil- ler himself gives to Korner the grateful testimony, that she “very well understands household management.” ‘In this daily relation with her delicate and loving Brother, to whom Luise looked up with a sort of timid adoration, he be- came ever dear to her ; with a silent delight, she would often look into the soft eyes of the great and wonderful man ; from whose powerful spirit she stood so distant, and to whose rich heart so near. All-too rapidly for her flew by the bright days of his abode in his home-land, and long she looked after the van- ished one with sad longing ; and Schiller also felt himself drawn closer to his Sister than before ; by whose silent faithful work- ing his abode in Swabia had been made so smooth and agree- able.’ Nanette he had, as will by and by appear, seen at Jena, on her Mother’s visit there, the year before ; — with admiration and surprise he then saw the little creature whom he had left a pretty child of five years old, now become a blooming maiden, beautiful to eye and heart, and had often thought of her since. She too was often in his house, at present ; a loved and inter- esting object always. She had been a great success in the for- eign Jena circle, last year ; and had left bright memories there. This is what Saupe says afterwards, of her appearance at Jena, and now in Schiller’s temporary Swabian home : ‘ She evinced the finest faculties of mind, and an uncommon receptivity and docility, and soon became to all that got ac- quainted with her a dear and precious object. To*declaim pas- sages from her Brother’s Poems was her greatest joy ; she did her recitation well ; and her Swabian accent and naivety of manner gave her an additional charm for her new relatives, and even exercised a beneficent influence on the Poet’s own feelings. With hearty pleasure his beaming eyes rested often on the dear’ Swabian girl, w r ho understood how to awaken in his heart the sweet tones of childhood and home. “She is good,” writes he of her to his friend Korner, aud it seems as if something could be made of her. She is yet much the SUPPLEMENT. 243 child of nature, and that is still the best she could be, never having been able to acquire any reasonable culture.” With Schiller’s abode iu Swabia, from August 1793 till May 1794, Nanette grew still closer to his heart, and in his enlivening and inspiring neighbourhood her spirit and character shot out so many rich blossoms, that Schiller on quitting his Father’s house felt justified in the fairest hopes for the future.’ Just before her visit to Jena, Schiller Senior writes to his Son : “ It is a great pity for Nanette that I cannot give her a better education. She has sense and talent and the best of hearts ; much too of my dear Fritz’s turn of mind, as he will himself see, and be able to judge.” 1 ‘For the rest, on what childlike confidential terms Schiller lived with his Parents at this time, one may see by the follow- ing Letter, of 8th November 1793, from Ludwigsburg : “ Eight sorry am I, dearest Parents, that I shall not be able to celebrate my Birthday, 11th November, along with you. But I see well that good Papa cannot rightly risk just now to leave Solitude at all, — a visit from the Duke being expected there every day. On the whole, it does not altogether de- pend on the day on which one is to be merry with loved souls ; aud every day on which I can be where my dear Parents are shall be festal and welcome to me like a Birthday. “ About the precious little one here Mamma is not to be uneasy.” (Here follow some more precise details about the health of this little Gold Son ; omitted.) “ Of watching and nursing he has no lack ; that you may believe ; and he is in- deed, a little leanness excepted, very lively and has a good appetite. “I have been, since I made an excursion to Stuttgart, tol- erably well ; and have employed this favourable time to get a little forward iu my various employments wdiick have been lying waste so long. For this whole week, I have been very diligent, and getting- on briskly. This is also the cause that I have not written to you. I am always supremely happy when I am busy and my labour speeds. * “ For your so precious Portrait I thank you a thousand times, dearest Father : yet glad as I am to possess this memo- rial of you, much gladder still am I that Providence has 1 Saupe, pp. 149-50. 244 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. granted me to have you yourself, and to live in your neigh- bourhood. But we must profit better by this good time, and no longer make such pauses before coming together again. If you once had seen the Duke at Solitude and known how you stand with him, there would be, I think, no difficulty in a short absence of a few days, especially at this season of the year. I will send up the carriage ” (hired at Jena for the visit thither and back) “ at the very first opportunity, and leave it with you, to be ready always when you can come. “ My and all our hearty and childlike salutations to you both, and to the good Nane ” (Nanette) “ my brotherly salu- tation. “Hoping soon for a joyful meeting, — Your obedient Son, ‘ ‘ Friedrich Schiller. ’ ’ ‘ In the new-year time 1794, Schiller spent several agree- able weeks in Stuttgart ; whither he had gone primarily on account of some family matter which had required settling there. At least he informs his friend Ivorner, on the 17th March, from Stuttgart, “ I hope to be not quite useless to my Father here, though, from the connections in which I stand, I can expect nothing for myself.” ‘ By degrees, however, the sickly, often-ailing Poet began to long again for a quiet, uniform way of life ; and this feel- ing, daily strengthened by the want of intellectual conversa- tion, which had become a necessary for him, grew at length so strong, that he, with an alleviated heart, thought of depart- ure from his Birth -land, and of quitting his loved ones ; glad that Providence had granted him again to possess his Parents and Sisters for months long, and to live in their neighbour- hood. He gathered himself into readiness for the journey back ; and returned, first to his original quarters at Heilbronn, and, in May 1794, with Wife and Child, to Jena. ‘Major Schiller, whom the jew to see his Son and Grand- son seemed to have made young again, lived with fresh pleas- ure in his idyllic calling ; and in free hours busied himself with writing down his twenty-years experiences in the domain of garden- and tree-culture, — in a Work, the printing and publication of which were got managed for him by his re- SUPPLEMENT. 245 Downed Son. In November 1794 be was informed that tbe young Publisher of the first Musen-Almanach had accepted his ms. for an honorarium of twenty-four Karolins ; and that the same was already gone to press. Along with this, the good old Major was valued by his Prince, and by all who knew him. His subordinates loved him as a just impartial man ; feared him, too, however, in his stringent love of order. Wife and children showed him the most reverent regard and tender love ; but the Son was the ornament of his old age. He lived to see the full renown of the Poet, and his close connection with Goethe, through which he was to attain complete master- ship and lasting composure. With hands quivering for joy the old man grasped the mss. of his dear Son ; which from Jena, via Cotta’s Stuttgart Warehouses, were before all things transmitted to him. In a paper from his hand, which is still in existence, there is found a touching expression of thanks, That God had given him such a joy in his Son. “And Thou Being of all beings,” says he in the same, “ to Thee did I pray, at the birth of my one Son, that Thou wouldst supply to him in strength of intellect and faculty wdiat I, from want of learning, could not furnish ; and Thou hast heard me. Thanks to Thee, most merciful Being, that Thou hast heard the prayer of a mortal ! ” ‘ Schiller had left his loved ones at Solitude whole and well ; and with the firm hope that he would see them all again. And the next-following years did pass untroubled over the prosperous Family. But “ ill-luck,” as the proverb says, “ comes with a long stride.” In the Spring of 1796, when the French, under Jourdan and Moreau, had overrun South Germany, there reached Schiller, on a sudden, alarming tidings from Solitude. In the Austrian chief Hospital, which had been established in the Castle there, an epidemic fever had bi’oken out ; and had visited the Schiller Family among others. The youngest Daughter Nanette had sunk under this pestilence, in the flower of her years ; and whilst the second Daughter Luise lay like to die of the same, the Father also was laid bedrid with gout. For fear of infection, nobody ex- cept the Doctors would risk himself at Solitude ; and so the 246 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. poor weakly Mother stood forsaken there, and had, for months long, to bear alone the whole burden of the household dis- tress. Schiller felt it painfully that he was unable to help his loved ones, in so terrible a posture of affairs ; and it cost him great effort to hide these feelings from his friends. In his pain and anxiety, he turned himself at last to his eldest Sister Christophine, Wife of Hofrath Reinwald in Meiningen ; and persuaded her to go to Solitude to comfort and support her people there. Had not the true Sister-heart at once ac- ceded to her Brother’s wishes, he had himself taken the firm determination to go in person to Swabia, in the middle of May, and bring his Family away from Solitiide, and make ar- rangements for their nursing and accommodation. The news of his Sister’s setting out relieved him of a great and con- tinual anxiety. “ Heaven bless thee,” writes he to her on the 6th May, “ for this proof of thy filial love.” He earnestly en- treats her to prevent his dear Parents from delaying, out of thrift, any wholesome means of improvement to their health ; and declares himself ready, with joy, to bear all costs, those of travelling included : she is to draw on Cotta in Tubingen for whatever money she needs. Her Husband also he thanks, in a cordial Letter, for his consent to this journey of his Wife. ‘ July 11, 1796, was born to the Poet, who had been in much trouble about his own household for some time, his second Son, Ernst. Great fears had been entertained for the Mother ; which proving groundless, the happy event lifted a heavy burden from his heart ; and he again took courage and hope. But soon after, on the 15th August, he writes again to the faithful Horner about his kinsfolk in Swabia : “ From the War w r e have not suffered so much ; but all the more from the condition of my Father, who, broken-down under an ob- stinate and painful disease, is slowly wending towards death. How sad this fact is, thou mayest think.” ‘Within few weeks after, 7th September 1796, the Father died; in his seventy-third year, after a sick-bed of eight months. Though his departure could not be reckoned other than a blessing, yet the good Son was deeply shattered by the SUPPLEMENT. 247 news of it. What his filially faithful soul suffered, in these paipful days, is touchingly imaged in two Letters, which may here make a fitting close to this Life-sketch of Schiller’s Father. It was twelve days after his Father’s death when he wrote to his Brother-in-law, Beinwald in Meiningen : “ Thou hast here news, dear Brother, of the release of our good Father ; which, much as it had to be expected, nay wished, has deeply affected us all. The conclusion of so long and withal so active a life is, even for bystanders, a touching object : what must it be to those whom it so nearly concerns? I have to tear myself away from thinking of this painful loss, since it is my part to help the dear remaining ones. It is a great comfort to thy W T ife that she has been able to continue and fulfil her daughterly duty till her Father’s last release. She would never have consoled herself, had he died a few days after her departure home. “Thou understandest how in the first days of this fatal breach among us, while so many painful things storm-in upon our good Mother, thy Christopliine could not have left, even had the Post been in free course. But this still remains stopped, and we must wait the War-events on the Franconian, Swabian and Palatinate borders. How much this absence of thy Wife must afflict, I feel along with thee ; but who can fight against such a chain of inevitable destinies ? Alas, public and universal disorder rolls up into itself our private events too, in the fatalest way. “ Thy Wife longs from her heart for home ; and she only the more deserves our regard that she, against her inclination and her interest, resolved to be led only by the thought of her filial duties. Now, however, she certainly will not delay an hour longer with her return, the instant it can be entered upon without danger and impossibility. Comfort her too when thou writest to her ; it grieves her to know thee for- saken, and to have no power to help thee. “ Fare right well, dear Brother. — Thine, Schiller.” ‘ Nearly at the same time he wrote to his Mother : “Grieved to the heart, I take up the pen to lament with you and my dear Sisters the loss we have just sustained. In truth, for a good while past I have expected nothing else : but when the inevitable actually comes, it is always a sad and overwhelm- THE LIFE OF FRIED RICH EC HILLER. 24S ing stroke. To think that one who was so dear to us, whom we hung upon with the feelings of early childhood, and also in later years were bound to by respect and love, that such an object is gone from the world, that with all our striving we cannot bring it back,- — to think of this is always something frightful. And when, like you, my dearest best Mother, one has shared with the lost Friend and Husband joy and sorrow for so many long years, the parting is all the painfuler. Even when I look away from what the good Father that is gone was to myself and to .us all, I cannot without mournful emotion contemplate the close of so steadfast and active a life, which God continued to him so long, in such soundness of body and mind, and which he managed so honourably and well. Yes truly, it is not a small thing to hold out so faithfully upon so long and toilsome a course ; and like him, in his seventy- third year, to part from the world in so childlike and pure a mood. Might I but, if it cost me all his sorrows, pass away from my life as innocently as he from his ! Life is so severe a trial ; and the advantages which Providence, in some re- spects, may have granted me compared with him, are joined with so many dangers for the heart and for its true peace ! “ I will not attempt to comfort you and my deal - Sisters. You all feel, like me, how much we have lost ; but you feel also that Death alone could end these long sorrows. With our dear Father it is now well ; and we shall all follow him ere long. Never shall the image of him fade from our hearts ; and our grief for him can only unite us still closer together. “Five or sis years ago it did not seem likely that you, my dear ones, should, after such a loss, find a Friend in your Brother, — that I should survive our dear Father. God has ordered it otherwise ; and He grants me the joy to feel that I may still be something to you. How ready I am thereto, I need not assure you. We all of us know one another in this respect, and are our dear Father’s not unworthy children.” This earnest and manful lamentation, which contains also a just recognition of the object lamented, may serve to prove, think Saupe and others, what is very evident, that Caspar Schiller, with his stiff, military regulations, spirit of discipline and rugged, angular ways, was, after all, the proper Father for a wide-flowing, sensitive, enthusiastic, somewhat lawless Friedrich Schiller ; and did beneficently compress him into something of the shape necessary for his task in this world. SUPPLEMENT. 249 II. THE MOTHER. Of Schiller’s Mother, Elisabetha Dorothea Kodweis, born at Marbach 1733, the preliminary particulars have been given above : That she was the daughter of an Innkeeper, Wood- measurer and Baker ; prosperous in the place when Schiller Senior first arrived there. We should have added, what Saupe omits, that the young Surgeon boarded in their house ; and that by the term Woodmeasurer ( Holzmesser , Measurer of Wood), is signified an Official Person appointed not only to measure and divide into portions the wood supplied as fuel from the Ducal or Royal Forests, but to be responsible also for payment of the same. In which latter capacity, Kodweis, as Father Schiller insinuates, was rash, imprudent and un- lucky, and at one time had like to have involved that prudent, parsimonious Son-in-law in his disastrous economics. We have also said what Elisabetlia’s comely looks were, and par- ticular features ; pleasing and hopeful, more and more, to the strict young Surgeon, daily observant of her and them. ‘ In her circle,’ Saupe continues, ‘ she was thought by her early playmates a kind of enthusiast ; because she, with aver- age faculties of understanding, combined deep feeling, true piety and love of Nature, a talent for Music, nay even for Poetry. But perhaps it was the very reverse qualities in her, the fact namely that what she wanted in culture, and it may be also in clearness and sharpness of understanding, was so richly compensated by warmth and lovingness of character, — perhaps it was this which most attracted to her the heart of her deeply-reasonable Husband. And never had he cause to repent his choice. For she was, and remained, as is unani- mously testified of her by trustworthy witnesses, an unpretend- ing, soft and dutiful Wife ; and, as all her Letters testify, had the tenderest mother-heart. She read a good deal, even after her marriage, little as she had of time for reading. Favourite Books with her were those on Natural History ; but she liked best of all to study the Biographies of famous men, or to dwell in the spiritual poetising of an Utz, a Gellert and Ivlop- 250 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER, stock. She also liked, and in some measure had tlie power, to express her own feelings in verses ; which, with all their simplicity, show a sense for rhythm and some expertness in diction. Here is one instance ; her salutation to the Husband who was her First-love, on New-year’s day 1757, the ninth year of their as yet childless marriage : 0 could I but liave found forget-me-not in tlie Valley, And roses beside it ! Then bad I plaited tbee Infragrant blossoms tbe garland for this Kew Tear, Which is still brighter to me than that of our Marriage was. 1 grumble, in truth, that the cold Xorth now governs us, And every flowret’s bud is freezing in the cold earth ! Tet one thing does not freeze, I mean my loving heart ; Thine that is, and shares with thee its joys and sorrows. 1 ‘ The Seven-Years War threw the young Wife into manifold anxiety and agitation ; especially since she had become a Mother, and in fear for the life of her tenderly-loved Hus- band, had to tremble for the Father of her children too. To this circumstance Christophine ascribes, certainly with some ground, the world-important fact that her Brother had a much weaker constitution than herself. He had in fact been almost born in a camp. In late Autumn 1759, the Infantry Regiment of Major-General Romann, in which Caspar Schiller was then a Lieutenant, had, for sake of the Autumn Manoeuvres of the Wiirtemberg Soldiery, taken Camp in its native region. The Mother had thereupon set out from Marbach to visit her long-absent Husband in the Camp ; and it was in his tent that she felt the first symptoms of her travail. She rapidly hast- ened back to Marbach ; and by good luck still reached her 1 ‘ 0 halt ich dock im Thai Yergissmeinnicht gef unden Und Rosen nebenbei ! Damn hat' ich Dir gewunden In Blutliendvft den Kranz zu diesem neuen Jahr, Her schoner noth als dev am Hochzeittage war. Ich zitrne, traun, doss itzt der kalte Word regieret , Undjedes Blumeihens Tieim in Jccdter Erde frieret ! Dock eines frieret nicht, es ist mein liebend Ilerz, Dein ist es, tlieilt mit Dir die Freudcn mid den Schmerz.' SUPPLEMENT. 251 Father’s house in the Market-place there, near by the great Fountain ; where she, on the 11th of November, was delivered of a Boy. For almost four years the little Friedrich with Christopliine and Mother continued in the house of the -well- contented Grandparents (who had not yet fallen poor), under her exclusive care. With self-sacrificing love and careful fidel- ity, she nursed her little Boy ; whose tender body had to suf- fer not only from the common ailments of children, but was heavily visited with fits of cramp. In a beautiful region, on the bosom of a tender Mother, and in these first years far from the oversight of a rigorous Father, the Child grew up, and un- folded himself under cheerful and harmonious impressions. ‘ On the return of his Father from the War, little Fritz, now four years old, was quite the image of his Mother ; long- necked, freckled and reddish-haired like her. It was the pious Mother’s work, too, that a feeling of religion, early and vivid, displayed itself in him. The easily-receptive Boy was indeed keenly attentive to all that his Father, in their Family-circle, read to them, and inexhaustible in questions till he had rightly caught the meaning of it : but he listened with most eager- ness when his Father read passages from the Bible, or voeally uttered them in prayer. “It was a touching sight,” says his eldest Sister, “the expression of devotion on the dear little Child’s countenance. With its blue eyes directed towards Heaven, its high-blond hair about the clear brow, and its fast- clasped little hands. It was like an angel's head to look upon.” ‘With Father’s return, the happy Mother conscientiously shared with him the difficult and important business of bring- ing up their Son ; and both in union worked highly benefi- cially for his spiritual development. The practical and rigorous Father directed his chief aim to developing the Boy’s intellect and character ; the mild, pious, poetic-minded Mother, on the other hand, strove for the ennobling nurture of his temper and his imagination. It was almost exclusively owing to her that his religious feeling, his tender sense of all that was good and beautiful, his love of mankind, tolerance, and capability of self-sacrifice, in the circle of his Sisters and playmates, distinguished the Boy. 252 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. 1 On Sunday afternoons, when she went to walk with both the Children, she was wont to explain to them the Church- Gospel of the day. “ Once,” so stands it in Christophine’s Memorials, “ when we two, as children, had set out walking with dear Mamma to see our Grandparents, she took the way from Ludwigsburg to Marbach, which leads straight over the Hill,” a walk of some four miles. “ It was a beautiful Easter Monday, and our Mother related to us the history of the two Disciples to whom, on their journey to Emmaus, Jesus had joined himself. Her speech and narrative grew ever more in- spired ; and when we got upon the Hill, we were all so much affected that we knelt down and prayed. This Hill became a Tabor to us.” ‘ At other times she entertained the children with fairy-tales and magic histories. Already while in Lorch she had likewise led the Boy, so far as his power of comprehension and her own knowledge permitted, into the domains of German Poetry. Ivlopstock’s Messias, Opitz’s Poems, Paul Gerhard’s and Gel- lert’s pious Songs, were made known to him in this tender age, through his Mother ; and were, for that reason, doubly dear. At one time also the artless Mother made an attempt on him with Hofmannswaldau ; 1 but the sugary and windy tone of him hurt the tender poet-feeling of the Boy. With s mil ing dislike he pushed the Book away ; and afterwards was wont to remark, when, at the new year 1 , rustic congratulants with their foolish rhymes would too liberally present themselves, “Mother, there is a new Hofmannswaldau at the door!” Thus did the excellent Mother guide forward the soul of her docile Boy, with Bible-passages and Church-symbols, with tales, histories and poems, into gradual form and stature. Never forgetting, withal, to awaken and nourish his sense for the beauties of Nature. Before long, Nature had become his dearest abode ; and only love of that could sometimes tempt him to little abridgments of school-hours. Often, in the pretty region of Lorch, he wished the Sun goodnight in open 1 A onc.e-celebrated Silesian of the 17tli century, distinguished for his blusterous exaggerations, numb-footed caprioles, and tearing of a passion to rags ; — now extinct. SUPPLEMENT. 253 song ; or with childish pathos summoned Stuttgart’s Painters to represent the wondrous formation and glorious colouring of the sunset clouds. If, in such a humour, a poor man met him, his overflowing little heart would impel him to the most active pity ; and he liberally gave away whatever he had by him and thought he could dispense with. The Father, who, as above indicated, never could approve or even endure such unreasonable giving-up of one’s feelings to effeminate impres- sions, was apt to intervene on these occasions, even with man- ual punishment, — unless the Mother were at hand to plead the little culprit off. ‘ But nothing did the Mother forward with more eagerness, by every opportunity, than the kindling inclination of her Son to become a preacher ; which even showed itself in his sports. Mother or Sister had to put a little cowd on his head, and pin round him by way of surplice a bit of black apron ; then would he mount a chair and begin earnestly to preach ; ran- ging together in his own way, not without some traces of co- herency, all that he had retained from teaching and church- visiting in this kind, and interweaving it with verses of songs. The Mother, wdio listened attentively and with silent joy, put a higher meaning into this childish play ; and, in thought, saw her Son already stand in the Pulpit, and work, rich in blessings, in a spiritual office. The spiritual profession was at that time greatly esteemed, and gave promise of an hon- ourable existence. Add to this, that the course of studies settled for young Wurtemberg Theologians not only offered im- portant pecuniary furtherances and advantages, but also mor- ally the fewest dangers. And thus the prudent and withal pious Father, too, saw no reason to object to this inclination of the Son and wish of the Mother. ‘It had almost happened, however, that the Latin School in Ludwigsburg (where our Fritz received the immediately pre- paratory teaching for his calling) had quite disgusted him with his destination for theology. The Teacher of Religion in the Institute, a narrow-minded, angry-tempered Pietist,’ as we have seen, ‘ used the sad method of tormenting his scholai-s with continual rigorous, altogether soulless, drillings and train- 254 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. mgs- in matters of mere creed; nay be threatened often to whip them thoroughly if, in the repetition of the catechism, a single word were wrong. And thus to the fioely-sensitive Boy instruction was making hateful to him what domestic in- fluences had made dear. Yet these latter did outweigh and overcome, in the end ; and he remained faithful to his purpose of following a spiritual career. ‘ When young Schiller, after the completion of his course at the Latin School, 1777, was to be confirmed, his Mother and her Husband came across to Ludwigsburg the day before that solemn ceremony. Just on their arrival, she saw her Son wandering idle and unconcerned about the streets ; and im- pressively represented to him how greatly his indifference to the highest and most solemn transaction of his young life troubled her. Struck and affected hereby, the Boy withdrew ; and, after a few hours, handed to his Parents a German Poem, expressive of his feelings over the approaching renewal of his baptismal covenant. The Father, who either hadn’t known the occasion of this, or had looked upon his Son’s idling on the street with less severe eyes, was highly aston- ished, and received him mockingly with the question, “ Hast thou lost thy senses, Fritz ? ” The Mother, on the other hand, was visibly rejoiced at that poetic outpouring, and with good cause. For, apart from all other views of the matter, she recognised in it how firmly her Son’s inclination was fixed on the study of Theology.’ — (This anecdote, if it were of any moment whatever, appears to be a little doubtful.) 1 The painfuler, therefore, was it to the Mother’s heart when her Son, at the inevitable entrance into the Karl’s School, had to give-up Theology ; and renounce withal, for a long time, if not forever, her farther guidance and influence. But she was too pious not to recognise by degrees, in this change also, a Higher Hand ; and could trustfully expect the workings of the same. Besides, her Son clung so tenderly to her, that at least there was no separation of him from the Mother’s heart to be dreaded. The heart-warm attachment of childish years to the creed taught him by his Mother might, and did, vanish ; but not the attachment to his Mother herself, whose dear image SUPPLEMENT. 255 often enough charmed back the pious sounds and forms of early days, and for a time scared away doubts and unbelief. ‘ Years came and went ; and Schiller, at last, about the end of 1780, stept out of the Academy, into the actual world, which he as yet knew only by hearsay. Delivered from that long unnatural constraint of body and spirit, he gave free course to his fettered inclinations ; and sought, as in Poetry so also in Life, unlimited freedom ! The tumults of passion and youthful buoyancy, after so long an imprisonment, had their sway ; and embarrassments in money, their natural conse- quence, often brought him into very sad moods. ‘ In this season of time, so dangerous for the moral purity of the young man, his Mother again was his good Genius : a warning and request, in her soft tone of love, sufficed to recall youthful levity within the barriers again, and restore the bal- ance. She anxiously contrived, too, that the Son, often and willingly, visited his Father’s house. Whenever Schiller had decided to give himself a good day, lie wandered out with some friend as far as Solitude.’ (Only some four or five miles.) “ ‘ What a baking and a roasting then went on by that good soul,” says one who witnessed it, “ for the dear Prodigy of a Son and the comrade who had come with him ; for whom the good Mother never could do enough ! Never have I seen a better maternal heart, a more excellent, more domestic, more womanly woman.” ‘ The admiring recognition which the Son had already found among his youthful friends, and in wider circles, was no less grateful to her heart than the gradual perception that his powerful soul, welling forth from the interior to the outward man, diffused itself into his very features, and by degrees even advantageously altered the curvatures and the form of his body. His face about this time got rid of its freckles and irregularities of skin ; and strikingly improved, moreover, by the circumstance that the hitherto rather drooping nose gradu- ally acquired its later aquiline form. And withal, the youth- ful Poet, with the growing consciousness of his strength and of his worth, assumed an imposing outward attitude ; so that a witty Stuttgart Lady, whose house Schiller often walked 256 THE LIFE OF FRIED RICH SCHILLER. past, saicl of him : “ Regiment’s Dr. Schiller steps out as if the Duke were one of his inferior servants ! ” ‘ The indescribable impression which the Robbers, the gigan- tic first-born of a Karl’s Scholar, made in Stuttgart, com- municated itself to the Mother too ; innocently she gave her- self up to the delight of seeing her Son’s name wondered at and celebrated ; and was, in her Mother-love, inventive enough to overcome all doubts and risks which threatened to dash her joy. By Christophine’s mediations, and from the Son him- self as well, she learned many a disquieting circumstance, which for the present had to be carefully concealed from her Husband ; but nothing whatever could shake her belief in her Son and his talent. Without murmur, with faithful trust in God, she resigned herself even to the bitter necessity of losing for a long time her only Son ; having once got to see, beyond disputing, that his purpose was firm to withdraw himself by flight from the Duke’s despotic interference with his poetical activity as well as with his practical procedures ; and that this purpose of his was rigorously demanded by the circumstances. Yet a sword went through her soul when Schiller, for the last time, appeared at Solitude, secretly to take leave of her.’ Her feelings on this tragic occasion have been described above ; and may well be pictured as among the painfulest, tenderest and saddest that a Mother’s heart could have to bear. Our Author continues : ‘ In reality, it was to the poor Mother a hard and lamen- table time. Remembrance of the lately bright and safe-look- ing situation, now suddenly rent asunder and committed to the dubious unknown ; anxiety about their own household and the fate of her Son ; the Father’s just anger, and perhaps some tacit self-reproach that she had favoured a dangerous game by keeping it concealed from her honest-hearted Hus- band, — lay like crushing burdens on her heart. And if many a thing did smooth itself, and many a thing, which at first was to be feared, did not take place, one thing remained fixed con- tinually, — painful anxiety about her Son. To the afflicted Mother, in this heavy time, Frau von Wolzogen devoted the most sincere and beneficent sympathy ; a Lady of singular SUPPLEMENT. 257 goodness of heart, who, during Schiller’s eight hidden months at Bauerbacli, frequently went out to see his Family at Soli- tude. By her oral reports about Schiller, whom she herself several times visited at Bauerbach, his parents were more soothed than by his own somewhat excited Letters. With reference to this magnanimous service of friendship, Schiller wrote to her at Stuttgart in February 1783 : A Letter to my Parents is getting on its way ; yet, much as I had to speak of you, I have said nothing whatever ” (from prudent motives) “ of your late appearance here, or of the joyful moments of our conversation together. You yourself still, therefore, have all that to tell, and you will presumably find a pair of atten- tive hearers.” Frau von Wolzogen ventured also to apply to a high court lady, Countess von Hohenheim ’ (Duke’s finale in the illicit way, whom he at length wedded), ‘ personally favourable to Schiller, and to direct her attention, before all, upon the heavy-laden Pai’ents. Nor was this wdthout effect. For the Countess’s persuasion seems essentially to have contrib- uted to the result that Duke Earl, out of respect for the de- serving Father, left the evasion of his own Piqfil unpunished. ‘ It must, therefore, have appeared to the still-agitated Mother, who reverenced the Frau von Wolzogen as her helpful guardian, a flagrant piece of ingratitude, when she learnt that her Son was allowing himself to be led into a passionate love for the blooming young Daughter of his Benefactress. She grieved and mourned in secret to see him exposed to new storms ; foreseeing clearly, in this passion, a ready cause for his removal from Bauerbach. To such agitations her body was no longer equal ; a creeping, eating misery undermined her health. She wrote to her Son at Mannheim, with a soft shadow of reproof, that in this year, since his absence, she had become ten years older in health and looks. Not long after, she had actually to take to bed, because of painful cramps, which, proceeding from the stomach, spread them- selves over breast, head, back and loins. The medicines which the Son, upon express account of symptoms by the Father, prescribed for her, had no effect. By degrees, indeed, these eramps abated or left-of ; but she tottered about in a state 17 258 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. of sickness, years long : tlie suffering mind would not let the body come to strength. For though her true heart was filled with a pious love, which hopes all, believes and suffers all, yet she was neither blind to the faults of her Son, nor indifferent to the thought of seeing her Family’s good repute and well- being threatened by his non-performances and financial con- fusions. ‘ With the repose and peace which the news of her Son’s appointment to Jena, and intended marriage, had restored to his Family, there appeared also (beginning of 1790) an im- provement to be taking place in the Mother’s health. Learn- ing this by a Letter from his Father, Schiller wrote back with lightened heart : “ How welcome, dearest Father, was your last Letter to me, and how necessary! I had, the very day before, got from Christophine the sad news that my dearest Mother’s state had grown so much worse ; and what a blessed turn now has this weary sickness taken ! If in the future regi- men vitce (diet arrangements) of ray dearest Mother, there is strict care taken, her long and many sufferings, with the source of them, may be removed. Thanks to a merciful Providence, which saves and preserves for us the dear Mother of our youth. My soul is moved with tenderness and grati- tude. I had to think of her as lost to us forever ; and she has now been given back.” In reference to his approaching marriage with Lottchen von Lengefeld, he adds, “ How did it lacerate my heart to think that my dearest Mother might not live to see the happiness of her Son ! Heaven bless you with thousandfold blessings, best Father, and grant to my dear Mother a cheerful and painless life ! ” ‘ Soon, however, his Mother again fell sick, and lay in great danger. Not till August following could the Father announce that she was saved, and from day to day growing stronger; The annexed history of the disorder seemed so remarkable to Schiller, that he thought of preparing it for the public ; vmless the Physician; Court-Doctor Consbruch, liked better to send it out in print himself. “On this point,” says Schiller, “I will write to him by the first post ; and give him my warmest thanks for the inestimable service he has done us all, by his SUPPLEMENT. 259 masterly cure of our clear Mamma ; and for his generous and friendly behaviour throughout.” “ How heartily, my dearest Parents,” writes he farther, “ did it rejoice us both ” (this Letter is of 29th December ; on the 20th February of that year he had been wedded to his Lotte), “ this good news of the still-continuing improvement of our dearest Mother ! With full soul we both of us join in the thanks which you give to gracious Heaven for this recovery ; and our heart now gives way to the fairest hopes that Providence, which herein overtops our expectations, will surely yet prepare a joyful meeting for us all once more.” ‘ Two years afterwards this hope passed into fulfilment. The Mother being now completely cured of her last disorder, there seized her so irresistible a longing for her Son, that even her hesitating Husband, anxious lest her very health should suffer, at last gave his consent to the far and difficult journey to Jena. On the 3d Sept. 1792, Schiller, in joyful humour, announces to his friend in Dresden, “ Today I have received from home the very welcome tidings that my good Mother, with one of my Sisters, is to visit us here this month. Her arrival falls at a good time, when I hope to be free and loose from labour ; and then we have ahead of us mere joyful under- takings.” The Mother came in company with her youngest Daughter, bright little Nane, or Nanette ; and surprised him two days sooner than, by the Letters from Solitude, he had expected her. Unspeakable joy and sweet sorrow seized Mother and Son to feel themselves, after ten years of separa- tion, once more in each other’s arms. The long journey, bad weather and roads had done her no harm. “ She has altered a little, in truth,” writes he to Horner, “ from what she was ten years ago ; but after so many sicknesses and sorrows, she still has a healthy look. It rejoices me much that things have so come about, that I have her with me again, and can be a joy to her.” ‘ The Mother likewise soon felt herself at home and happy in the trusted circle of her children ; only too fast flew-by the beautiful and happy days, which seemed to her richly to make amends for so many years of sorrows and cares. 260 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Especially it did lier heart good to see for herself what a beneficent influence the real and beautiful womanhood of her Daughter-in-law exercised upon her Son. Daily she leamt to know the great advantages of mind and heart in her ; daily she more deeply thanked God that for her Son, who, on ac- count even of his weak health, was not an altogether conven- ient Husband, there had been so tender-hearted and so finely-cultivated a Wife given him as life-companion. The conviction that the domestic happiness of her Son was secure contributed essentially also to alleviate the pain of departure. ‘Still happier days fell to her when Schiller, stirred up by her visit, came the year after, with his Wife, to Swabia ; and lived there from August 1793 till May 1794. It was a singu- lar and as if providential circumstance, which did not escape the pious Mother, that Schiller in the same month in which he had, eleven years ago, hurried and in danger, fled out of Stuttgart to Ludwigsburg, should now in peace and without obstruction come, from Heilbronn by the same Ludwigsburg, to the near neighbourhood of his Parents. With bitter tears of sorrow, her eye had then followed the fugitive, in his dark trouble and want of everything ; with sweet tears of joy, she now received her fame-crowned Son,' whom God, through sufferings and mistakes and wanderings, had led to happiness and wisdom. The birth of the Grandson gave to her life a new charm, as if of youth returned. She felt herself highly favoured that God had spared her life to see her deal - Son’s first-born with her own eyes. It was a touching spectacle to see the Grandmother as she sat by the cradle of the little “ Gold Son,” and listened to every breath-drawing of the child ; or when, with swelling heart, she watched the ap- proaching steps of her Son, and observed his true paternal pleasure over his first-born. ‘ Well did the excellent Grandmother deserve such refresh- ment of heart ; for all-too soon there came again upon her troublous and dark days. Schiller had found her stronger and cheerfuler than on her prior visit to Jena ; and had quit- ted his Homedand with the soothing hope that his good Mother would reach a long and happy age. Nor could he SUPPLEMENT. 261 Lave the least presentiment of the events which, three years later, burst-in, desolating and destroying, upon his family, and brought the health and life of his dear Mother again into peril. It is above stated, in our sketch of the Husband, in what extraordinary form the universal public misery, under which, in 1796, all South Germany was groaning, struck the Schiller Family at Solitude. Already on the 21st March of this year, Schiller had written to his Father, “How grieved I am for our good dear Mother, on whom all manner of sor- rows have stormed down in this manner ! But what a mercy of God it is, too, that she still has strength left not to sink under these circumstances, but to be able still to afford you so much help ! Who would have thought, six or seven years ago, that she, who was so infirm and exhausted, would now be serving you all as support and nurse ? In such traits I recognise a good Providence which watches over us ; and my heart is touched by it to the core.” ‘ Meanwhile the poor Mother’s situation grew ever fright- fuler from day to day ; and it needed her extraordinary strength of religious faith to keep her from altogether sink- ing under the pains, sorrows and toils, which she had for so many weeks to bear all alone, with the help only of a hired maid. The news of such misery threw Schiller into the deep- est grief. He saw only one way of sending comfort and help to his poor Mother, and immediately adopted it ; writing to his eldest Sister in Meiningen, as follows : “Thou too wilt have heard, dearest Sister, that Luise has fallen seriously ill ; and that our poor dear Mother is thereby robbed of all consolation. If Luise’s case were to grow worse, or our Father’s even, our poor Mother would be left entirely forsaken. Such misery would be unspeakable. Canst thou make it possible, tloink’st thou, that thy. strength could ac- complish such a thing ? If so, at once make the journey thither. What it costs I will pay with joy. Reinwald might accompany thee ; or, if he did not like that, come over to me here, where I would brother-like take care of him. “ Consider, my dear Sister, that Parents, in such extremity of need, have the justest claim upon their children for help. O God, why am not I myself in such health as in my journey 202 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. thither three years ago ! Nothing should have hindered me from hastening to them ; but that I have scarcely gone over the threshold for a year past makes me so weak that I either could not stand the journey, or should fall down into sick- ness myself in that afflicted house. Alas, I can do nothing for them but help with money ; and, God knows, I do that with joy. Consider that our dear Mother, who has held up hitherto with an admirable courage, must at last, break down under so many sorrows. I know thy childlike loving heart, I know the perfect fairness and equitable probity of my Broth- er-in-law. Both these facts will teach you better than I under the circumstances. Salute him cordially. — Thy faithful Brother, Schllleb.” Christophine failed not to go, as we saw above. £ From the time of her arrival there, no week passed without Schiller’s writing home ; and his Letters much contributed to strengthen and support the heavy daden Mother. The assurance of being tenderly loved by such a Son was infinitely grateful to her ; she considered him as a tried faithful friend, to whom one, without reluctance, yields his part in one’s own sorrows. Schiller thus expresses himself on this matter in a Letter to Christophine of 9tli May. “ The last Letter of my dear good Mother has deeply affected me. Ah, how much has this good Mother already undergone ; and with what patience and cour- age has she borne it ! How touching is it that she opened her heart to me ; and what woe was mine that I cannot im- mediately comfort and soothe her ! Hadst thou not gone, I could not have stayed here. The situation of our deal - ones was horrible ; so solitary, without help from loving Mends, and as if forsaken by their two children, living far away ! I dare not think of it. What did not our good Mother do for her Parents ; and how greatly has she deserved the like from us ! Thou wilt comfort her, dear Sister ; and me thou wilt find heartily ready for all that thou canst propose to me. Salute our dear Parents in the tenderest way, and tell them that their Son feels then - sorrows.” ‘ The excellent Christophine did her utmost in these days of sorrow. She comforted her Mother, and faithfully nursed her Father to his last breath ; nay she saved him and the SUPPLEMENT. .263 house, with great presence of mind, on a sudden inburst of French soldiers. Nor did she return to Meiningen till all tumult of affairs was past, and the Mother was again a little composed. And composure the Mother truly needed ; for in a short space she had seen a hopeful Daughter and a faithful Husband laid in their graves ; and by the death of her Hus- band a union fevered which, originating in mutual affection, had for forty-seven years been blessed with the same mutual feeling. To all which in her position, was now added the doubly-pressing care about her future days. Here, however, the Son so dear to her interposed with loving readiness, and the tender manner natural to him : “You, dear Mother,” he writes, “must now choose wholly for yourself- what your way of life is to be ; and let there be, I charge you, no care about me or others in your choice. Ask yourself where you would like best to live, — here with me, or with Clrristophine, or in our native country with Luise. Whithersoever your choice falls, there will we provide* the means. For the present, of course, in the circumstances given, you would remain at Wiirtemberg a little while ; and in that time all would be arranged. I think you might pass the winter months most easily at Leonberg ” (pleasant Village nearest to Solitude) ; “ and then with the Spring you would come with Luise to Meiningen ; where, however, I would ex- pressly advise that you had a household of your own. But of all this, more next time. I would insist upon your coming here to me, if I did not fear things 'would be too foreign and too unquiet for you. But were you once in Meiningen, we will find means enough to see each other, and to bring your dear Grandchildren to you. It were a great comfort, dearest Mother, at least to know you, for the first three or four weeks after Christophine’s departure, among people of your acquaintance ; as the sole company of our Luise would too much remind you of times that are gone. But should there be no Pension granted by the Duke, and the Sale of Furniture, &c. did not detain you too long, you might per- haps travel with both the Sisters to Meiningen ; and there compose yourself in the new world so much the sooner. All 2(14 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH - SCHILLER. that you need for a convenient life must and shall be yours, dear Mother. It shall be henceforth my care that no anxiety on that head be left- you. After so many sorrows, the evening of your life must be rendered cheerful, or at least peaceful ; and I hope you will still, in the bosom of your Children and Grandchildren, enjoy many a good day.” In conclusion, he bids her send him everything of Letters and^MSS. which his clear Father left ; hereby to fulfil his last wish ; which also shall have its uses to his dear Mother. ‘ The Widow had a Pension granted by the Duke, of 200 gulden ’ (near 20/.) ; ‘ and therein a comfortable proof that official people recognised the worth of her late Husband, and held him in honour. She remained in her native coun- try ; and lived the next three years, according to her Son’s counsel, with Luise in the little village of Leonberg, near to Solitude, where an arrangement had been made for her. Here a certain Herr Eoos, a native of Wiirtembefg, had made some acquaintance with her, in the winter 1797-8 ; to whom we owe the following sketch of portraiture. “ She was a still agreeable old person of sixty-five or six, whose lean wrinkly face still bespoke cheerfulness and kindliness. Her thin hair was all gray ; she was of short ” (middle) “ stature, and her attitude slightly stooping ; she had a pleasant tone of voice ; and her speech flowed light and cheerful Her bearing gen- erally showed native grace, and practical acquaintance with social life.” ‘ Towards the end of 1799, there opened to the Mother a new friendly outlook in the marriage of her Luise to the young Parson, M. Frankb, in Clever-Sulzbach, a little town near Heilbronn. The rather as the worthy Son-in-law would on no account have the Daughter separated from the Mother.’ Error on Saupe’s part. The Mother Schiller continued to oc- cupy her own house at Leonberg till near the end of her life ; she naturally made frequent little visits to Clever-Sulzbach ; and her death took place there. 1 ‘ Shortly before the marriage, Schiller wrote, heartily wishing Mother and Sister happiness in this event. It would be no small satisfaction to his Sister, 1 Beziehungen, 197 n. SUPPLEMENT. 265 lie said, that slie could lodge and wait upon hei’ good dear Mother in a well-appointed house of her own ; to his Mother also it must be a great comfort to see her children all settled, and to live up again in a new generation. ‘Almost contemporary with the removal of the Sou from Jena to Weimar, was the Mother’s with her Daughter to Clever-Sulzbach. The peaceful silence which now environed them in their rural abode had the most salutary influence both on her temper of mind and on her health ; all the more as Daughter and Son-in-law vied with each other in respectful attention to her. The considerable distance from her Son, when at times it fell heavy on her, she forgot in reading his Letters ; which were ever the unaltered expression of the purest and truest child-love. She forgot it too, as often, over the immortal works out of which his powerful spirit spoke to her. She lived to hear the name of Friedrich Schiller cele- brated over all Germany with reverent enthusiasm ; and en- nobled by the German People sooner and more gloriously than an Imperial Patent could do it. Truly a Mother that has had such joys in her Son is a happy one ; and _can and may say, “ Lord, now let me depart in peace ; I have lived enough ! ” ‘In the beginning of the year 1802, Schiller's Mother again fell ill. Her Daughter Luise hastened at once to Stuttgart, where she then chanced to be, and carried her home to Clever-Sulzbach, to be under her own nursing. So soon as Schiller heard of this, he wrote, in well-meant consideration of his Sister’s frugal economies, to Dr. Hoven, a friend of his youth at Ludwigsburg ; and empowered him to take his Mother over thither, under his own medical care : he, Schil- ler, would with pleasure pay all that was necessary for lodg- ing and attendance. But the Mother stayed with her Daugh- ter ; wrote, however, in her last Letter to Schiller : “ Thy un- wearied love and care for me God reward with thousandfold love and blessings ! Ah me ! another such Son there is not in the world ! ” Schiller in his continual anxiety about the dear Patient, had his chief solace in knowing her to be in such tender hands ; and he wrote at once, withal, to his Sis- 200 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. ter : “ Thou wilt permit me also that on my side I try to do something to lighten these burdens for thee. I therefore make this agreement with my Bookseller Cotta that he shall furnish my dear Mother with the necessary money to make good, in a convenient way, the extra outlays which her illness requires.” ‘ Schiller’s hope, supported by earlier experiences, that kind Nature would again .help his Mother, did not find fulfilment. On the contrary, her case grew worse ; she suffered for months the most violent pains ; and was visibly travelling towards Death. Two days before her departure, she had the Medal- lion of her Son handed down to her from the wall ; and pressed it to her heart ; and, with tears, thanked God, who had given her such good children. On the 29th April 1802, she passed away, in the G9th year of her age. Schil- ler, from the tenor of the last news received, had given up all hope ; and wrote, in presentiment of the bitter loss, to his Sister Frankh at Clever-Sulzbach : “ Thy last letter, dearest Sister, leaves me without hope of our dear Mother. For a fortnight past I have looked with terror for the tidings of her departure ; and the fact that thou hast not written in that time, is a ground of fear, not of com- fort. Alas ! under her late circumstances, life was no good to her more ; a speedy and soft departure was the one thing that could be wished and prayed for. But write me, dear Sister, when thou hast recovered thyself a little from these mournful days. Write me minutely of her condition and her utterances in the last hours of her life. It comforts and com- poses me to busy myself with her, and to keep the dear image of my Mother living before me. “ And so they are both gone from us, our dear Parents ; and we Three alone remain. Let us be all the nearer to each other, dear Sister ; and believe always that thy Brother, though so far away from thee and thy Sister, carries you both warmly in his heart ; and in all the accidents of this life will eagerly meet you with his brotherly love. “ But I can Avrite no more today. Write me a few words soon. I embrace thee and thy dear Husband with my whole heart ; and thank him again for all the love he has shown our departed Mother. — Your true Brother, Schiuler.” SUPPLEMENT. 267 c Soon after this Letter, lie received from Frankli, his Broth- er-in-law, the confirmation of his sad anticipations. From his answer to Frankh we extract the following passage: “May Heaven repay with rich interest the dear Departed One all that she has suffered in life, and done for her children ! Of a truth she deserved to have loving children ; for she was a good Daughter to her suffering necessitous Parents ; and the childlike solicitude she always had for them well deserved the like from us. You, my dear Brother-in-law, have shared the assiduous care of my Sister for Her that is gone ; and acquired thereby the justest claim upon my brotherly love. Alas, you had already given j'our spiritual Support and filial service to my late Father, and taken on yourself the duties of his absent Son. How cordially I thank you ! Never shall I think of my departed Mother without, at the same time, bless- ing the memory of him who alleviated so kindly the last days of her life. ” He then signifies the wish to have, from the ef- fects of his dear Mother, something that, without other worth, will remain a continual memorial of her. And was in effect heartily obliged to his Brother, who sent him a ring which had been hers. “ It is the most precious thing that he could have chosen for me,’ 1 writes he to Luise ; “ and I will keep it as a sacred inheritance.” Painfully had it touched him, withal, that the day of his entering his new house at Weimar had been the death-day of his Mother. He noticed this sin- gular coincidence, as if in mournful presentiment of his owu early decease, as a singular concatenatiou of events by the hand of Destiny. ‘ A Tree and a plain stone Cross, with the greatly compre- hensive short inscription, “Here rests Schiller’s Mother,” now mark her grave in Clever-Sulzbach Churchyard.’ III. THE SISTERS. Saupe has a separate Chapter on each of the three Sisters of Schiller ; but most of what concerns them, especially in rela- tion to their Brother, has been introduced incidentally above. 2G3 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Besides which, Saupe’s flowing pages are too long for onr space ; so that instead of translating, henceforth, we shall have mainly to compile from Saupe and others, and faithfully abridge. Christophine ( born 4 Sept. 1757 ; married 1 June 1786 died 31 August 1847). 1 Till Schiller’s flight, in which w T hat endless interest and in- dustries Christophine had we have already seen, the young girls, — Christophine 25, Luise 16, Nanette a rosy little creat- ure of 5, — had known no misfortune ; nor, excep't Chris- tophine’s feelings on the death of the two little Sisters, years ago, no heavy sorrow. At Solitude, but for the general cloud of anxiety and grief about their loved and gifted Brother and his exile, their lives were of the peaceablest description : dili- gence in household business, sewing, spinning, contented punctuality in all things ; in leisure hours eager reading (or at times, on Christophine’s part, drawing and painting, in which she attained considerable excellence), and, as choicest recreation, walks amid the flourishing Nurseries, Tree-avenues, and flue solid industries and forest achievements of Papa. Mention is made of a Cavalry Begiment stationed at Solitude ; the young officers of which, without society in that dull place, and with no employment except parade, were considerably awake to the comely Jungfers Schiller and them promenadings 'Here, from Schiller Senior himself {Autobiography, called “ Curri- culum Vital, ” in Bezieliungen , pp. 15-18), is a List of his six Children; — the two that died so young we have marked in italics: 1. • Elisabeth Christophine Friedericke, horn 4 September 1757, at Marbach. 2. ‘ Johann Christoph Friedrich, born 10 November 1759, at Marbach. 8. ‘ Luise Dorothea Katharina, born 24 January 1766, at Lorcli. 4. ‘ Maria Charlotte, horn 20 November 1768, at Ludicigsburg : died 29 March 1774 ; ’ age 5 gone. 5. ‘ Beata Friedericke, horn 4 May 1773, at Ludwigsburg : died 22 De- cember, same year. 6. ‘ Caroline Christiane, born 8 September 1777, at Solitiide ; ’ — (this is she they call, in fond diminutive, Name or Nanette.) SUPPLEMENT. 269 in those pleasant woods : one Lieutenant of them (afterwards a Colonel, ‘ Obrist von Miller of Stuttgart’) is said to' have manifested honourable aspirations and intentions towards Christophine* — which, however, and all connection with whom or his comrades, the rigorously prudent Father strictly for- bade ; his piously obedient Daughters, Christophine it is rather thought, with some regret, immediately conforming. A Portrait of this Yon Miller, painted by Christophine, still exists, it would appear, among the papers of the Schillers. 1 The great transaction of her life, her marriage with Reiu- wald, Court Librarian of Meiuingen, had its origin in 1783 ; the fruit of that forced retreat of Schiller’s to Bauerbach, and of the eight months he spent there, under covert, anonymously and in secret, as ‘Dr. Ritter,’ with Reinwald for his one friend and adviser. Reinwald, who commanded the resources of an excellent Library, and of a sound understanding, long" seri- ously and painfully cultivated, was of essential use to Schiller g and is reckoned to be the first real guide or useful counsellor he ever had in regard to Literature. One of Christophine’s Letters to her Brother, written at her Father’s order, fell by accident on Reinwald’s floor, and wns read by him, — awaken- ing in his over-clouded, heavy-laden mind a gleam of hope and aspiration. “ This wise, prudent, loving-hearted and judicious young woman, of such clear and salutary principles of wisdom as to economics too, what a blessing she might be to me as Wife in this dark, lonely home of mine ! ” Upon which hint he spake ; and Schiller, as we saw above, who loved him well, but knew him to be within a year or two of fifty, always ailing in health, taciturn, surly, melancholy, and miserably poor, was rebuked by Papa for thinking it question- able. We said, it came about all the same. Schiller had not yet left Mannheim for the second and last time, when, in 1784, Christophine paid him a visit, escorted thither by Rein- wald ; who had begged to have that honour allowed him ; having been at Solitude, and, either there or on his road to Mannheim, concluded his affair. Streicher, an eyewitness of this visit, says, “The healthy, cheerful and blooming Maiden 1 Beziehungen , p. 217 n. THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. 270 had determined to share her future lot with a man, whose small income and uncertain health seemed to promise little joy. Nevertheless her reasons were of so noble a sort, that she never repented, in times following, this sacrifice of her fancy to her understanding, and to a husband of real worth.” 1 They were married “June 1786 and for the next thirty, or indeed in all, sixty years, Christophine lived in her dark new home at Meiningen ; and never, except in that melan- choly time of sickness, mortality and war, appears to have seen Native Land and Parents again. What could have induced, in the calm and well-discerning Christophine, such a resolution, is by no means clear ; Saupe, with hesitation, seems to assign a religious motive, “ the de- sire of doing good.” Had that abrupt and peremptory dis- missal of Lieutenant Miller perhaps something to do with it ? Probably her Father’s humour on the matter, at all times so anxious and zealous to see his Daughters settled, had a chief effect. It is certain, Christophine consulted her Parish Clergy- man on the affair ; and got from him, as Saupe shows us, an affirmatory or at least permissive response. Certain also that she summoned her own best insight of ail kinds to the sub- ject, and settled it calmly and irrevocably with whatever faculty was in her. To the candid observer Reinwald’s gloomy ways were not without their excuse. Scarcely above once before this, in his now longish life, had any gleam of joy or success shone on him, to cheer the strenuous and never-abated struggle. His father had been Tutor to the Prince of Meiningen, who be- came Duke afterwards, and always continued to hold him in honour. Father’s death had taken place in 1751, young Eeinwald then in his fourteenth year. After passing with distinction his three-years curriculum at Jena, Eeinwald re- turned to Meiningen, expecting employment and preferment ; - — the rather perhaps as his Mother’s bit of property got much ruined in the Seven-Years War then raging. Employment Eeinwald got, but of the meanest Kanzlist (Clerkship) kind ; and year after year, in spite of his merits, patient faithfulness 1 Schwab, p. 173, citing Streiclier’s words. SUPPLEMENT. 271 and undeniable talent, no preferment whatever. At length, however, in 1762, the Duke, perhaps enlightened by ex- perience as to Reinwald, or by personal need of such a talent, did send him as Geheimer Kanzlist (kind of Private Secretary) to Vienna, with a view to have from him reports “ about politics and literary objects ” there. This was an extremely enjoyable position for the young man ; but it lasted only till the Duke’s death, which followed within two years. Rein- wald was then immediately recalled by the new Duke (who, I think, had rather been in controversy with his Predecessor), and thrown back to nearly his old position ; where, without any regard had to his real talents and merits, he continued thir- teen years, under the title of Consistorial Kanzlist ; and, with the miserablest fraction of yearly pay, * carried on the slavish, spirit-killing labours required of him.’ In 1776, — uncertain whether as promotion or as mere abridgment of labour, — he was placed in the Library as now ; that is to say, had become Su ^-Librarian, at a salary of about 15/., with all the Library duties to do ; an older and more favoured gentleman, perhaps in lieu of pension, enjoying the Upper Office, and doing none of the work. Under these continual pressures and discouragements, poor Reinwald’s heart had got hardened into mutinous indignation, and his health had broken down : so that, by this time, he was noted in his little world as a solitary, taciturn, morose and gloomy man ; but greatly respected by the few who knew him better, as a clear-headed, true and faithful person, much dis- tinguished by intellectual clearness and veracity, by solid scholarly acquirements and sterling worth of character. To bring a little help or cheerful alleviation to such a down- pressed man, if a wise and gentle Christophine could accom- plish it, would surely be a bit of welldoing ; but it was an extremely difficult one ! The marriage was childless ; not, in the first, or in any times of it, to be called unhappy ; but, as the weight of years was added, Christophine’s problem grew ever more difficult. She was of a compassionate nature, and had a loving, patient, and noble heart ; prudent she was ; the skilfulest and thriftiest of 272 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. financiers ; could well keep silence, too, and with a gentle sto- icism endure much small unreason. Saupe says withal, ‘ No- body liked a laugh better, or could laugh more heartily than she, even in her extreme old age.’ — -Christophine herself makes no complaint, on looking back upon her poor Eeinwald, thirty years after all was over. Her final record of it is: “for twenty-nine years we lived contentedly together.” But her rugged hypochondriac of a Husband, morbidly sensitive to the least interruption of his whims and habitudes, never absent from their one dim sitting-room, except on the days in which he had to attend at the Library, was iu practice infinitely diffi- cult to deal with ; and seems to have kept her matchless qual- ities in continual exercise. He belonged to the class called in Germany Stubengelehrten (Closet Literary-men), who publish little or nothing that brings them profit, but are continually poring and studying. Study was the one consolation he had in life ; and formed his continual employment to the end of his days. He was deep in various departments. Antiquarian } Philological, Historical ; deep especially in Gothic philology, in which last he did what is reckoned a real feat, — he, Eein- wald, though again it was another who got the reward. He had procured somewhere, ‘ a Transcript of the famous Anglo- Saxon Poem Heliancl (Saviour) from the Cotton Library in England,’ this he, with unwearied labour and to great perfec- tion, had at last got ready for the press ; Translation, Glos- sary, Original all in readiness ; — but could find no Publisher, nobody that would print without a premium. Not to earn less than nothing by his labour he sent the Work to the IL'in- clien Library ; where, in after years, one Schmeller found it, and used it for an editio princeps of his- own. Sic vos non vobis ; heavy-laden Eeinwald ! — 1 To Eeinwald himself Chlistophine’s presence and presi- dency in his dim household were an infinite benefit, — though not much recognised by him, but accepted rather as a natural tribute due to unfortunate down-pressed worth, till towards the very end, when the singular merit of it began to dawn 1 Schiller's Bsziehvngen (where many of Christophine’ s Letters , beau- tiful all of them, are given). SUPPLEMENT. 273 upon him, like the brightness of the Sun when it is setting. Poor man, he anxiously spent the last two weeks of his life in purchasing and settling about a neat little cottage for Christo- phine ; where accordingly she passed her long widowhood, on stiller terms, though not on less beneficent and humbly beau- tiful, than her marriage had offered. Cliristophine, by pious prudence, faith in Heaven, and in the good fruits of real goodness even on Earth, had greatly comforted the gloomy, disappointed, pain-stricken man ; en- lightened his darkness, and made his poverty noble. Simplex munditiis might have been her motto in all things. Her beautiful Letters to her Brother are full of cheerful, though also, it is true, sad enough, allusions to her difficulties with Reinwald, and partial successes. Poor soul, her hopes, too, are gently turned sometimes on a blessed future, which might still lie ahead : of her at last coming, as a Widow, to live with her Brother, in serene affection, like that of their childhood together ; in a calm blessedness such as the world held no other for her ! But gloomy Reinwald survived bright Schiller for above ten years ; and she had thirty more of lone widow- hood, under limited conditions, to spend after him, still in a noble, humbly-admirable, and even happy and contented man- ner. She was the flower of the Schiller Sisterhood, though all three are beautiful to us ; and in poor Nane, there is even something of poetic, and tragically pathetic. For one bless- ing, Christophine ‘ lived almost always in good health.’ Through life, it may be said of her, she was helpful to all about her, never liindersome to any ; and merited, and had, the universal esteem, from high and low, pf those she had lived among. At Meiningen, 31st August 1817, within a few days of her ninety-first year, without almost one day’s sick- ness, a gentle stroke of apoplexy took her suddenly away, and so ended what may be called a Secular Saint-like ex- istence, mournfully beautiful, wise and noble to all that had beheld it. 18 274 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Nanette ( born 8th September 1777, died 23 d March 1796 ; age not yet 19). Of Nanette we were told how, in 1792, she charmed her Brother and his Jena circle, by her recitations and her amiable enthusiastic nature ; and how, next year, on Schiller’s Swa- bian visit, his love of her grew to something of admiration, and practical hope of helping such a rich talent and noble heart into some clear development, — when, two years after- wards, death put, to the dear Nanette and his hopes about her, a cruel end. We are now to give the first budding-out of those fine talents and tendencies of poor Nanette, and that is all the history the dear little Being has. Saupe pro- ceeds : ‘ Some two years after Schiller’s flight, Nanette as a child of six or seven had, with her elder sister Luise, witnessed the first representation of Schiller’s Kabale und Liebe in the Stuttgart theatre. With great excitement, and breath held- in, she had watched the rolling-up of the curtain ; and during the whole play no word escaped her bps ; but the excited glance of her eyes, and her heightened colour, from act to act, testified her intense emotion. The stormy applause with which her Brother’s Play was received by the audience made an indelible impression on her. ‘ The Players, in particular, had shone before her as in a magic light ; the splendour of which, in the course of years, rather increased than diminished. The child’s bright fancy loved to linger on those never-to-be-forgotten people, by whom her Brother’s Poem had been led into her sight and under- standing. The dawning thought, how glorious it might be to work such wonders herself, gradually settled, the more she read and heard of her dear Brother’s poetic achievements, into the ardent but secret wish of being herself able to represent his Tragedies upon the stage. On her visit to Jena, and dur- ing her Brother’s abode in Swabia, she was never more attentive than when Schiller occasionally spoke of the acting of his Pieces, or unfolded his opinion of the Player’s Aid. ‘ The wish of Nanette, secretly nourished in this manner, SUPPLEMENT. 275 to be able, on the stage, which represents the world, to con- tribute to the glory of her Brother, seized her now after his return with such force and constancy, that Schiller’s Sister-in- law, Caroline Yon Wolzogen, urged him to yield to the same ; to try his Sister’s talent ; and if it was really distinguished, to let her enter this longed-for career. Schiller had no love for the Player Profession ; but as, in his then influential con- nections in Weimar, he might steer clear of many a danger, he promised to think the thing over. And thus this kind and amiable protectress had the satisfaction of cheering Nanette’s last months with the friendly prospect that her wishes might be fulfilled.— Schiller’s hope, after a dialogue with Goethe on the subject, had risen to certainty, when with the liveliest sor- row he learned that Nanette was ill of that contagious Hos- pital Fever, and, in a few days more, that she was gone for- ever.’ 1 Beautiful Nanette ; with such a softly-glowing soul, and such a brief tragically-beautiful little life ! Like a Daughter of the rosy-fingered Morn ; her existence all a sun-gilt soft auroral cloud, and no sultry Day, with its dusts and disfigure- ments, permitted to follow. Father Schiller seems, in his rugged way, to have loved Nanette best of them all ; in an embarrassed manner, w T e find him more than once recom- mending her to Schiller’s help, and intimating what a glorious thing for her, were it a possible one, education- might be. He followed her in a few months to her long home ; and, by his own direction, ‘ was buried in the Churchyard at Gerlingen by her side.’ Luise ( born 24G January 1766 ; married 20 th October 1799 ; died 1 4:th September 1836). Of Luise’s life, too, except what was shown above, there need little be said. In the dismal pestilential days at Solitude, while her Father lay dying, and poor Nanette caught the in- fection, Luise, with all her tender assiduities and household talent, was there ; but, soon after Nanette’s death, the fever seized her too ; and she long lay dangerously ill in that forlorn 1 Saufte, pp. 150-5. 276 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. household ; still weak, but slowly recovering, when Cliristo- phine arrived. The Father, a short while before his death, summoned to him that excellent young clergyman, Frankh, who had been so unweariedly kind to them in this time of sickness when all neighbours feared to look in, To ask him what his intentions to- wards Luise were. It was in presence of the good old man that they made solemn promise to each other ; and at Leonberg, where thenceforth the now-widowed Mother’s dwelling w r as, they were formally betrothed ; and some two years after that, were married. Her Mother’s death, so tenderly watched over, took place at their Parsonage at Clever-Sulzbach, as we saw above. Frankh, about two years after, was promoted to a better living, M<> ch- in uhl by name ; and lived there, a well-doing and respected Parson, till his death, in 1834 ; which Luise’s followed in Sep- tember of the second year afterwards. Their marriage lasted thirty -five years. Luise had brought him three children ; and seems to have been, in all respects, an excellent Wife. She was ingenious in intellectuals as well as economics ; had a taste for poetry ; a boundless enthusiasm for her Brother ; seems to have been an anxious Mother, often ailing herself, but strenu- ously doing her best at all times. A touching memorial of Luise is Schiller’s last Letter to her, Letter of affectionate apology for long silence, — apology, and hope of doing better, — written only a few weeks before his own death. It is as follows : “ Weimar, 27th March 1805. “Yes, it is a long time indeed, good dear Luise, since I have written to thee ; but it was not for amusements that I for- got thee ; it was because in this time I have had so many hard illnesses to suffer, which put me altogether out of my regular way ; for many months I had lost all courage and cheerful- ness, and given up all hope of, my recovery. In such a humour one does not like to speak ; and since then, on feeling myself again better, there was, after the long silence, a kind of em- barrassment ; and so it was still put off. But now, when I have been anew encouraged by thy sisterly love, I gladly join the thread again ; and it shall, if God will, not again be broken. SUPPLEMENT. “Thy dear husband’s promotion to Moekmuhl, which I learned eight days ago from our Sister ” (Christophine), “ has given us great joy, not only because it so much improves your position, but also because it is so honourable a testimony for my dear Brother-in-law’s deserts. May you feel yourselves right happy in these new relations, and right long enjoy them ! We too are got thereby a few miles nearer you ; and on a future journey to Franconia, which we are every year project- ing, we may the more easily get over to you. “ How sorry am I, dear Sister, that thy health has suffered so much ; and that thou wert again so unfortunate with thy confinement ! Perhaps your new situation might permit you, this summer, to visit some tonic watering-place, which might do thee a great deal of good.” — “ Of our Family here my Wife will write thee more at large. Our Children, this winter, have all had chicken-pox ; and poor little Emilie ” (a babe of four months) “ had much to suffer in the affair. Thank God, things are all come round with us again, and my own health too begins to confirm itself. “A thousand times I embrace thee, dear Sister, and my dear Brother-in-law as well, whom I always wish from the heart to have more acquaintance with. Kiss thy Children in my name ; may all go right happily with you, and much joy be in store ! How would our dear Parents have rejoiced in your good fortune ; and especially our dear Mother, had she been spared to see it ! Adieu, dear Luise. With my whole soul, — Thy faithful Brother, Schillek.” Schiller’s tone and behaviour to his Sisters is always beau- tifully human and brotherlike, as here. Full of affection, sin- cerity and the warmest, truest desire to help and cheer. The noble loving Schiller ; so mindful always of the lowly, from his own wildly-dangerous and lofty path ! He -was never rich, poor rather always ; but of a spirit royally munificent in these respects ; never forgets the poor “ birthdays ” of his Sisters, whom one finds afterwards gratefully recognising their “ beau- tiful dress ” or the like ! — Of date some six weeks after this Letter to Luise, let us take from Eyewitnesses one glimpse of Schiller’s own death- 278 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH hG HILLER. bed. It is the eighth day of Lis illness ; Lis last day but one in this world : “ Morning of 8th May 1805. — —Schiller, on awakening from sleep, asked to see Lis youngest Child. The Baby ’ Emilie, spoken of above, ‘ was brought. He turned his head round ; took the little hand in his, and, with an inexpressible look of love and sorrow, gazed into the little face ; then burst into bitter weeping, hid his face among the pillows ; and made a sign to take the child away.’ — This little Emilie is now the Baroness von Gleichen, Co-editress with her Cousin Wolzogen of the clear and useful Bool?, Beziejiungen, often quoted above. It was to that same Cousin Wolzogeris Mother (Caroline von Wolzogen, Authoress of the Biography), and in the course of this same day, that Schiller made the memorable response, “Calmer, and calmer.” — ‘Towards evening he asked to see the Sun once more. The curtain was opened ; with blight eyes and face he gazed into the beautiful sunset. It was his last farewell to Nature. “ Thursday 9th May. All the morning, his mind was wan- dering ; he spoke incoherent words, mostly in Latin. About three in the afternoon, complete weakness came on ; his breathing began to be interrupted. About four, he asked for naphtha, but the last syllable died on his tongue. He tried to write, but produced only three letters ; in which, however, the character of his hand was still visible. Till towards six, no change. His Wife was kneeling at the bedside ; he still pressed her offered hand. His Sister-in-law stood, with the Doctor, at the foot of the bed, and laid warm pillows on his feet, which were growing cold. There now darted, as it were, an electrical spasm over all his countenance ; the head sank back ; the profoundest repose transfigured his face. His features were as those of one softly sleeping,” — wrapt in hard- won Victory and Peace forever ! ‘ — 1 Schwab, p. 627, citing Yoss, an eyewitness; and Caroline von Wolzo- gen herself. APPENDIX. No. 1. Page 31. DANIEL SCHUBART. The enthusiastic discontent so manifest in the Robbers has hy some been in part attributed to Schiller's intercourse with Sehubart. This seems as wise as the hypothesis of Gray’s Alderman, who, after half a century of turtle-soup, imputed the ruin of his health to eating two unripe grapes: ‘lie felt them cold upon his stomach, the moment they were over ; he never got the better of them.’ Schiller, it appears, saw Schu- bart only once, and their conversation was not of a confidential kind. For any influence this interview could have produced upon the former, the latter could have merited no mention here : it is on other grounds that we refer to him. Scliubart’s history, not devoid of interest in it- self, unfolds in a striking light the circumstances under which Schiller stood at present ; and may serve to justify the violence of his alarms, which to the happy natives of our Island might otherwise appear pusil- lanimous and excessive. For these reasons we subjoin a sketch of it. Schubart’s character is not a new one in literature ; nor is it strange that his life should have been unfortunate. A warm genial spirit ; a glowing fancy, and a friendly heart ; every faculty but diligence, and every virtue but ‘ the understrapping virtue of discretion : ’ such is fre- quently the constitution of the poet ; the natural result of it also has frequently been pointed out, and sufficient^' bewailed. This man was one of the many who navigate the ocean of life with ‘ more sail than ballast ; ’ his voyage contradicted every rule of seamanship, and neces- sarily ended in a wreck. Christian Friedrich Daniel Scliubart was born at Obersontlieim in Swabia, on the 26th of April 1739. His father, a well-meaning soul, officiated there in the multiple capacity of schoolmaster, precentor, and curate ; dignities which, with various mutations and improvements, he subsequently held in several successive villages of the same district. Daniel, from the first, was a thing of inconsistencies ; his life proceeded as if by fits and starts. At school, for a while, he lay dormant : at the 2S0 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. age of seven he could not read, and had acquired the reputation of a per- fect dunce. But ‘ all at once,’ says his biographer, ‘ the rind which en- closed his spirit started asunder ; ' and Daniel became the prodigy of the school ! His good father determined to make a learned man of him : he sent him at the age of fourteen to the Kordlingen Lyceum, and two years afterwards to a similar establishment at Nurnberg. Here Scliubart began to flourish with all his natural luxuriance ; read classical and domestic poets ; spouted, speculated ; wrote flowing songs ; discovered 1 a decided turn for music,’ and even composed tunes for the harpsi- chord ! In short, he became an acknowledged genius ; and his parents consented that he should go to Jena, and perform his cursus of The- ology. Schubart’s purposes were not at all like the decrees of Fate : he set out towards Jena ; and on arriving at Erlangen, resolved to proceed no farther, but perform his cursus where he was. For a time he studied well ; but afterwards ‘ tumultuously, ’ that is, in violent fits, alternating with fits as violent of idleness and debauchery. He became a BurscJie of the first water ; drank and declaimed, rioted and ran in debt ; till his parents, unable any longer to support such expenses, were glad to seize the first opening in his cursus, and recall him. He returned to them with a mind fevered by intemperance, and a constitution permanently injured ; his heart burning with regret, and vanity, and love of pleas- ure ; his head without habits of activity or principles of judgment, a whirlpool where fantasies and hallucinations and ‘fragments of science’ were chaotically jumbled to and fro. But he could babble college- Latin ; and talk with a trenchant tone about the ‘ revolutions of Philos- ophy. ’ Such accomplishments procured him pardon from his parents : the precentorial spirit of his father was more than reconciled on discov- ering that Daniel could also preach and play upon the organ. The good old people still loved their prodigal, and would not eease to hope in him. As a preacher Scliubart was at first very popular ; he imitated Cra- mer ; but at the same time manifested first-rate pulpit talents of his own. These, however, he entirely neglected to improve : presuming on his gifts and their acceptance, he began to ‘ play such fantastic tricks be- fore high Heaven,’ as made his audience sink to yawning, or explode in downright laughter. He often preached extempore ; once he preached in verse ! His love of company and ease diverted him from study : his musical propensities diverted him still farther. He had special gifts as an organist ; but to handle the concordance and to make 1 the heaving bellows learn to blow ’ were inconsistent things. Yet withal it was impossible to hate poor Scliubart, or even seri- ously to dislike him. A joyful, piping, guileless mortal, good nature, innocence of heart, and love of frolic beamed from every feature of his countenance ; he wished no ill to any son of Adam. He was music .- 1 APPENDIX. 281 and poetical, a maker and a singer of sweet songs ; humorous also, speculative, discursive ; his speech, though aimless and redundant, glit- tered with the hues of fancy, and here and there with the keenest rays of intellect. He was vain, but had no touch of pride ; and the excel- lencies which he loved in himself, he acknowledged and as warmly loved in others. He was a man of few or no principles, but his nervous system was very good. Amid his chosen comrades, a jug of indifferent beer and a pipe of tobacco could change the earth into elysium for him, and make his brethren demigods. To look at his laughing eyes, and his effulgent honest face, you were tempted to forget that he was a per- jured priest, that the world had duties for him which he was neglect- ing. Had life been all a may-game, Schubart was the best of men, and the wisest of philosophers. Unluckily it was not : the voice of Duty had addressed him in vain ; but that of want was more impressive. He left his father’s house, and engaged himself as tutor in a family at Konigsbronn. To teach the young idea how to shoot had few delights for Schubart : he soon gave up this place in favour of a younger brother ; and endeavoured to sub- sist, for some time, by affording miscellaneous assistance to the clergy of the neighbouring villages. Ere long, preferring even pedagog} r to starvation, he again became a teacher. The bitter morsel was sweet- ened with a seasoning of music ; he was appointed not only schoolmaster but also organist of Geisslingen. A fit of diligence now seized him : his late difficulties had impressed him ; and the parson of the place, who subsequently married Schubart’s sister, was friendly and skilful enough to turn the impression to account. Had poor Schubart always been in such hands, the epithet ‘ poor ’ could never have belonged to him. In this little village- school he introduced some important reforms and improvements, and in consequence attracted several valuable scholars. Also for his own behoof, he studied honestly. His conduct here, if not irrepreliensible, was at least very much amended. His marriage, in his twenty-fifth year, might have improved it still farther ; for his wife was a good, soft-hearted, amiable creature, who loved him with her whole heart, and would have died to serve him. But new preferments awaited Schubart, and with them new tempta- tions. His fame as a musician was deservedly extending : in time it reached Ludwigsburg, and the Grand Duke of Wurtemberg himself heard Schubart spoken of ! The schoolmaster of Geisslingen was, in 1768, promoted to be organist and band-director in this gay and pom- pous court. With a bounding heart, he tossed away his ferula, and has- tened to the scene, where joys for evermore seemed calling on him. He plunged into the heart of business, and amusement. Besides the music which he taught and played, publicly and privately, with great applause, he gave the military officers instruction in various branches of science ; he talked and feasted ; he indited songs and rhapsodies ; he lectured 282 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. on History and the Belles Lettres. All this was more than Schnhart’s head could stand. In a little time he fell in debt ; took up with vir- tuosi ; began to read Voltaire, and talk against religion in his drink. From the rank of genius, he was fast degenerating into that of profli- gate : his affairs grew more and more embarrassed ; and he had no gift of putting any order in them. Prudence was not one of Schubart’s virtues ; the nearest approximation he could make to it was now and then a little touch of cunning. His wife still loved him ; loved him with that perverseness of affection, which increases in the inverse ratio of its requital : she had long patiently endured his follies and neglect, happy if she could obtain a transient hour of kindness from him. But his endless course of riot, and the straits to which it had reduced their hapless family, at length overcame her spirits : she grew melancholy, almost broken-hearted ; and her father took her home to him, with her children, from the spendthrift who had been her ruin. Schubart’s course in Ludwigsburg was verging to its close ; his extravagance in- creased, and debts pressed heavier and heavier on him: for some scandal with a young woman of the place, he was cast into prison ; and let out of it, with an injunction forthwith to quit the dominions of the Grand Duke. Forlorn and homeless, here then was Schubart footing the hard highway, with a staff in his hand, and one solitary thaler in his purse, not knowing whither he should go. At Heilbronn, the Burgermeister Wachs permitted him to teach his Biirgermeisterinn the harpsichord ; and Schubart did not die of hunger. For a space of time he wandered to and fro, with numerous impracticable plans ; nowtalking for his vict- uals ; now lecturing or teaching music ; kind people now attracted to him by his genius and misfortunes, and anon repelled from him by the faults which bad abased him. Once a gleam of court-preferment re- visited his path : the Elector Palatine was made acquainted with his gifts, and sent for him to Schwetzingen to play before him. His play- ing gratified the Electoral ear ; he would have been provided for, had he not in conversation with his Highness happened to express a rather free opinion of the Mannheim Academy, which at that time was his Highness’s hobby. On the instant of this luckless oversight, the door of patronage was slammed in Schubart’s face, and he stood solitary on the pavement as before. One Count Sclimettau took pity on him ; offered him his purse and home ; both of which the way-worn wanderer was happy to accept. At Schmettau’s he fell in with Baron Leiden, the Bavarian envoy, who ad- vised him to turn Catholic, and accompany the returning embassy to Munich. Schubart hesitated to become a renegade ; but departed with his new patron, upon trial. In the way, he played before the Bishop of Wurzburg ; was rewarded by his Princely Reverence with gold as well as praise ; and arrived under happy omens at Munich. Here for a while APPENDIX. 2S3 fortune seemed to smile on him again. The houses of the great were thrown open to him ; he talked and played, and fared sumptuously every day. He took serious counsel with himself about the great Popish question ; now inclining this way, now that : he was puzzling which to choose, when Chance entirely relieved him of the trouble. ‘ A person of respectability ’ in Munich wrote to Wurtemberg to make inquiries who or what this general favourite was ; and received for answer, that the general favourite was a villain, and had been banished from Ludwigs- burg for denying that there was a Holy Ghost !— Schubart was happy to evacuate Munich without tap of drum. Once more upon the road without an aim, the wanderer turned to Augsburg, simply as the nearest city, and — set up a Newspaper ! The Deutsche Chronik flourished in his hands ; in a little while it had ac- quired a decided character for spriglitliness and talent ; in time it be- came the most widely circulated journal of the country. Schubart was again a prosperous man : his writings, stamped with the vigorous im- press of his own genius, travelled over Europe ; artists and men of let- ters gathered round him ; he had money, he had fame ; the rich and noble threw their parlours open to him, and listened with delight to his overflowing, many-coloured conversation. He wrote paragraphs and poetry ; he taught music and gave concerts ; he set up a spouting estab- lishment, recited newly-published poems, read Klopstock’s Messias to crowded and enraptured audiences. Schubart’s evil genius seemed asleep, but Schubart himself awoke it. He had borne a grudge against the clergy, ever since his banishment from Ludwigsburg : and he now employed the facilities of his journal for giving vent to it. He criticised the priesthood of Augsburg ; speculated on their selfishness and cant, and took every opportunity of turning them and their proceedings into ridicule. The Jesuits especially, whom he regarded as a fallen body, he treated with extreme freedom ; exposing their deceptions, and hold- ing up to public contumely certain quacks whom they patronised. The Jesuitic Beast was prostrate, but not dead ; it had still strength enough to lend a dangerous kick to any one who came too near it. One even- ing an official person waited upon Schubart, and mentioned an arrest by virtue of a warrant from the Catholic Biirgermeister ! Schubart was obliged to go to prison. The heads of the Protestant party made an effort in his favour : they procured his liberty, but not without a stipula- tion that he should immediately depart from Augsburg. Schubart asked to know his crime ; but the Council answered him : “ We have our reasons ; let that satisfy you : ” and with this very moderate satisfaction he was forced to leave their city. But Schubart was now grown an adept in banishment ; so trifling an event could not unhinge his equanimity. Driven out of Augsburg, the philosophic editor sought refuge in Ulm, where the publication of his journal had, for other reasons, already been appointed to take place. 284 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Tlie Deutsche Chronilc was as brilliant here as ever : it extended more and more through Germany ; ‘ copies of it even came to London, Paris, Amsterdam, and Petersburg.’ Nor had its author's fortune altered much ; he had still the same employments,- and remunerations, and extravagances ; the same sort of friends, the same sort of enemies. The latter were a little busier than formerly : they propagated scandals ; en- graved caricatures, indited lampoons against him ; but this he thought a very small matter. A man that has been three or four times banished, and as often put in prison, and for many years on the point of starving, will not trouble himself much about a gross or two of pasquinades. Schubart had his wife and family again beside him, he had money also to support them ; so he sang and fiddled, talked and wrote, and ‘ built the lofty rhyme,’ and cared no fig for any one. But enemies, more fell than these, were lurking for the thoughtless Man of Paragraphs. The Jesuits had still their feline .eyes upon him, and longed to have their talons in his flesh. They found a certain. General Ried, who joined them on a quarrel of his own. This General Ried, the Austrian Agent at Ulm, had vowed inexpiable hatred against Schubart, it would seem, for a very slight cause indeed: once Schubart had engaged to play before him, and then finding that the harpsichord was out of order, had refused, flatly refused ! The General’s elevated spirit called for vengeance on this impudent plebeian ; the Jesuits en- couraged him ; and thus all lay in eager watch. An opportunity ere long occurred. One week in 1778, there appeared in Schubart's news- paper an Extract of a Letter from Vienna, stating that ‘ the Empress Maria Theresa had been struck by apoplexy.’ On reading which, the General made instant application to his Ducal Highness, requesting that the publisher of this ‘ atrocious libel ’ should be given up to him, and ‘sent to expiate his crime in Hungary,’ by imprisonment — for life. The Duke desired his gallant friend to be at ease, for that lie had long had his own eye on this man, and would himself take charge of him. ( Accordingly, a few days afterwards, Herr von Scholl, Comptroller of the Convent of Blaubeuren, came to Schubart with a multitude of com- pliments, inviting him to dinner, “ as there was a stranger wishing to be introduced to him.” Schubart sprang into the Schlittcn with this wolf in sheep’s clothing, and away they drove to Blaubeuren. Arrived here, the honourable Herr von Scholl left him in a private room, and soon retrirned with a posse of official Majors and Amtmen, the chief of whom advanced to Schubart, and declared him — an arrested man ! The hapless Schubart thought it w-as a jest ; but alas here was no jesting ! Schubart then said with a composure scarcely to be looked for, that “ he hoped the Duke would not condemn him unheard.” In this too he was deceived.; the men of office made him mount a carriage with them, and set off without delay for Hohenasperg. The Duke himself was there with his Duchess, when these bloodhounds and their prey ar- APPENDIX. 2S5 rived : the princely couple gazed from a window as the group went past them, and a fellow-creature took his farewell look of sun and sky ! If hitherto the follies of this man have cast an air of farce upon his sufferings, even when in part unmerited, such sentiments must now give place to that of indignation at his cruel and cold-blooded persecutors. Schuhart, who never had the heart to hurt a fly, and with all his indis- cretions, had been no man’s enemy but his own, was conducted to a . narrow subterraneous dungeon, and left, without book or pen, or any sort of occupation or society, to chew the cud of bitter thought, and count the leaden months as they passed over him, and brought no miti- gation of his misery. His Serene Transparency of Wurtemberg, nay the heroic General himself, might have- been satisfied, could they have seen him : physical squalor, combined with moral agony, were at work on Schuhart ; at the end of a year, he was grown so weak, that he could not stand except by leaning on the walls of his cell. A little while, and he bade fair to get beyond the reach of all his tyrants. This, how- ever, was not what they wanted. The prisoner was removed to a whole- some upper room ; allowed the use of certain books, the sight of certain company, and had, at least, the privilege to think and breathe without obstruction. He was farther gratified by hearing that his wife and chil- dren had been treated kindly : the boys had been admitted to the Stntt- gard school, .where Schiller was now studying ; to their mother there had been assigned a pension" of two hundred gulden. Charles of Wur- temberg was undoubtedly a weak and heartless man, but we know not that he was a savage one : in the punishment of Schuhart. it is possible enough that he believed himself to be discharging an important duty to the world. The only subject of regret is, that any duty to the world, beyond the duty of existing inoffensively, should be committed to such hands ; that men like Charles and Eied, endowed with so very small a fraction of the common faculties of manhood, should have the destiny of any living thing at their control. Another mitigating circumstance in Scliubart’s lot was the character of his gaoler. This humane person had himself tasted the tender mer- cies of ‘ paternal ’ government ; he knew the nature of a dungeon better even than his prisoner. ‘For four years,’ we are told, 'he had seen no human face ; his scanty food had been lowered to him through a trap-door ; neither chair nor table were allowed him, his cell was never swept, his beard and nails were left to grow, the humblest conven- iences of civilised humanity were denied him ! ’ 1 On this man affliction had produced its softening, not its hardening influence. : he had grown religious, and merciful in heart ; he studied to alleviate Sclmbart's hard 1 And yet Mr. Fox is reported to have said : There was one feee Government on the Continent , and that one was — Wdrtembercj. They had a parliament and ‘three estates’ like the English. — So much for paper Constitutions ! 28G THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. fate by every means within his power. He spoke comfortingly to him ; ministered to his infirmities, and, in spite of orders, lent him all his books. These, it is true, were only treatises on theosophy and mystical devotion ; but they were the best he had ; and to Schubart, in his first lonely dungeon, they afforded occupation and solace. Human nature will accommodate itself to anything. The King of Toutus taught himself to eat poison : Schubart, cut out from intemper- ance and jollity, did not pine away in confinement and abstemiousness; he had lost Voltaire and gay company, he found delight in solitude and Jacob Bohni. Nature had been too good to him to let his misery in any case be unalloyed. The vague unguided ebullience of spirit, which had so often set the table in a roar, and made him the most fascinating of debauchees, was now mellowed into a cloudy enthusiasm, the sable of which was still copiously blended with rainbow colours. His brain had received a slight though incurable crack ; there was a certain exas- peration mixed with his unsettled fervour ; but he was not wretched, often even not uncomfortable. His religion was not real ; but it had reality enough for present purposes ; he was at once a sceptic and a mystic, a true disciple of Bdlim as well as of Voltaire. For afflicted, irresolute, imaginative men like Schubart, this is not a rare or altogether ineffectual resource : at the bottom of their minds they doubt or disbe- lieve, but their hearts exclaim against the slightest whisper of it ; they dare not look into the fathomless abyss of Infidelity, so they cover it over with the dense and strangely-tinted smoke of Theosophy. Sehu- „ hart henceforth now and then employed the phrases and figures of re- ligion ; but its principles had made no change in his theory of human duties ; it was not food to strengthen the weakness of his spirit, but an opiate to stay its craving. Schubart had still farther resources : like other great men in cap- tivity, he set about composing the history of his life. It is true, he had no pens or paper ; but this could not deter him. A fellow-prisoner, to whom, as he one day saw him pass by the grating of his window, he had communicated his desire, entered eagerly into the scheme : the two contrived to unfasten a stone in a wall that divided their apartments ; when the prison-doors were bolted for the night, this volunteer amanu- ensis took his place, Schubart trailed his mattress to the friendly orifice, and there lay down, and dictated in whispers the record of his fitful story. These memoirs have been preserved ; they were published and completed by a son of Schubart’s : we have often wished to see them, but in vain. By day, Schubart had liberty to speak with certain visitors. One of these, as we have said above, was Schiller. That Schubart, in their single interview, was pleased with the enthusiastic friendly boy, we could have conjectured, and he has himself informed us. ‘ Excepting Schiller,’ said the veteran garreteer, in writing afterwards to Gleim, ‘ I scarcely know of any German youth in whom the sacred spark of APPENDIX. 287 genius lias mounted up within the soul like flame upon the altar of a Deity. We are fallen into the shameful times, when women hear rule over men ; and make the toilet a tribunal before which the most gigantic minds must plead. Hence the stunted spirit of our poets ; hence the dwarf products of their imagination ; hence the frivolous wit- ticism, the heartless sentiment, crippled and ricketed by soups, ragouts and sweetmeats, which you find in fashionable balladmongers. ’ Time and hours wear out the roughest day. The world began to feel an interest in Schubart, and to take some pity on him : his songs and poems were collected and published ; their merit and their author’s misery exhibited a shocking contrast. His Highness of Wiirtemberg at length condescended to remember that a mortal, of wants and feelings like his own, had been forced by him to spend, in sorrow and inaction, the third part of an ordinary lifetime ; to waste, and worse than waste, ten years of precious time ; time, of which not all the dukes and princes in the universe could give him back one instant. He commanded Schu- bart to be liberated ; and the rejoicing Editor (unacquitted, unjudged, unaccused !) once more beheld the blue zenith and the full ring of the horizon. He joined his wife at Stuttgard, and recommenced his news- paper. The Deutsche Chronik was again popular ; the notoriety of its conductor made amends for the decay which critics did not fail to notice in his faculties. Schubart’ s sufferings had in fact permanently injured him ; his mind was warped and weakened by theosophy and solitude ; bleak northern vapours often flitted over it, and chilled its tropical luxuriance. Yet he wrote and rhymed ; discoursed on the corruption of the times, and on the means of their improvement. He published the first portion of his Life, and often talked amazingly about the Wan- dering Jew, and a romance of which he was to form the subject. The idea of making old Joannes a temporibus, the ‘ Wandering,’ or as Schu- bart's countrymen denominate him, the ‘ Eternal Jew,’ into a novel hero, was a mighty favourite with him. In this antique cordwainer, as on a raft at anchor in the stream of time, he would survey the changes and wonders of two thousand years : the Roman and the Arab were to figure there ; the Crusader and the Circumnavigator, the Ere- mite of the Thebaid and the Pope of Rome. Joannes himself, the Man existing out of Time and Space, Joannes the unresting and undying, was to be a deeply tragic personage. Schubart warmed himself with this idea ; and talked about it in his cups, to the astonishment of simple souls. He even wrote a certain rhapsody connected with it, which is published in his poems. But here he rested ; and the project of the Wandering Jew, which Goethe likewise meditated in his youth, is still un- executed. Goethe turned to other objects : and poor Schubart was sur- prised by death, in the midst of his schemes, on the 10th of October 1791. Of Schubart' s character as a man, this record of his life leaves but a 2S8 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. mean impression. Unstable in bis goings, without principle or plan, he flickered, through existence like an ignis-fatuus ; now shooting into momentary gleams of happiness and generosity, now quenched in the mephitic marshes over which his zig-zag path conducted him. He had many amiable qualities, but scarcely any moral worth. From first to last liis circumstances were against him ; his education was unfortunate, its fluctuating aimless wanderings enhanced its ill effects. The thrall of the passing moment, lie had no will ; the fine endowments of his heart were left to riot in chaotic turbulence, and their forces cancelled one another. With better models and advisers, with more rigid habits, and a happier fortune, he might have been an admirable man: as it is, he is far from 'admirable. The same defects have told with equal influence on his character as a writer. Sckubart had a quick sense of the beautiful, the moving, and the true ; his nature was susceptible and fervid ; he had a keen intellect, a fiery imagination ; and his ‘ iron memory ’ secured forever the various produce of so many gifts. But he had no diligence, no power of self- denial. His knowledge lay around him like the plunder of a sacked city. Like this too, it was squandered in pursuit of casual objects. He wrote in gusts ; the labor lima, et mora was a thing he did not know. Yet his writings have great merit. His newspaper essays abound in happy illustrations and brilliant careless thought. His songs, excluding those of a devotional and theosophic cast, are often full of nature, heartiness and true simplicity. ‘From his youth upwards,’ we are told, ‘ he studied the true Old-German Volkslied; he watched the artisan on the street, the craftsman in his workshop, the soldier in his guardhouse, the maid by the spinning-wheel ; and transferred the genuine spirit of primeval Germanism, which he found in them, to his own songs.’ Hence their popularity, which many of them still retain. ‘In his larger tyrieal pieces,’ observes the same not injudicious critic, ‘we discover fearless singularity ; wild imagination, dwelling rather on the grand and frightful than on the beautiful and soft ; deep, but seldom long- continued feeling ; at times far-darting thoughts, original images, stormy vehemence ; and generally a glowing, self-created, figurative diction. He never wrote to show his art ; but poured forth, from the inward call of his nature, the thought or feeling which happened for the hour to have dominion in him .’ 1 Such were Schubart and his works and fortunes ; the disjecta mem- bra of a richly-gifted but ill-starred and infatuated poet ! The image of his persecutions added speed to Schiller’s flight from Stuttgard ; may the image of his wasted talents and ineffectual life add strength to our resolves of living otherwise ! 1 Jordens Lexicon : from which most part of the above details are taken. — There ex- ists now a decidedly compact, intelligent and intelligible Life of SoJiubart. done, iu thrc/ little volumes, by Strauss, some years ago. (Note of 1857.) APPENDIX. 289 No. 2. Page 32. LETTERS OF SCHILLER. A few Extracts from Schiller’s correspondence may be gratifying to some readers. The Letters to Dalberg, which constitute the chief part of it as yet before the public, are on the whole less interesting than might have been expected, if we did not recollect that the writer of them was still an inexperienced youth, overawed by his idea of Dalberg, to whom he could communicate with freedom only on a single topic; and besides oppressed with grievances, which of themselves would have weighed down his spirit, and prevented any frank or cordial exposition of its feelings. Of the Reichsfreiherr von Dalberg himself, this correspondence gives ns little information, and we have gleaned little elsewhere. He is men- tioned incidentally in almost every literary history connected with his time ; and generally as a mild gentlemanly person, a judicious critic, and a warm lover of the arts and their cultivators. The following no- tice of his death is extracted from the Conversations- Lexicon, Part III. p. 12 : ' Died at Mannheim, on the 27th of December 1806, in his 85th year, Wolfgang Heribert, Reichsfreiherr von Dalberg; knighted by the Emperor Leopold on his coronation at Frankfort. A warm friend and patron of the arts and sciences ; while the German Society flourished at Mannheim, he was its first President ; and the theatre of that town, the school of the best actors in Germany, of Iffland, Beck, Beil, and many others, owes to him its foundation, and its maintenance throughout his long Intendancy, which he held till 1803. As a writer and a poet, he is no less favourably known. We need only refer to his Cora, a musical drama, and to the Monch von Carmel.’’ — These letters of Schiller were found among his papers at his death ; rescued from destruction by two of his executors, and published at Carlsruhe, in a small duodecimo, in the year 1819. There is a verbose preface, but no note or comment, though some such aid is now and then a little wanted. The letters most worthy of our notice are those relating to the ex- hibition of the Robbers on the Mannheim stage, and to Schiller’s conse- quent embarrassments and flight. From these, accordingly, the most of our selections shall be taken. It is curious to see with what timidity the intercourse on Schiller’s part commences ; and how this awkward shyness gradually gives place’to some degree of confidence, as he be- comes acquainted with his patron, or is called to treat of subjects where he feels that he himself has a dignity, and rights of his own, forlorn and humble as he is. At first he never mentions Dalberg but with all his titles, some of which to our unceremonious ears seem ludicrous enough. 19 230 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. Thus in the full style of German reverence, he avoids directly naming his correspondent, but uses the oblique designation of ‘ your Excel- lency,’ or something equally exalted : and he begins his two earliest letters with an address, which, literally interpreted, runs thus : ‘ Em- pire-free, Higlily-wellborn, Particularly-much-to-be-venerated, Lord Privy Counsellor ! ’ Such sounding phrases make us smile : but they entirely depend on custom for their import, and the smile which they excite is not by any means a philosophic one. It is but fair that in our version we omit them, or render them by some more grave equivalent. The first letter is as follows : [Xo date.] ‘ The proud judgment, passed upon me in the flattering letter which I had the honour to receive from your Excellency, is enough to set the prudence of an Author on a very slippery eminence. The authority of the quarter it proceeds from, would almost communicate to that sen- tence the stamp of infallibility, if I could regard it as anything but a mere encouragement of my Muse. More than this a deep feeling of my weakness will not let me think it ; but if my strength shall ever climb to the height of a masterpiece, I certainly shall have this warm ap- proval of your Excellency alone to thank for it, and so will the world. For several years I have had the happiness to know you from the pub- lic papers : long ago the splendour of the Mannheim theatre attracted my attention. And, I confess, ever since I felt any touch of dramatic talent in myself, it has been among my darling projects some time or other to remove to Mannheim, the true temple of Thalia ; a proj- ect, however, which my closer connection with Wiirtemberg might pos- sibly impede. ‘ Your Excellency’s very kind proposal on the subject of the Robbers, and such other pieces as I may produce in future, is infinitely precious to me ; the maturing of it well deserves a narrower investigation of your Excellency’s theatre, its special mode of management, its actors, the non plus ultra of its machinery ; in a word, a full conception of it, such as I shall never get while my only scale of estimation is this Stuttgard theatre of ours, an establishment still in its minority. Un- happily my economical circumstances render it impossible for me to travel much ; though I could travel now with the greater happiness and confidence, as I have still some pregnant ideas for the Mannheim theatre, which -I could wish to have the honour of communicating to your Excellency. For the rest, I remain,’ &e. From the second letter we learn that Schiller had engaged to thea- trilise his original edition of the Robbers, and still wished much to be connected in some shape with Mannheim. The third explains itself: APPENDIX. 291 ‘ Stuttgarcl, Cth October 17S1. 1 Here then at last returns the luckless prodigal, the remodelled Robbers! I am sorry that I have not kept the time, appointed by my- self ; but a transitory glance at the number and extent of the changes I have made, will, I trust, he sufficient to excuse me. Add to this, that a contagious epidemic was at work in our military Hospital, which, of course, interfered very often with my otia poetica. After finishing my work, I may assure you I could engage with less effort of mind, and certainly with far more contentment, to compose a new piece, than to undergo the labour I have just concluded. The task was complicated and tedious. Here I had to correct an error, which naturally was rooted in the very groundwork of the play ; there perhaps to sacrifice a beauty to the limits of the stage, the humour of the pit, the stupidity of the gallery, or some such sorrowful convention ; and I need not tell you, that as in nature, so on the stage, an idea, an emotion, can have only one suitable expression, one proper tone. A single alteration in a trait of character may give a new tendency to the whole personage, and, consequently, to his actions, and the mechanism of the piece which de- pends on them. ‘ In the original, the Robbers are exhibited in strong contrast with each other ; and I dare maintain that it is difficult to draw half a dozen robbers in strong contrast, without in some of them offending the deli- cacy of the stage. In my first conception of the piece, I excluded the idea of its ever being represented in a theatre ; hence came it that Franz was planned as a reasoning villain ; a plan which, though it may content the thinking Reader, cannot fail to vex and weary the Spec- tator, who does not come to think, and who wants not philosophy, hut action. 1 In the new edition, I could not overturn this arrangement without breaking down the whole economy of the piece. Accordingly I can predict, with tolerable certainty, that Franz when he appears on the stage, will not play the part which he has played with the reader. And, at all events, the rushing stream of the action will hurry the spectator over all the finer shadings, and rob him of a third part of the whole character. ‘ Karl von Moor might chance to form an era on the stage ; except a few speculations, which, however, work as indispensable colours in the general picture, he is all action, all visible life. Spiegelberg, Schweitzer, Hermann, are, in the strictest -sense, personages for the stage ; in a less degree, Amelia and the Father. 1 Written and oral criticisms I have endeavoured to turn to advan- tage. The alterations are important ; certain scenes are altogether new. Of this number, are Hermann’s counter-plots to undermine the schemes of Franz ; his interview with that personage, which, in the first com- position of the work, was entirely and very unhappily forgotten. His 292 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. interview with Amelia in the garden has been postponed to the suc- ceeding act ; and my friends tell me that I could have fixed upon no better act than this, no better time than a few moments prior to the meeting of Amelia with Moor. Franz is brought a little nearer human nature ; but the mode of it is rather strange. A scene like his con- demnation in the fifth act has never, to my knowledge, been exhibited on any stage ; and the same may be said of the scene where Am elia, is sacrificed by her lover. ‘ If the piece should be too long, it stands at the discretion of the manager to abbreviate the speculative parts of it, or here and there, without prejudice to . the general impression, to omit them altogether. But in the printing, I use the freedom humbly to protest against the leaving out of anything. I had satisfactory reasons of my own for all that I allowed to pass ; and my submission to the stage does not extend so far, that I can leave holes in my work, and mutilate the characters of men for the convenience of actors. ‘In regard to the selection of costume, without wishing to prescribe any rules, I may be permitted to remark, that though in nature dress is unimportant, on the stage it is never so. In this particular, the taste of my Robber Moor will not be difficult to hit. He wears a plume ; for this is mentioned expressly in the play, at the time when he abdicates his office. I have also given him a baton. His dress should always be noble without ornament, unstudied but not negligent. ‘ A young but excellent composer is working at a sjunphony for my unhappy prodigal : I know it will be masterly. So soon as it is finished, I shall take the liberty of offering it to you. ‘ I must also beg you to excuse the irregular state of the manuscript, the incorrectness of the penmanship. I was in haste to get the piece ready for you ; hence the double sort of handwriting in it ; hence also my forbearing to correct it. My copyist, according to the custom of all reforming caligrapliers, I find, has wofully abused the spelling. To conclude, I recommend myself and my endeavours to the kindness of an honoured judge. I am,’ &c. 4 Stuttgard, 12th December 178h 1 With the change projected by your Excellency, in regard to the publishing of my play, I feel entirely contented, especially as I per- ceive that by this means two interests that had become very alien, are again made one, without, as I hope, any prejudice to the results and the success of my work. Your Excellency, however, touches on some other very weighty changes, which the piece has undergone from your hands ; and these, in respect of myself, I feel to be so important, that I shall beg to explain my mind at some length regarding them. At the outset, then, I must honestly confess to you, I hold the projected trans- ference of the action represented in my play to the epoch of the Land- APPENDIX. 293 fried , and tlie Suppression of Private Wars, with the whole accompani- ment which it gains by this new position, as infinitely better than mine ; and must hold it so, although the whole piece should go to ruin thereby. Doubtless it is an objection, that in our enlightened century, with our watchful police and fixedness of statute, such a reckless gang should have arisen in the very bosom of the laws, and still more, have taken root and subsisted for years: doubtless the objection is well founded, and I have nothing to allege against it, but the license of Poetry to raise the probabilities of the real world to the rank of true, and its possibilities to the rank of probable. ‘ This excuse, it must be owned, is little adequate to the objection it opposes. But when I grant your Excellenc^so much (and I grant it honestly, and with complete conviction), what will follow ? Simply that my play has got an ugly fault at its birth, which fault, if I may say so, it must carry with it to its grave, the fault being interwoven with its very nature, and not to be removed without destruction of the whole. ‘ Iu the first place, all my personages speak in a style too modern, too enlightened for that ancient time. The dialect is not the right one. That simplicity so vividly presented to us by the author of Gotz ton Berlichingen, is altogether wanting. Many long tirades, touches great and small, nay entire characters, are taken from the aspect of the pres- ent world, and would not answer for the age of Maximilian: In a word, this change would reduce the piece into something like a cer- tain woodcut which I remember meeting with in an edition of Virgil. The Trojans wore hussar boots, and King Agamemnon had a pair of pistols in his belt. I should commit a crime against the age of Maxi- milian, to avoid an error against the age of Frederick the Second. ‘ Again, my whole episode of Amelia’s love would make a frightful contrast with the simple chivalry attachment of that period. Amelia would, at all hazards, need to be re-moulded into a chivalry maiden ; and I need not tell you that this character, aud the sort of love which reigns in my work, are so deeply and broadly tinted into the whole picture of the Bobber Moor, nay, into the whole piece, that every part of the delineation would require to be re-painted, before those tints could be removed. So likewise is it with the character of Franz, that speculative, metaphysico-refining knave. ‘ In a word, I think I may affirm, that this projected transposition of my work, which, prior to the commencement, would have lent it the highest splendour and completeness, could not fail now, when the piece is planned and finished, to change it into a defective quocllibet, a crow with peacock’s feathers. ‘ Your Excellency will forgive a father this earnest pleading in behalf of his son. These are but words, and in the long-run every theatre can make of any piece what they think proper ; the author must content himself. In the present case, he looks upon it as a happiness that he has 294 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. fallen into such hands. With Herr Schwann, however, I will make it a condition that, at least, he print the piece according to the first plan. In the theatre I pretend to no vote whatever. ‘ That other change relating to Amelia’s death was perhaps even more interesting to me. Believe me, your Excellency, this was the portion of my play which cost me the greatest effort and deliberation, of all which the result was nothing else than this, that Moor must kill his Amelia, and that the action is even a positive beauty, in his character ; on the one hand painting the ardent lover, on the other the Bandit Captain, with the liveliest colours. But the vindication of this part is not to be exhausted in a single letter. For the rest, the few words which you propose to sifbstitute in place of this scene, are truty ex- quisite, and altogether worthy of the situation. I should be proud of having written them. ‘ As Herr Schwann informs me that the piece, with the music and in- dispensably necessary pauses, will last about five hours (too long for any piece!), a second curtailment of it will be called for. I should not wish that any but myself undertook this task, and I myself, without the sight of a rehearsal, or of the first representation, cannot undertake it. ‘ If it were possible that your Excellency could fix the general re- hearsal of the piece some time between the twentieth and the thirtieth of this month, and make good to me the main expenses of a journey to you, I should hope, in some few days, I might unite the interest of the stage with my own, and give the piece that proper rounding-off, which, without an actual view of the representation, cannot well be given it. On this point, may I request the favour of your Excellency's decision soon, that I may be prepared for the event ? 1 Herr Schwann writes me that a Baron von Gemmingen has given hi mself the trouble and done me the honour to read my piece. This Herr von Gemmingen, I also hear, is author of the Deutsche Hausmter. I long to have the honour of assuring him that I liked his Hausmter uncommonly, and admired in it the traces of a most accomplished man and writer. But what does the author of the Deutsche Hausmter care about the babble of a young apprentice ? If I should ever have the honour of meeting Dalberg at Mannheim, and testifying the affection and reverence I bear him, I will then also press into the arms of that other, and tell him how dear to me such souls are as Dalberg and Gemmingen. ‘ Your thought about the small Advertisement, before our production of the piece, I exceedingly approve of ; along with this I have enclosed a sketch of one. ’ For the rest, I have the honour, with perfect respect, to be always,’ &c. This is the enclosed scheme of an Advertisement ; which was after- wards adopted. APPENDIX. 295 ‘THE ROBBERS, ‘ A PLAT. ‘ The picture of a great, misguided soul, furnished with every gift for excellence, and lost in spite of all its gifts : unchecked ardour and had companionship contaminate his heart ; hnrry him from vice to vice, till at last he stands at the head of a gang of murderers, heaps horror upon horror, plunges from abyss to abyss into all the depths of desperation. Great and majestic in misfortune ; and by misfortune improved, led back to virtue. Such a man in the Robber Moor you shall bewail and hate, abhor and love. A hypocritical, malicious deceiver, you shall likewise see unmasked, and blown to pieces in his own mines. A feeble, fond, and too indulgent father. The sorrows of enthusiastic love, and the torture of ungoverned passion. Here also, not without abhorrence, you shall cast a look into the interior economy of vice, and from the stage be taught how all the gilding of fortune cannot kill the inward worm ; how terror, anguish, remorse, and despair follow close upon the heels of the wicked. Let the spectator weep today be- fore our scene, and shudder, and learn to bend his passions under the laws of reason and religion. Let the youth behold with affright the end of unbridled extravagance ; nor let the man depart from our theatre without a feeling that Providence makes even villains instru- ments of His purposes and judgments, and can marvellously unravel the most intricate perplexities of fate.’ Whatever reverence Schiller entertained for Dalberg as a critic and a patron, and however ready to adopt his alterations when they seemed judicious, it is plain, from various passages of these extracts, that in re- gard to writing, he had also firm persuasions of his own, and conscien- tiousness enough to adhere to them while they continued such. In re- gard to the conducting of his life, his views as yet were far less clear. The following fragments serve to trace him from the first exhibition of his play at Mannheim to his flight from Stuttgard : ‘ Stuttgard, l?th January 17S2. ‘ I here in writing repeat my warmest thanks for the courtesies re- ceived from your Excellency, for your attention to my slender efforts, for the dignity and splendour you bestowed upon my piece, for all your Excellency did to exalt its little merits and hide its weaknesses by the greatest outlay of theatric art. The shortness of my stay at Mann- heim would not allow me to go into details respecting the play or its representation ; and as I could not say all, my time being meted out to me so sparingly, I thought it better to say absolutely nothing. I ob- served much, I learned much ; and I believe, if Germany shall ever 290 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. find in nae a true dramatic poet, I must reckon tlie date of my commence- ment from the past week. ’ * * ‘ Stuttgard, 24th May 1782. * * * < My impatient wish to see the piece played a second time, and the absence of my Sovereign favouring that purpose, have induced me, with some ladies and male friends as full of curiosity respecting Dalberg’s theatre and Robbers as myself, to undertake a little journey to Mannheim, which we are to set about tomorrow. As this is the prin- cipal aim of our journey, and to me a more perfect enjoyment of my play is an exceedingly important object, especially since this would put it in my power to set about Fiesco under better auspices, I make it my earnest request of your Excellency, if possible, to procure me this en- joyment on Tuesday the 28tli current.’ * * * ‘ Stuttgard, 4th Jane 1782. ‘ The satisfaction I enjoyed at Mannheim in such copious fulness, I have paid, since my return, by this epidemical disorder, which has made me till today entirely unfit to thank your Excellency for so much regard and kindness. And yet I am forced almost to repent the happi- est journey of my life ; for by a truly mortifying contrast of Mannheim with my native country, it has pained me so much, that Stuttgard and all Swabian scenes are become intolerable to me. TTnliappier than I am can nditme be. I have feeling enough of my bad condition, perhaps also feeling enough of my meriting a better ; and in both points of view but one prospect of relief. ‘ May I dare to cast myself into your arms, my generous benefactor ? I know how soon your noble heart inflames when sympathy and hu- manity appeal to it ; I know how strong your courage is to undertake a noble action, and how warm your zeal to finish it. My new friends in Mannheim, whose respect for you is boundless, told me this : but their assurance was not necessary ; I myself in that hour of your time, which I had the happiness exclusively to enjoy, read in your counte- nance far more than they had told me. It is this which makes me bold to give myself without reserve to you, to put my whole fate into your hands, and look to you for the happiness of my life. As yet I am little of nothing. In this Arctic Zone of taste, I shall never grow to anything, unless happier stars and a Grecian climate warm me into gen- uine poetry. Need I say more, to expect from Dalberg all support ? ‘■Tour Excellency gave me every hope to this effect; the squeeze of the hand that sealed your promise, I shall forever feel. If your Ex- cellency will adopt the two or three hints I have subjoined, and use them in a letter to the Duke, I have no very great misgivings as to the result. APPENDIX. 297 ‘ And. now with a burning heart, I repeat the request, the soul of all this letter. Could you look into the interior of my soul, could you see what feelings agitate it, could I paint to you in proper colours how my spirit strains against the grievances of my condition, you would not, I know you would not, delay one hour the aid which an application from you to the Duke might procure me. 1 Again I throw myself into your arms, and wish nothing more than soon, very soon, to have it in my power to show by personal exertions in your service, the reverence with which I could devote to you my- self and all that I am.’ The ‘ hints ’ above alluded to, are given in a separate enclosure, the main part of which is this : ‘ I earnestly desire that you could secure my union with the Mann- heim Theatre for a specified period (which at your request might be lengthened', at the end of which I might again belong to the Duke. It will thus have the air rather of an excursion than a final abdication of my country, and will not strike them so ungraciously. In this case, however, it would be useful to suggest that means of practising and studying medicine might be afforded me at Mannheim. This will be peculiarly necessary, lest they sham, and higgle about letting me away. ’ 1 Stuttgard, 15th July 17S2. ‘ My long silence must have almost drawn upon me the reproach of folly from your Excellency, especially as I have not only delayed an- swering your last kind letter, but also retained the two books by me. All this was occasioned by a harassing affair which I have had to do with here. Tour Excellency will doubtless be surprised when you learn that, for my last journey to you, I have been confined a fortnight under arrest. Everything was punctually communicated to the Duke. On this matter I have had an interview with him. ‘ If your Excellency think my prospects of coming to you anywise attainable, my only prayer is to accelerate the fulfilment of them. The reason why I now wish this with double earnestness, is one which I dare trust no whisper of to paper. This alone I can declare for certain, that within a month or two, if I have not the happiness of being with you, there will remain no further hope of my ever being there. Ere that time, I shall be forced to take a step, which will render it impos- sible for me to stay at Mannheim.’ * * * The next two extracts are from letters to another correspondent. Doering quotes them without name or date : their purport sufficiently points out their place. 298 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. ‘I must liaste to get away from this: in the end they might find me an apartment in the Hohenasperg, as they have found the honest and ill-fated Schubart. They talk of better culture that I need. It is pos- sible enough, they might cultivate me differently in Hohenasperg : but I had rather try to make shift with what culture I have got, or may still get, by my unassisted efforts. This at least I owe to no one but my own free choice, and volition that disdains constraint.’ ‘ In regard to those affairs, concerning which they wish to put my spirit under wardship, I have long reckoned my minority to he con- cluded. The best of it is, that one can cast away such clumsy man- acles : me at least they shall not fetter.’ [No date.] ‘Tour Excellency will have learned from my friends at Mannheim, what the history of my affairs was up to your arrival, which unhappily I could not wait for. When I tell you that I am flying viy country , I have painted my whole fortune. But the worst is yet behind. I have not the necessary means of setting my mishap at defiance. For the sake of safety, I had to withdraw from Stuttgard with the utmost speed, at the time of the Prince’s arrival. Thus were my economical arrange- ments suddenly snapped asunder : I could not even pay my debts. My hopes had been set on a removal to Mannheim ; there I trusted, by your Excellency’s assistance, that my new play might not only have cleared me of debt, but have permanently put me into better circum- stances. All this was frustrated by the necessity for hastening my re-' moval. I went empty away ; empty in purse and hope. I blush at being forced to make such disclosures to you ; though I know they do not disgrace me. Sad enough for me to see realised in myself the hateful saying, that mental growth and full stature are things denied to every Swabian ! ‘ If my former conduct, if all that your Excellency knows of my character, inspires you with confidence in my love of honour, permit me frankly to ask your assistance. Pressingly as I now need the profit I expect from my Fiesco, it will be impossible for me to have the piece in readiness before three weeks : my heart was oppressed ; the feeling of my own situation drove me back from my poetic dreams. But if at the specified period, I could make the play not only ready, but, as I also hope, worthy , I take courage from that persuasion, respectf Tilly to ask that your Excellency would be so obliging as advance for me the price that will then become due. I need it now, perhaps more than I shall ever do again throughout my life. I had near 200 florins of debt in Stuttgard, which I could not pay. I may confess to you, that this APPENDIX. 299 gives me more uneasiness than anything about my future destiny. I shall have no rest till I am free on that side. ‘ In eight days, too, my travelling purse -will be exhausted. It is yet utterly impossible for me to labour with my mind. In ray hand, there- fore, are at present no resources. & ***** * ‘ My actual situation being clear enough from what I have already said, I hold it needless to afflict your Excellency with any importuning picture of my want. Speedy aid is all that I can now think of or wish. Herr Meyer has been requested to communicate your Excellency’s reso- lution to me, and to save you from the task of writing to me in person at all. With peculiar respect, I call myself,’ &c. It is pleasing to record that the humble aid so earnestly and modestly solicited by Schiller, was afforded him ; and that he never forgot to love the man who had afforded it ; who had assisted him, when assist- ance was of such essential value. In the first fervour of his gratitude, for this and other favours the poet warmly declared that ‘ he owed all, all to Dalberg ; ’ and in a state of society where Patronage, as Miss Edge- worth has observed, directly the antipodes of Mercy, is in general ‘ twice cursed,’ cursing him that gives and him that takes, it says not a little for the character both of the obliged and the obliger in the pres- ent instance, that neither of them ever ceased to remember their con- nexion with pleasure. Schiller's first play had been introduced to the Stage by Dalberg, and his last was dedicated to him . 1 The venerable critic, in his eighty-third year, must have received with a calm joy the tragedy of Tell, accompanied by an address so full of kindness and 1 It clearly appears I am wrong here ; I have confounded the Freiherr Wolfgang Heri- bert von Dalberg, Director of the Mannheim Theatre, with Archduke and Fiii'st Primas Karl Theodor Dalberg, his younger Brother, — a man justly eminent in the Politico- Ecclesiastical world of his time, and still more distinguished for his patronage of letters, and other benefactions to his countr}', than the Freiherr was. Neither is the play of Tell 1 dedicated 1 to him, as stated in the text ; there is merely a copy presented, with some verses by the Author inscribed in it ; at which time Karl Theodor was in his sixtieth year. A man of conspicuous station, of wide activity, and high influence and es' eem in Germany. He was the personal friend of Herder, Goethe, Schiller, Wieland ; by Napoleon he was made Fiirst Primas , Prince Primate of the Confederation of the Rhine, being already Archbishop, Elector of Mentz, &c. The good and brave deeds he did in his time appear to have been many, public and private. Pensions to deserving men of letters were among the number : Zacharias Werner, I remember, had a pension from him, — and still more to the purpose, Jean Paul He died in 1S17. There was a third Brother also memorable for his encouragement of Letters and Arts. '■'1st Jcein Dal- berg da , Is there no Dalberg here ? ” the Herald cries on a certain occasion. (See Conv. Lexicon , b. iii.) To Sir Edward Bulwer, in his Sketch of the Life of Schiller (p. c.), I am indebted for very kindly pointing out this error ; as well as for much other satisfaction derived from that work. {Note of 1S45.) 300 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. respect: it must have gratified him to think that the youth who was once his, and had now become the world’s, could, after long experience, still say of him, And fearlessly to thee may Tell be shown, For every noble feeling is thy own. Except this early correspondence, very few of Schiller’s letters have been given to the world . 1 In Doering s Appendix, we have found one written six years after the poet s voluntary exile, and agreeably con- trasted in its purport with the agitation and despondency of that un- happy period. We translate it for the sake of those who, along with us, regret that while the world is deluged with insipid correspondences, and ‘ pictures of mind ’ that were not worth drawing, the correspond- ence of a man who never wrote unwisely should lie mouldering in private repositories, ere long to he irretrievably destroyed ; that the ‘ picture of a mind ’ who was among the conscript fathers of the human race should still be left so vague and dim. This letter is addressed to Schwann, during Schiller’s first residence in Weimar: it has already been referred to in the Text. ‘ Weimar, 2d May 1TSS. ‘You apologise for your long silence to spare me the pain of an apology. I feel this kindness, and thank you for it. You do not im- pute my silence to decay of friendship ; a proof that you have read my heart more justly than my evil conscience allowed me to hope. Con- tinue to believe that the memory of you lives ineffaceably in my mind, and needs not to he brightened up by the routine of visits, or letters of assurance. So no more of this. ‘ The peace and calmness of existence which breathes throughout your letter, gives me joy ; I who am yet drifting to and fro between wind and waves, am forced to envy you that uniformity, that health of soul and body. To me also in time it will be granted, as a recom- pense for labours I have j'et to undergo. ‘ I have now been in Weimar nearly three quarters of a year : after finishing iny Carlos , I at last accomplished this long-projected journey. To speak honestly, I cannot say hut that I am exceedingly contented with the place ; and my reasons are not difficult to see. ‘ The utmost political tranquillity and freedom, a very tolerable dis- position in the people, little constraint in social intercourse, a select circle of interesting -persons and thinking heads, the respect paid to literary diligence : add to this the unexpensiveness to me of such a town as Weimar. Why should I not he satisfied ? 1 There have since been copious contributions : Correspondence ■with Goethe. Corr e- spondence with Madam von Wolliogen, and perhaps others which I have not seen. (Note o/1845.) APPENDIX. 301 ‘ With Wieland I am pretty intimate, and to him I must attribute no small influence on my present happiness ; for I like him, and have reason to believe that he likes me in return. My intercourse with Herder is more limited, though I esteem him highly as a writer and a man. It is the caprice of chance alone which causes this ; for we opened our acquaintance under happy enough omens. Besides, I have not always time to act according to my likings. With Bode no one can be very friendly. I know not whether you think here as I do. Goethe is still but expected out of Italy. The Duchess Dowager is a lady of sense and talent, in whose society one does not feel constrained. ‘ I thank you for your tidings of the fate of Carlos on your stage. To speak candidly, my hopes of its success on any stage were not high ; and I know my reasons. It is but fair that the Goddess of the Theatre avenge herself on me, for the little gallantry with which I was inspired in writing. In the mean time, though Carlos prove a never so de- cided failure on the stage, I engage for it, our public shall see it ten times acted, before they understand and fully estimate the merit that should counterbalance its defects. When one has seen the beauty of a work, and not till then, I think one is entitled to pronounce on its de- formity. I hear, however, that the second representation succeeded better than the first. This arises either from the changes made upon the piece by Dalberg, or from the fact, that on a second view, the public comprehended certain things, which on a first, they — did not comprehend. 1 For the rest, no one can be more satisfied than I am that Carlos, from causes honourable as well as causes dishonourable to it, is no specu- lation for the stage. Its very length were enough to banish it. Nor was it out of confidence or self-love that I forced the piece on such a trial ; perhaps out of self-interest rather. If in the affair my vanity played any part, it was in this, that I thought the work had solid stuff in it sufficient to outweigh its sorry fortune on the boards. ‘ The present of your portrait gives me true pleasure. I think it a striking likeness ; that of Schubart a little less so, though this opinion may proceed from my faulty memory as much as from the faultiness of Lobauer’s drawing. The engraver merits all attention and encourage- ment ; what I can do for the extension of his good repute shall not be -wanting. ‘To your dear children present my warmest love. At Wieland's I hear much and often of your eldest daughter ; there in a few days she has won no little estimation and affection. Do I still hold any place in her remembrance ? Indeed, I ought to blush, that by my long silence I so ill deserve it. ‘ That you are going to my dear native country, and will not pass my Father without seeing him, was most welcome news to me. The Swabi- ans are a good people ; this I more and more discover, the more I grow 302 THE LIFE OF FETED IU Oil SCITIILER. acquainted with the other provinces of German}-. To my family you will be cordially welcome. Will you take a pack of compliments from me to them ? Salute my Father in my name ; to my Mother and my Sisters your daughter will take my kiss.’ ‘And with these hearty words,’ as Doering says, we shall conclude this paper.’ No. 3. Page 99. FRIENDSHIP WITH GOETHE. The history of Schiller’s first intercourse with Goethe has been re- corded by the latter in a paper published a few years ago in the Morpho- logic, a periodical work, which we believe he still occasionally continues, or purposes to continue. The paper is entitled Happy Incident ; and may be found in Part I. Volume 1 (pp. 90-96) of the work referred to. The introductory portion of it we have inserted in the text at page 94 ; the remainder, relating to certain scientific matters, and anticipating some facts of our narrative, we judged it better to reserve for the Ap- pendix. After mentioning the publication of Don Carlos, and adding that ‘ each continued to go on his way apart,’ he proceeds : ‘ His Essay on Grace and Dignity was yet less of a kind to reconcile me. The Philosophy of Kant, which exalts the dignity of mind su highly, while appearing to restrict it, Schiller had joyfully embraced: it unfolded the extraordinary qualities which Nature had implanted in him ; and in the lively feeling of freedom and self-direction, he showed himself unthankful to the Great Mother, who surely had not acted like a step-dame towards him. Instead of viewing her as self-subsisting, as producing with a living force, and according to appointed laws, alike the highest and the lowest of her works, he took her up under the aspect of some empirical native qualities of the human mind. Certain harsh passages I could even directly apply to myself : they exhibited my con- fession of faith in a false light ; and I felt that if written without par- ticular attention to me, they were still worse ; for in that case, the vast chasm which lay between us gaped but so much the more distinctly. ‘ There was no union to be dreamed of. Even the mild persuasion of Dalberg, who valued Schiller as he ought, was fruitless: indeed the •reasons I set forth against any project of a union were difficult to con- tradict. No one could deny that betwen two spiritual antipodes there -was more intervening than a simple diameter of the sphere: antipodes of that sort act as a sort of poles, and so can never coalesce. But that some -relation may exist between them will appear from what follows. ‘ Schiller went to live at Jena, where I still continued unacquainted with him. About this time Batscli had set in motion a Society for Natural History, aided by some handsome collections, and an extensive APPENDIX. 303 apparatus. I used to attend their periodical meetings : one day I found Schiller there ; we happened to go out together ; some discourse arose between us. He appeared to take an interest in what had been ex- hibited ; but observed, with great acuteness and good sense, and much to my satisfaction, that such a disconnected way of treating Nature was by no means grateful to the exoteric, who desired to penetrate her mysteries. ‘I answered, that perhaps the initiated themselves were never rightly at their ease in it, and that there surely was another way of representing Nature, not separated and disunited, but active and alive, and expand- ing from the whole into the parts. On this point he requested explana- tions, but did not hide his doubts ; he would not allow that such a mode, as I was recommending, had been already pointed out by experiment. ‘We reached his house; the talk induced me to go in. I then ex- pounded to him with as much vivacity as possible, the Metamorphosis of Plants ,' drawing out on paper, with many characteristic strokes, a symbolic Plant for him, as I proceeded. He heard and saw all this with much interest and distinct comprehension ; but when I had done, he shook his head and said: “ This is no experiment, this is an idea ” I stopped with some degree of irritation ; for the point which separated us was most luminously marked by this expression. The opinions in Dignity and Grace again occurred to me ; the old grudge was just awakening ; but I smothered it, and merely said : “I was happy to .find that I had got ideas without knowing it, nay that I saw them before my eyes.” ‘Schiller had much more prudence and dexterity of management than I : he was also thinking of his periodical the Horen , about this time, and of course rather wished to attract than repel me. Accordingly he answered me like an accomplished Kantite ; and as my stiff-necked Realism gave occasion to many contradictions, much battling took place between us, and at last a truce, in which neither party would consent to yield the victory, but each held himself invincible. Positions like the following grieved me to the very soul : How can there ever he an experi- ment that shall correspond with an idea ? The specific quality of an idea is, that no experiment can reach it or agree with it. Yet if he held as an idea the same thing which I looked upon as an experiment, there must certainly, I thought, be some community between us, some ground whereon both of us might meet ! The first step was now taken ; Schil- ler’s attractive power was great, he held all firmly to him that came within his reach : I expressed an interest in his purposes, and prom- ised to give out in the Horen many notions that were lying in my head ; his wife, whom I had loved and valued since her childhood, did her part to strengthen our reciprocal intelligence ; all friends on both sides re- 1 A curious physiologico-botanical theory by Goethe, which appears to be entirely un- known in this country ; though several eminent continental botanists have noticed it with commendation. It is explained at considerable length in this same Morphology . 304 : THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. joiced in it ; and thus by means of that mighty and interminable con- troversy between object and subject, we two concluded an alliance, which remained unbroken, and produced much benefit to ourselves and others. ’ The friendship of Schiller and Goethe forms so delightful a chapter in their history, that we long for more and more details respecting it. Sincerity, true estimation of each other’s merit, true sympathy in each other’s character and purposes appear to have formed the basis of it, and maintained it unimpaired to .the end. Goethe, we are told, was minute and sedulous in his attention to Schiller, whom he venerated as a good man and sympathised with as an afflicted one : when in mixed companies together, he constantly endeavoured to draw out the stores of his modest and retiring friend; or to guard- his sick and sensitive mind from annoyances that might have irritated him ; now softening, now exciting conversation, guiding it with the address of a gifted and polished man, or lashing out of it with the scorpion-whip of his satire much that would have vexed the more soft and simple spirit of the valetudinarian. These are things which it is good to think of : it is good to know that there are literary men, who have other principles be- sides vanity ; who can divide the approbation of their fellow mortals, without quarrelling over the lots ; who in their solicitude about their 1 fame ’ do not forget the common charities of nature, in exchange for which the ‘ fame ’ of most authors were but a poor bargain. No. 4. Page 106. DEATH OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. As a specimen of Schiller’s historical style, we have extracted a few scenes from his masterly description of the Battle of Liitzen. The whole forms a picture, executed in the spirit of Salvator ; and though this is but a fragment, the importance of the figure represented in it will perhaps counterbalance that deficiency. ‘ At last the dreaded morning dawned ; but a thick fog, which lay brooding over all the field, delayed the attack till uoon. Kneeling in front of his lines, the King offered up his devotions ; the whole army at the same moment, dropping on their right knees, uplifted a moving hymn, and the field-music accompanied their singing. The King then mounted his horse ; dressed in a jerkin of buff, with a surtout (for a late wound hindered him from wearing armour), he rode through the ranks, rousing the courage of his troops to a cheerful confidence, which liis own forecasting bosom contradicted. God with xis was the battle- word of the Swedes ; that of the Imperialists was Jesus Maria. About APPENDIX. 305 eleven o’clock, the fog began to break, and Wallenstein's lines became visible. At the same time, too, were seen the flames of Lutzen, which the Duke had ordered to be set on fire, that he might not be outflanked on this side. At length the signal pealed ; the horse dashed forward on the enemy ; the infantry advanced against his trenches. -x- * * * # -x- * ‘ Meanwhile the right wing, led on by the King in person, had fallen on the left wing of the Friedlanders. The first strong onset of the heavy Finland Cuirassiers scattered the light-mounted Poles and Croats, who were stationed here, and their tumultuous flight spread fear and disorder over the rest of the cavalry. At this moment notice reached the King that his infantry were losing ground, and likely to be driven back from the trenches they had stormed ; and also that his left, ex- posed to a tremendous fire from the Windmills behind Lutzen, could no longer keep their place. With quick decision, he committed to Von Horn the task of pursuing the already beaten left wing of the enemy ; and himself hastened, at the head of Steinbock’s regiment, to restore the confusion of his own. His gallant horse bore him over the trenches with the speed of lightning ; but the squadrons that came after him could not pass so rapidly ; and none but a few horsemen, among whom Franz Albert, Duke of Sachsen-Lauenburg, is mentioned, were alert enough to keep beside him. He galloped right to the place where his infantry was most oppressed ; and while looking round to spy out some weak point, on which his attack might be directed, his short-sighted- ness led him too near the enemy’s lines. An Imperial sergeant (ge- freiter), observing that every one respectfully made room for the ad- vancing horseman, ordered a musketeer to fire on him. “Aim at him there,” cried he ; “ that must be a man of consequence.” The soldier drew his trigger ; and the King’s left arm was shattered by the ball. At this instant, his cavalry came galloping up, and a confused cry of '■‘■The King bleeds! The King is shot!" spread horror and dismay through their ranks. “It is nothing: follow me!” exclaimed the King, collecting all his strength ; but overcome with pain, and on the point of fainting, he desired the Duke of Lauenburg, in French, to take him without notice from the tumult. The Duke then turned with him to the right wing, making a wide circuit to conceal this accident from the desponding infantry ; but as they rode along, the King re- .• ceived a second bullet through the back, which took from him the last remainder of his strength. “ I have got enough, brother,” said he with a dying voice : “ haste, save thyself.” With these words he sank from his horse ; and here, struck by several other bullets, far from his at- tendants, he breathed out his life beneath the plundering hands of a troop of Croats. His horse flying on without its rider, and bathed in blood, soon announced to the Swedish cavalry the fall of their King ; with wild yells they rush to the spot, to snatch that sacred spoil from 20 30G THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. the enemy. A deadly fight ensues around the "corpse, and the mangled remains are buried under a hill of slain men. ‘ The dreadful tidings hasten in a few minutes over all the Swedish army : but instead of deadening the courage of these hardy troops, they rouse it to a fierce consuming fire. Life falls in value, since the holiest of all lives is gone ; and death has now no terror for the lowly, since it has not spared the anointed head. With the grim fury of lions, the Upland, Smaland, Finnish, East and West Gothland regiments dash a second time upon the left wing of the enemy, which, already mak- ing but a feeble opposition to Von Horn, is now utterly driven from the field. * * * * * * ‘ But how dear a victory, how sad a triumph ! Now first when the rage of battle has grown cold, do they feel the whole greatness of their loss, and the shout of the conqueror dies in a mute and gloomy despair. He who led them on to battle has not returned with them. Apart he lies, in his victorious field, confounded with the common heaps of humble dead. After long fruitless searching, they found the royal corpse, not far from the great stone, which had already stood for cen- turies between Liitzen and the Merseburg Canal, but which, ever since this memorable incident, has borne the name of Schweclenstein, the Stone of the Swede. Defaced with wounds and blood, so as scarcely" to be recognised, trodden under the hoofs of horses, stripped of his orna- ments, even of his clothes, he is drawn from beneath a heap of dead bodies, brought to Weissenfels, and there delivered to the lamenta- tions of his troops and the last embraces of his Queen. Vengeance had first required its tribute, and blood must flow as an offering to the Monarch ; now Love assumes its rights, and mild tears are shed for the Man. Individual grief is lost in the universal sorrow. Astounded by this overwhelming stroke, the generals in blank despondency stand round his bier, and none yet ventures to conceive the full extent of his loss. ’ The descriptive powers of the Historian, though the most popular, are among the lowest of his endowments. That Schiller was not want- ing in the nobler requisites of his art, might be proved from his reflec- tions on this very" incident, ‘ striking like a hand from the clouds into the calculated horologe of men’s affairs, and directing the considerate mind to a higher plan of things.’ But the limits of our Work are already reached. Of Schiller’s histories and dramas we can give no farther specimens : of his lyrical, didactic, moral poems we must take our leave without giving an.v. Perhaps the time may come, when all his writings, transplanted to our own soil, may" be offered in then- entire dimensions to the thinkers of these Islands ; a conquest by which our literature, rich as it is, might be enriched still farther. SUMMARY. PAET I. SCHILLER’S YOUTH. (1759—1784.) Introductory remarks : Schiller’s high destinj r . His Father's career : Parental example and influences. Boyish caprices and aspirations, (p. 7. ) — His first schoolmaster : Training for the Church : Poetical glim- merings. The Duke of Wiirtemberg, and his Free Seminary : Irksome formality there. Aversion to the study of Law and Medicine. (11.) — Literary ambition and strivings : Economic obstacles and pedantic hindrances: Silent passionate rebellion. Bursts his fetters. (16.) — The Bobbers : An emblem of its young author’s baffled, madly struggling spirit: Criticism of the Characters in the Play, and of the style of the* work. Extraordinary ferment produced by its publication : Exagger- ated praises and condemnations: Schiller’s own opinion of its moral tendency. (19.) — Discouragement and persecution from the Duke of Wiirtemberg. Dalberg’s generous sympathy and assistance. Schiller escapes from Stuttgard, empty in purse and hope : Dalberg supplies his immediate wants : He finds hospitable friends. (29.) — Earnest literary efforts. Publishes two tragedies, Fiesco and Kabale unci Liebe. His mental growth. Critical account of the Conspiracy of Fiesco : Fiesco’s genial ambition : The Characters of the Play nearer to actual humanity. How all things in the Drama of Life hang inseparably together. (35.) — Kabale und Liebe, a domestic tragedy of high merit : Noble and in- teresting characters of hero and heroine. (41.) — The stormy confusions of Schiller's youth now subsiding. Appointed poet to the Mannheim Theatre. Nothing to fear from the Duke of Wiirtemberg. The Pub- lic, his only friend and sovereign. A Man of Letters for the rest of his days. (44. ) PART n. FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT MANNHEIM TO HIS SETTLE- MENT AT JENA. (1783—1790.) Reflections: Difference between knowing and doing: Temptations and perils of a literary life : True Heroism. Schiller’s earnest and steadfast devotion to his Ideal Good : Misery of idleness and indecision. 308 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. (p. 46.) — German esteem for tlie Theatre. Theatrical, and deeper than, theatrical activities : The Rheinische Thalia and Pldlosophiscl 'ie Brief e. The two Eternities : The bog of Infidelity surveyed but not crossed. (51.) — Insufficiency of Mannheim. A pleasant tribute of regard. Let- ter to Huber : Domestic tastes. Removes to Leipzig. Letter to his friend Schwann: A marriage proposal. Fluctuations of life. (57.) — - Goes to Dresden. Don Carlos : Evidences of a matured mind : Analysis of the Characters : Scene of the King and Posa. Alfieri and Schiller contrasted. (64. ) — Popularity : Crowned with laurels, but without a home. Forsakes the Drama. Lyrical productions: Freigeisterei der Leidensehaft. The Geister seller, a Kovel. Tires of fiction. Studies and tries History. (84. ) — Habits at Dresden. Visits Weimar and Bauer- bach. The Friiulein Lengefeld : Thoughts on Marriage. (89.) — First interview with Goethe : Diversity in their gifts: Their mistaken im- pression of each other. Become better acquainted : Lasting friendship. (92.) — History of the Revolt of the Netherlands. The truest form of His- tory-writing. Appointed Professor at Jena. Friendly intercourse with Goethe, Marriage. (97.) PART in. FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA TO HIS DEATH. (1790—1805.) Academical duties. Study of History : Cosmopolitan philosophy, and national instincts. History of the Thirty -Tears War. (p. 101.) — Sick- ness, aud help in it. Heavy trial for a literary man. Schiller's una- bated zeal. 1 107.) — Enthusiasm and conflicts excited by Kant’s Phi- losophy. Schiller’s growing interest in the subject: Letters on HUsilutic Culture, &c. Claims of Kant’s system to a respectful treatment. (110.) Fastidiousness and refinement of taste. Literary projects : Epic poems: Returns to the Drama. Outbreak of the French Revolution. (115. i — - Edits the Horen : Connexion with Goethe. A pleasant visit to his pa- rents. Mode of life at Jena : Night-studies, and bodily stimulants. (122.) • — Wallenstein : Brief sketch of its character and compass : Specimen scenes, Max Piccolomini and his Father ; Max and the Princess Thekla ; Thekla’s frenzied grief : No nobler or more earnest dramatic work. (129.) — Removes to Weimar: Generosity of the Duke. Tragedy of Maria Stuart. (151. ) — The Maid of Orleans : Character of Jeanne d' Arc : Scenes, Joanna and her Suitors ; Death of Talbot ; Joanna and Lionel. Enthusiastic reception of the play. (154.) — Daily and nightly habits at Weimar. The Bride of Messina. Wilhelm Tell: Truthfulness of the Characters and Scenery : Scene, the Death of Gesler. (170.) — Schiller’s dangerous illness. Questionings of Futurity. The last sickness : Many things grow clearer : Death. (186.)- -General sorrow for his loss. His personal aspect : Modesty and simplicity of manner : Mental gifts. (187.) — Definitions of genius. Poetic sensibilities and wretchedness : In such miseries Schiller had no share. A flue example of the German charac- ter : No cant; no cowardly compromising with his own conscience; Childlike simplicity. Literary Heroism. (192.) SUMMARY. 309 SUPPLEMENT. Small Book by Herr Saupe, entitled ScMUer and Ms Father's House- hold. Really interesting and instructive. Translation, with slight cor- rections and additions, (p. 202.) SCHILLER’S FATHER. Johann Caspar Schiller, born in Wurtemberg, 27th October 1723. At ten years a fatherless Boy poorly educated, he is apprenticed to a bar- ber-surgeon. Becomes ‘ Army Doctor ’ to a Bavarian regiment. Settles in Marbach, and marries the daughter of a respectable townsman, after- wards reduced to extreme poverty. The marriage, childless for the first eight years. Six children in all : The Poet Schiller the only Boy. (p. 203.) — Very meagre circumstances. At breaking-out of the Seven- Years War returns to the Army. At the Ball of Fulda ; at the Battle of Leutlien. Cheerfully undertakes anything useful. Earnestly diligent and studious. Greatly improves in general culture, and even saves money. (205.) — Boards his poor Wife with her Father. His first Daughter and his only Son born there. At the close of the War he carries his Wife and Children to his own quarters. A just man ; simple, strong, expert ; if also somewhat quick and rough. (206.) — Solicitude for his Son’s education, Appointed Recruiting Officer, with permission to live with his Family at Lorch. The children soon feel themselves at home and happy. Little Fritz receives his first regular school instruc- tion, much to the comfort of his Father. Holiday rambles among the neighbouring hills : Brotherly and Sisterly affection. Touches of boy- ish fearlessness: Where does the lightning come from'? (208.) — -The Family run over to Ludwigsburg. Fritz to prepare for the clerical pro- fession. At the Latin School, cannot satisfy his Father’s anxious wishes. One of his first poems. (211.) — The Duke of Wiirtemberg notices his Father’s worth, and appoints him Overseer of all his Forest operations: With! residence at his beautiful Forest- Castle, Die Solitude. Fritz re- mains at the Ludwigsburg Latin School : Continual exhortations and corrections from Father and Teacher. Youthful heresy. First ac- quaintance with a Theatre. (213.) — The Duke proposes to take Fritz into his Military Training-School. Consternation of the Schiller Family. Ineffectual expostulations : Go he must. Studies Medicine. Altogether withdrawn from his Father’s care. Rigorous seclusion and constraint. The Duke means well to him. (215.) — Leaves the School, and becomes Regimental-Doctor at Stuttgard. His Father’s pride in him. Extrava- gance and debt. His personal appearance. (217.) — Publication of the Robbers. His Father’s mingled feelings of anxiety and admiration. Peremptory command from the Duke to write no more poetry, on pain of Military Imprisonment. Prepares for flight with his friend Streicher. Parting visit to his Family at Solitude: His poor Mother’s bitter grief. Escapes to Mannheim. Consternation of his Father. Happily the Duke takes no hostile step. (219.)— Disappointments and straits at Mannheim. Help from his good friend Streicher. He sells Fiesco, and prepares to leave Mannheim. Through the kindness of Frau von Wolzogen he 310 THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCIIILLER. finds refuge in Bauer bach. Affectionate Letter to liis Parents. His Father’s stern solicitude for his welfare. (224.) — Eight months in Bauer- bach, under the name of Dr. Bitter. Un returned attachment to Char- lotte Wolzogen. Returns to Mannheim. Forms a settled engagement with Daiberg, to whom his Father writes his thanks and anxieties. Thrown on a sick-bed: His Father’s admonitions. He vainly urges his Son to petition the Duke for permission to return to Wiirtemberg ; the poor Father earnestly wishes to have him near him again. Increasing financial difficulties. More earnest fatherly admonition and advice. Enthusiastic reception of Kabale unci I/iebe. Don Carlos well in hand. A friend in trouble through mutual debts. Applies to his Father for unreasonable help Annoyance at the inevitable refusal. His Father’s loving and faithful expostulation. His Sister’s proposed marriage with Reinwald. (227. ) — Beginning of his friendly intimacy with the excellent Korner. The Duke of Weimar bestows on him the title of Rath. Ho farther risk for him from Wiirtemberg. At Leipzig, Dresden, Weimar. Settles at last as Professor in Jena. Marriage, and comfortable home: His Father well satisfied, and joyful of heart Affectionate Letter to his good Father. (236.) — Seized with a dangerous affection of the chest. Generous assistance from Denmark. Jojd'ui visit to his Family, after an absence of eleven years. Writes a conciliatory Letter to the Duke. Birth of a Son. The Duke’s considerateness for Schiller’s Father. The Duke’s Death. (238.) — Schiller’s delight in his Sisters, Luise and Nanette. Letter to his Father. Visits Stuttgard. Returns with Wife and Child to Jena. Assists his Father in publishing the results of his long experiences of gardens and trees. Beautiful and venerable old age. (241.) — Thick-coming troubles for the Schiller Family. Death of the beautiful Nanette in the flower of her years: Dangerous illness of Luise : The Father bedrid with gout. The poor weakly Mother bears the whole burden of the household distress. Sister Christophine, now Reinwald’s Wife, hastens to their help. Schiller’s anxious sympathy. His Father’s death. Grateful letters to Reinwald and to his poor Mother. (245.) HIS MOTHER. Elisabetha Dorothea Kodweis, born at Marbach, 1733. An unpre- tending, soft and dutiful Wife, with the tenderest Mother-heart. A talent for music and even for poetry. Verses to her Husband. Troubles during the Seven-Years War. Birth of little Fritz. The Father re- turns from the War. Mutual helpfulness, and affectionate care for their children. She earnestly desires her Son may become a Preacher. His confirmation. Her disappointment that it was not to be. (p. 249.) — - Her joy and care for him whenever he visited his Home. Her innocent delight at seeing her Son’s name honoured and wondered at. Her anguish and illness at their long parting. Brighter days for them all. She visits her Son at Jena. He returns the visit, with Wife and Child. Her strength in adversity. Comfort in her excellent Daughter Chris- tophine. Her Husband’s death. Loving and helpful sympathy from her Son. (254.) — Receives a pension from the Duke. Removes with Luise to Leonberg. Marriage of Luise "Happy in her children’s love, and in their success in life. Her last illness and death. Letters Horn Schiller to his Sister Luise and her kind husband. (264. ) SUMMARY. 311 HIS SISTERS. Till then - Brother’s flight the young girls had known no misfortune. Diligent household occupations, and peaceful contentment. A love- passage in Christopliine’s young life. Her marriage with Reinwald. His unsuccessful career : Broken down in health and hope. Chris- tophine’s loving, patient and noble heart. For twenty-nine years they lived contentedly together. Through life she was helpful to all about her ; never liindersome to any. (p. 267.) — Poor Nanette’s brief history. Her excitement, when a child, on witnessing the performance of her Brother’s Kabale und Liebe. Her ardent secret wish, herself to repre- sent his Tragedies on the Stage. All her young glowing hopes stilled in death. (274.) — Luise’s betrothal and marriage. An anxious Mother, and in all respects an excellent Wife. Her Brother’s last loving Letter to her. His last illness, and peaceful death. (275.) APPENDIX. No. 1. DANIEL SCHUBART. Influence of Schubart’s persecutions on Schiller’s mind. His Birth and Boyhood. Sent to Jena to study Theology : Profligate life : Re- turns home. Popular as a preacher : Skilful in music. A joyful, pip- ing, guileless mortal, (p. 280.) — Prefers pedagogy to starvation. Mar- ries. Organist to the Duke of Wurtemberg. Headlong business, amusement and dissipation. His poor Wife returns to her Father : Ruin and Banishment. A vagabond life. (281.) — Settles at Augsburg, and sets up a Newspaper : Again a prosperous man : Enmity of the Jesuits. Seeks refuge in Him: His Wife and Family return to him. The Jesuits on the watch. Imprisoned for ten years : Interview with young Schiller. (283.) — Is at length liberated : Joins his Wife at Stutt- gard, and reestablishes his Newspaper. Literary enterprises : Death. Summary of his character. (286.) No. 2. LETTERS OF SCHILLER TO DALBERG. Brief account of Dalberg. Schiller's desire to remove to Mannheim. Adaptation of the Robbers to the stage, (p. 290. ) — Struggles to get free from Stuttgard and his Ducal Jailor : Dalberg’s friendly help. Friendly letter to his friend Schwann. (295.) No. 3. FRIENDSHIP WITH GOETHE. Goethe’s feeling of the difference in their thoughts and aims : Great Nature not a phantasm of her children’s brains. Growing sympathy and esteem, unbroken to the end. (p. 302.) No. 4. DEATH OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. Schiller’s historical style. A higher than descriptive power, (p. 304.) INDEX Adolphus, Gustavus, death of, 304, Alfieri and Schiller contrasted, 82. Beziehungen zu Eltern , &c. cited, 203. Carlo Don , Schillers, published, 05 ; crit- ical account of, 06 ; scene of the King and Posa, 71 ; immediate and general ap- probation, 83 ; Schillers own opinion of its worth, 301. Christian’s, Prince, grandfather befriends Schiller, 238. Consbruch, Doctor, 259. Dal berg, Bamn von, Schiller’s connexion with. 223, 228. Dalberg, Wolfang, Heribert von, brief ac- count of, 289. Elizabeth, Queen, 154. , Epics, Modern, 119. Fiesco. Verschworung des, Schiller’s tra- gedy of the, 35. Ernnkh, M., Schiller’s brother-in-law, 264, 266, 276. See Luise Schiller. Gleichen, Baroness von, Schiller’s daughter, 203 note , 277. Goethe’s intercourse and connexion with Schiller, 92, 99, 122, 302; his composure amid the Kantean turmoil. 111 ; his rever- ent and stubborn Realism, 302. History, methods of writing, 97, 101. Hofmannswaldau, 252. Hohenheim, Countess von, 257. Ideal good, 49. Idleness, misery of. 50. Jahn, Johann Friedrich, Schiller's Latin 1 teacher, 212, 214. Jeanne d’Arc, character of, 154. Kabal# und Liebe, Schiller’s, a domestic tragedy of high merit. 40. Kant’s Philosophy, 110 ; Goethe’s opinion of, 302. Kodweis, Georg Friedrich, Schiller’s ma- ternal grandfather. 204. Korner’s friendship for Schiller, 236, 239. Lengefeld’s, Lottchen von, marriage with Schiller, 258. Literary life, temptations, perils and hero- isms of a, 46, 108, 197. Maul of Orleans, Schiller’s, 154; scenes showing Joanna, Talbot, Lionel and others, 159. Maria Stuart , Schiller’s tragedy of. 152. Meier, Madam, a friend of Schiller’s, 221. Messina, Bride of Schiller’s, 171. Miller, Obrist von, 269. Moser, C. F., Schiller’s first boy-friend, 208. Paul, Czar, visits Wurtemberg, 222. PJnlosophisehe Brief e, character of Schil- ler’s, 54. Qeinwald, Schiller’s brother-in law, 227, 235, 269: letter from Schiller, 247. See Christophine Schiller. j Robbers, the, Schiller’s play of, 19: not an immoral work, 26 ; consequences to its author of its publication, 29 ; remodelled for the stage, 291. Roos, Herr, sees Schiller’s mother. 264. Saupe’s * Schiller and his Father’s House- hold,’ 202-277. Schiller, Christophine. born, 206; affection for her Brother, 209, 210, 214, 251 : mar- riage with Reinwald, 235, 241, 269-273; visits the old home to help in sickness, 246, 262 : letter from her Brother, 261 ; her peaceful early life, 267 ; her poor husband's grateful recognition of her worth, 273. Schiller, Elisabetba Dorothea, the root’s mother, 204, 249 ; Schiller’s birth, 206, 250 ; care of his childhood, 209. 251-5 ; sorrow at their long parting, 222, 257 ; in the midst of sickness and death, 246, 261 ; letter from her Son, 248 ; her ex- cellent character, 249 ; verses to her hus- band : troubles during the Seven-Years War, 250 : anxiety for her Son, 254, 255 ; visits him at Jena, 259; his affectionate care for her on his Father’s death, 263 ; she receives a pension from the Duke : 264 ; Roos’s sketch of her personal ap- pearance, 264 ; her last letter to her Son, 205 ; died in her sixty-ninth year, 267. Schiller. Friedrich, bom in Wurtemberg, 9: character and circumstances of his pa- rents, 9, 10 ; boyish caprices and aspira- tions, 11 : intended for the clerical profes- sion, 12 ; first poetry, 12, 13 ; the Duke of Wiirtemberg's School. 14; intolerable con- straint, 15-18; publication of the Hollers, 19, 27 ; consequent persecution, 28; is en- couraged by Dalberg, 32 ; escapes from Stuttgard. 33 ; finds refuge at Bauerbach, 34 ; settles in Mannheim, 43 ; his lofty striving, 48 ; removes to Leipzig, 60 : pro- posal of marriage, 60; goes to Dresden, 64 ; crowned with laurels, but without a home, 85 ; lyrical productions, 85 ; tires of fiction, S7 : habits at Dresden, 89 ; visits Weimar, 91; meets the Fraulein Lenge- feld, 92 ; first acquaintance with Goethe, 314 INDEX. 02 ; appointed Professor of History at 1 Jena, 09; marriage, 100; study of History, 101 ; sickness, 107; influence of Kant, 110; 1 epic projects, 119 ; returns to the Drama, 120: connexion with G-oethe, 122; visits his Parents, 126 ; removes to Weimar, 151 ; enthusiastic reception of the Maid of Orleans , 160 ; his last sickness and death, 1S6 : his personal aspect and men- tal gifts, 180. Schiller, Friedrich, Saupe’s account of, 202- 277 ; his birth. 205, 251 ; early instruction, 207-8, 251, 2 ; childhood at Lorch, 208-9 ; school at Ludwigsburg ; preparing to be a clergyman, 211, 253 : one of his earliest poems, 212 : youthful heresy, 214; first sees a Theatre, 214; taken into the Duke's mili- \ tary School, 215-16: appointed Regimental j Doctor at Stuttgard, 217 ; his personal ap- pearance. 218 ; publication of the Robbers , 219 ; anger of the Duke, 219 ; forbidden to write poetry ; prepares for flight, 220 ; in great straits at Mannheim, 223-6; Fiesco , 224 ; letter to his Parents, 226 ; at Bauer- bach, 227 ; Kabale und Liebe ; returns to Mannheim, 228-233 ; intermittent fever, 228- 9, 238 ; refuses to petition the Duke. 229- 30 ; increasing difficulties, 230-33 ; angry at his Father. 233 ; Don Carlos ; befriended by the Duke of Weimar, 235 ; at Leipzig, Dresden, Weimar ; Professor in Jena, 236; marries Lottchen von Lengefeld, 236. 25S ; letter to his Father, 236 ; shattered health ; generous help from Denmaik, 238; joyful visit to his Family; birth of his first Son. 239-243, 260: writes to the Duke of Wurtemberg, 239; letter to his Parents, 243 : returns to Jena, 245 ; anxiety for troubles at home ; birth of his second Son, 245 ; letters to Reinwald and to his Mother on his Father’s death, 247-8; affection for his good Mother, 257-S; stie visits him at Jena, 259; letters to his Sister Christo- , phine, 260-1 ; to his Mother in her widow- hood, 263 ; to her Sister Luise, and to her husoand, 266: his last letter to Luise, 276 ; his constant brotnerly love : his last illness, and peaceful death. 277-8, Schiller. Johann Casper, the Poet’s Father ; his parentage and birth : early struggles and marriage, 203 ; in the Seven-Years War. 204, 205, 250 ; returns to bis family. 207, 251 : Recruiting Officer to the Duke of Wurtemberg, 20S ; anxiety for his Son’s education, 208. 212, 215 : transferred to Ludwigsburg, 211 : Forest Overseer to the Duke at Solitude, 213 ; anger at his Son’s flight from Wurtemberg, 223 ; anxiety for his welfare, 227, 229-31 : writes to Dal-' berg, 22S : e^o-tulates^with his 8on, 233 ; joy at his success, 235, 236. 237 : writes to him in behalf of Nanette. 242 : publishes his experiences in tree culture, 245 : bed- ridden with gout, 245 ; died in his seventy-third year. 246. Schiller. Johann Friedrich, the Poet's God- father, 208. Schiller Johannes, the Poet’s Grandfather, 203. Schiller’s Letters, 2S9; specimen of his historical style, iJ04. Schiller, Luise, born, 213: her affectionate helpfulness.. 241, 275; ill of fever, 245, 276; marries M. Frankh, 264. 276; nurses her poor old Mother, 265; her Brothers last letter, 276. Schiller. Nanette, the Poet's youngest Sis- ter, 242 : stricken down by fever, 245 ; her sad brief history. 274, 275. Schiller's Leben , verfasst aus, &c; cited, 203. Schiller’s Leben von Gustav Schwab cited, 203. SchVler und sein Vaterliches Hans cited, 203. Schimmelmann, Count von, befriends 1 Schiller, 238. Schnbart, Daniel, account of. 279, 298. Shakspeare, Schiller’s first impression of, 17. Streicher, Johann Andreas, friend and com- panion of Schiller's flight, 221-2, 224. Theatre, German estimarion of the. 50. Wallenstein, Schiller's brief sketch of. 129 ; scene of Max Piccolomini and his Father, 137 : of Max and the Princess Thekla, 142 : of Thekla's last resolve. 144. Weimar, Duke Karl August of, befriends Schiller, 151, 235. Wilhelm Tell , Schiller’s, truthfulness of, 172; scene of the death of Gessler. 176. Wolzogen, Frau von, befriends Schiller, 225, 260 ; Schiller’s affection for her daughter. 228, 257. Wolzogen, Wilhelm von, 225. Wordsworth, 174. Wurtemberg. Duke of, gives employment to Schiller's Father, 9, 20S. 211, 213 : under- takes the education of Schiller, 14: not equal to the task. 30, 297 : takes Schiller into his military School, 216-17 : anger at the Robbers , 219; forbids any m< re poetry, 220 : shows no hostility to the Schiller family. 223, 240 ; his death. 241. Xenien , the, a German Dunciad by Goethe and Schiller, 123. Zilliug, Schiller's theological teacher, 214. CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS COLLECTED AND REPUBLISHED BY * THOMAS CAELYLE GERMAN LITERATURE OF THE FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES.— THE NIBEL UNQEN LIED. —APPENDIX. NEW YORK: JOHN B. ♦ ALDEN, PUBLISHER, 1885. TROW’S PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, NEW YORK. GERMAN LITERATURE OF THE FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES. GERMAN LITERATURE OF THE FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES. Historical literary significance of Reynard the Fox. Tlie Troubadour Period in general Literature, to which the Swabian Era in Germany an- swers. General decay of Poetry : Futile attempts to account for such decay : The world seems to have rhymed itself out ; and stern business, not sportfully, but with h»rsh endeavour, was now to be done. Italy, for a time, a splendid exception in Dante and Petrarch. The change not a fall from a higher spiritual state to a lower ; but rather, a passing from youth into manhood, (p. 5). — Literature now became more and more Didactic, consisting of wise Apologues, Fables, Satires, Moralities : This Didactic Spirit reached its acme at the era of the Reformation. Its gradual rise*: The Striker, and others. Some account of Hugo von Trimberg : A cheerful, clear-sighted, gentle-hearted man, with a quiet, sly humour in him : His Renner, a singular old book ; his own simple, honest, mildly decided character everywhere visible in it. (13). — Be- ner, and his Edelstein, a collection of Fables done into German rhyme from Latin originals : Not so much a Translator as a free Imitator ; he tells his story in his own way, and freely appends his own moral.. Fa- ble, the earliest and simplest product of Didactic Poetry : The Four- teenth Century an age of Fable in a wider sense : Narratives and Mys- teries. A serious warning to Critics ! Adventures of Tyll EuUnepiegcl. (25). — In the religious Cloisters, also were not wanting men striving with purer enthusiasm after the highest problem of manhood, a life of spiritual Truth: Johann Tauler, and Thomas.a Kempis. On all hands an aspect of full progress : Robber Barons, and Merchant Princes. The spirit of Inquiry, of Invention, conspicuously busy: Gunpowder, Print- ing, Paper. In Literature, the Didactic, especially the HTsopic spirit became abundantly manifest. (38). — Reynard the Fox, the best of all Apologues ; for some centuries a universal household possession, and secular Bible : Antiquarian researches into its origin and history : Not the work of any single author, but a growth and contribution of many generations and countries. A rude, wild Parody of Human Life, full of meaning and high moral purpose : Its dramatic consistency : Occa- sional coarseness, and other imperfections. Philological interest of the old Low-German original : The language of our old Saxon Fatherland, still curiously like our own. The Age of Apologue, like that of Chiv- alry and Love-singing, now gone. Where are now our People’s-Books ? 149 ). GERMAN LITERATURE OF THE FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES.’ [ 1831 .] It is not with Herr Soltau’s work, and its merits or de- merits, that we here purpose to concern ourselves. The old Low-German Apologue was already familiar under many shapes ; in versions into Latin, English and all modern tongues : if it now comes before our German friends under a new shape, and they can read it not only in Gottsched’s pro- saic Prose, and Goethe’s poetic Hexameters, but also ‘ in the metre of the original, ’namely, in Doggerel ; and this, as would appear, not without comfort, for it is ‘ the second edition ; ’ — doubtless the Germans themselves will look to it, will direct Herr Soltau aright in his praiseworthy labours, and, with all suitable speed, forward him from his second edition into a third. To us strangers the fact is chiefly interesting, as an- other little memento of the indestructible vitality there is in worth, however rude ; and to stranger Reviewers, as it brings that wondrous old Fiction, with so much else that holds of it, once more specifically into view. The Apologue of Reynard the Fox ranks undoubtedly among the most remarkable Books, not only as a German, but, in all senses, as a European one ; and yet for us perhaps its extrin- sic, historical character is even more noteworthy than its in- 1 Foreign Quarterly Review, No. 16 Reinecfce der Fuchs , uber- setzt wn D. W. Soltau (Reynard the Fox, translated by D, IV. Soltau). 2d edition, 8vo. Liineburg, 1830. 6 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. trinsic. In Literary History it forms, so to speak, the cul- minating point, or highest manifestation of a Tendency which had ruled the two prior centuries : ever downwards from the last of the Hohenstauffen Emperors, and the end of their Swabian Era, to the- borders of the Reformation, rudiments and fibres of this singular Fable are seen, among innumerable kindred things, fashioning themselves together ; and now, after three other centuries of actual existence, it still stands visible and entire, venerable in itself, and the enduring me- morial of much that has proved more perishable. Thus, nat- urally enough, it figures as the representative of a whole group that historically cluster round it ; in studying its significance, we study that of a whole intellectual period. As this section of German Literature closely connects itself with the corresponding section of European Literature, and indeed offers an expressive, characteristic epitome thereof, some insight into it, were such easily procurable, might not be without profit. No Literary Historian that we know of, least of all any in England, having looked much in this direc- tion, either as concerned Germany or other countries, whereby a long space of time, once busy enough and full of life, now lies barren and void in men’s memories, — we shall here en- deavour to present, in such clearness as first attempts may admit, the result of some slight researches of our own in re- gard to it. The Troubadour Period, in general Literature, to which the Swabian Era in German answers, has, especially within the last generation, attracted inquiry enough ; the French have their Raynouards, we our Webers, the Germans their Haugs, Graters, Langs, and numerous other Collectors and Translat- ors of Minnelieder ; among whom Ludwig Tieck, the foremost in far other provinces, has not disdained to take the lead. We shah suppose that this Literary Period is partially known to all readers. Let each recall whatever he has learned or figured regarding it ; represent to himself that brave young heyday of Chivalry and Minstrelsy, when a stem Larbarossa, a stern Lion-heart, sang sirvent.es, and with the hand that could wield the sword and sceptre twanged the melodious strings ; when EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 7 knights- errant tilted, and ladies’ eyes rained bright influences ; and suddenly, as at sunrise, the whole Earth had grown vocal and musical. Then truly was the time of singing come ; for princes and prelates, emperors and squires, the wise and the simple, men, women and children, all sang and rhymed, or delighted in hearing it done. It w r as a universal noise of Song ; as if the Spring of Manhood had arrived, and warblings from every spray, not indeed without infinite twitterings also, which, except their gladness, had no music, were bidding it welcome. This was the Swabian Era ; justly reckoned not only superior to all preceding eras, but properly the First Era of German Literature. Poetry had at length found a home in the life of men ; and every pure soul was inspired by it ; and in words, or still better, in actions, strove to give it utterance. ‘Believers,’ says Tieck, ‘sang of Faith; Lovers of Love; ‘ Knights described knightly actions and battle ; and loving, ‘believing knights were their chief audience. The Spring, ‘ Beauty, Gaiety, were objects that could never tire; great ‘ duels and deeds of arms carried away every hearer, the more ‘ surely the stronger they were painted ; and as the pillars ‘ and dome of the Church encircled the flock, so did Religion, ‘ as the Highest, encircle Poetry and Reality ; and every heart, ‘ in equal love, humbled itself before her.’ 1 Let the reader, we say, fancy all this, and moreover that, as earthly things do, it is all passing away. And now, from this extreme verge of the Swabian Era, let us look forward into the inane of the next two centuries, and see whether there also some shadows and dim forms, significant in their kind, may not begin to grow visible. Already, as above in- dicated, Reinecke cle Eos rises clear in the distance, as the goal of our survey : let us now, restricting ourselves to the German aspects of the ma'tter, examine what may he between. Conrad the Fourth, who died in 1254, was the last of the Swabian Emperors ; and Conradin his son, grasping too early at a Southern Crown, perished on the scaffold at Naples in 1268 ; with which stripling, more fortunate in song than in war, and whose death, or murder, with fourteen years of other 1 Minnelieder aus dem Schwiibischen Zeitalter. (Vorrede, x.) EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. cruelty, the Sicilian Vespers so frightfully avenged, the im- perial line of the Hohenstauffen came to an end. Their House, as we have seen, gives name to a Literary Era ; and truly, if dates alone were regarded, we might reckon it much more than a name. For with this change of dynasty, a great change in German Literature begins to indicate itself ; the fall of the Hohenstauffen is close followed by the decay of Poetry ; as if that fair flowerage and umbrage, which blossomed far and wide round the Swabian Family, had in very deed depended on it for growth and life ; and now, the stem being felled, the leaves also were languishing, and soon to wither and drop away. Conradin, as his father and his grandfather had been, was a singer ; some hues of his, though he died in his six- teenth year, have even come down to us ; but henceforth no crowned poet, except, long afterwards, some few with -cheap laurel-crowns, is to be met with : the Gay Science was visibly declining. In such times as now came, the court and the great could no longer patronise it ; the polity of the Empire was, by one convulsion after another, all but utterly dismem- bered ; ambitious nobles, a sovereign without power ; conten- tion, violence, distress, everywhere prevailing. Bichard of Cornwall, who could not so much as keep hold of his sceptre, not to speak of swaying it wisely ; or even the brave Rudolf of Hapsburg, who manfully accomplished both these duties, had other work to do than sweet singing. Gay b ars of the Wartburg were now changed to stern Battles of the Marchfdd ; in his leisure hours a good Emperor, instead of twanging harps, must hammer from his helmet the dints it had got in his working and lighting hours . 1 Amid such rude tumults the Minne-Song could not but change its scene and tone : if, 1 It was on this famous plain of the Marchfeld that Ottocar, King of Bohemia, conquered Bela of Hungary, in 1260 ; and was himself, in 1278 conquered and slain by Rudolf of Hapsburg, at that time much left to his own resources ; whose talent for mending helmets, however, is perhaps but a poetical tradition. Curious, moreover : it was here again, after more than five centuries, that the House of Hapsburg re- ceived its worst overthrow, and from a new and greater Rudolf, namely, from Napoleon, at Wagram, which lies in the middle of this same March- feld. EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 9 indeed, it continued at all, wbicli, however, it scarcely did ; for now, no longer united in courtly choir, it seemed to lose both its sweetness and its force, gradually became mute, or in remote obscure corners lived on, feeble and inaudible, till after several centuries, when under a new title, and with far inferior claims, it again solicits some notice from us. Doubtless, in this posture of affairs political, the progress of Literature could be little forwarded from w'ithout ; in some directions, as in that of Court-Poetry, we may admit that it was obstructed or altogether stopped. But why not only Court-Poetry, but Poetry of all sorts should have declined, and as it w 7 ere gone out, is quite another question ; to which, indeed, as men must have their theory on everything, answer has often been attempted, but only with partial success. To most of the German Literary Historians this so ungenial con- dition of the Court and Government appears enough : by the warlike, altogether practical character of Rudolf, by the im- becile ambition of his successors, by the general prevalence of feuds and lawless disorder, the death of Poetry seems fully accounted for. In which conclusion of theirs, allowing all force to the grounds it rests on, we cannot but perceive that there lurks some fallacy : the fallacy namely, so common in these times, of deducing the inward and spiritual exclusively from the outward and material ; of tacitly, perhaps uncon- sciously, denying all independent force, or even life, to the former, and looking out for the secret of its vicissitudes solely in some circumstance belonging to the latter. How it cannot be too often repeated, where- it continues still unknown or forgotten, that man has a soul as certainly as he has a body ; nay, much more certainly ; that properly it is the course of his unseen, spiritual life, which informs and rules his external visible life, rather than receives rule from it ; in which spirit- ual life, indeed, and not in any outward action or condition arising from it, the true secret of his history lies, and is to be sought after, and indefinitely approached. Poetry above all, we should have known long ago, is one of those mysterious things whose origin and developments never can be what we call explained ; often it seems to us like the wind, blowing 10 EARLY' GERMAN LITERATURE. where it lists, coming and departing with little or no regard to any the most cunning theory that has yet been devised of it. Least of all does it seem to depend on court-patronage, the form of government, or any modification of politics or economics, catholic as these influences have now become in our philosophy : it lives in a snow-clad sulphurous Iceland, and not in a sunny wine-growing France ; flourishes under an arbitrary Elizabeth, and dies out under a constitutional George ; Philip II. has his Cervantes, and in prison ; Wash- ington and Jackson have only their Coopers and Browns. Why did Poetry appear so brightly after the Battles of Ther- mopylae and Salamis, and quite turn away her face and wings from those of Lexington and Bunker’s Hill ? We answer, the Greeks were a poetical people, the Americans are not ; that is to say, it appeared because it did appear ! On the whole, we could desire that one of two things should happen : Either that our theories and genetic histories of Poetry should hence- forth cease, and mankind rest satisfied, once for all, with Dr. Cabanis’ theory, which seems to be the simplest, that ‘ Poetry is a product of the smaller intestines,’ and must be cultivated medically by the exhibition of castor-oil : Or else that, in fut- ure speculations of this kind, we should endeavour to start with some recognition of the fact, once well known, and still in words admitted, that Poetry is Inspiration ; has in it a cer- tain spirituality and divinity which no dissecting-knife will discover ; arises in the most secret and most sacred region of man’s soul, as it were in our Holy of Holies ; and as for ex- ternal things, depends only on such as can operate in that region ; among which it will be found that Acts of Parliament, and the state of the Smitlifield Markets, nowise play the chief part. With regard to this change in German Literature especially, it is to be remarked, that the phenomenon was not a German, but a European one ; whereby we easily infer so much at least, that the roots of it must have lain deeper than in any change from Hohenstauffen Emperors to Hapsburg ones. For now the Troubadours and Trouveres, as well as the Minnesingers, were sinking into silence ; the world seems to EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 11 have rhymed itself out ; those chivalrous roundelays, heroic tales, mythologies, and quaint love-sicknesses, had grown un- profitable to the ear. In fact, Chivalry itself was in the wane ; and with it that gay melody, like its other pomp. More ear- nest business, not sportfully, but with harsh endeavour, was now to be done. The graceful minuet-dance of Fancy must give place to the toilsome, thorny pilgrimage of Understand- ing. Life and its appurtenances and possessions, which had been so admired and besung, now disclosed, the more they came to be investigated, the more contradictions. The Church no longer rose with its pillars, ‘ like a venerable dome over the united flock ; ’ but, more accurately seen into, was a strait prison, full of unclean creeping things ; against which thral- dom all better spirits could not but murmur and struggle. Everywhere greatness and littleness seemed so inexplicably blended : Nature, like the Sphinx, her emblem, with her fail- woman’s face and neck, showed also the claws of a lioness. Now too her Riddle had been propounded ; and thousands of subtle, disputatious Schoolmen were striving earnestly to rede it, that they might live, morally live, that the monster might not devour them. These, like strong swimmers, in boundless bottomless vortices of Logic, swam manfully, but could not get to land. On a better course, yet with the like aim, Physical Science was also unfolding itself. A Roger Bacon, an • Albert the Great, are cheering appearances in this era ; not blind to the greatness of Nature, yet no longer with poetic reverence of her, but venturing fearlessly into her recesses, and extorting from her many a secret ; the first victories of that long series which is to make man more and more her Ring. Thus every- where we have the image of contest, of effort. The spirit of man, which once, in peaceful, loving communion with the Universe, had uttered forth its gladness in Song, now feels hampered and hemmed-in, and struggles vehemently to make itself room. Power is the one thing needful, and that Knowl- edge which is Power : thus also Intellect becomes the grand faculty, in which all the others are wellnigh absorbed. Poetry, which has been defined as ‘ the harmonious unison 12 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. of Man "with Nature,’ could not flourish in this temper of the times. The number of poets, or rather versifiers, henceforth greatly diminishes ; their style also, and topics, are different and less poetical. Men wish to be practically instructed rather than poetically amused : Poetry itself must assume a preceptorial character, and teach wholesome saws and moral maxims, or it will not be listened to. Singing for the song’s sake is now nowhere practised ; but in its stead there is everywhere the jar and bustle of argument, investigation, con- tentious activity. Such throughout the fourteenth century is the general aspect of mind over Europe. In Italy alone is there a splendid exception ; the mystic song of Dante, with its stern indignant moral, is followed by the light love-rhymes of Petrarch, the Troubadour of Italy, when this class was extinct elsewhere : the master minds of that country, peculiar in its social and moral condition, still more in its relations, to classi- cal Antiquity, pursue a course of their own. But only the master minds ; for Italy too has its Dialecticians, and projec- tors, and reformers ; nay, after Petrarch, these take the lead ; and there as elsewhere, in their discords and loud assiduous toil, the voice of Poetry dies away. To search out the causes of this great revolution, which lie not in Politics nor Statistics, would lead ns far beyond our depth. Meanwhile let us remark that the change is nowise to be considered as a relapse, or fall from a higher state of spiritual culture to a lower ; but rather, so far as we have objects to compare it with, as a quite natural progress and higher development of culture. In the history of the universal mind, there is a certain analogy to that of the in- dividual. Our first self-consciousness is the first revelation to us of a whole universe, wondrous and altogether good ; it is a feeling of joy and new-found strength, of mysterious infinite hope and capability ; and in all men, either by word or act, expresses itself poetically. The world without us and within us, beshone by the young light of Love, and all in- stinct with a divinity, is beautiful and great ; it seems for us a boundless happiness that we are privileged to live. This £3 the season of generous deeds and feelings ; which also, on EARL T GERMAN LITERATURE. 13 the lips of the gifted, form themselves into musical utterance, and give spoken poetry as well as acted. Nothing is calcu- lated and measured, but all is loved, believed, appropriated. All action is spontaneous, high sentiment a sure, imperish- able good ; and thus the youth stands, like the First Man, in his fair Garden, giving Names to the bright Appearances of this Universe which he has inherited, and rejoicing in it as glorious and divine. Erelong, however, comes a harsher time. Under the first beauty of man’s life appears an in- finite, earnest rigour : high sentiment will not avail, unless it can continue to be translated into noble action ; which prob- lem, in the destiny appointed for man born to toil, is difficult, interminable, capable of only approximate solution. "What flowed softly in melodious coherence when seen and sung from a distance, proves rugged and unmanageable when practically handled. The fervid, lyrical gladness of past years gives place to a collected thoughtfulness and energy ; nay often, — so painful, so unexpected are the contradictions everywhere met with,- — to gloom, sadness and anger ; and not till after long struggles and hard-contested victories is the youth changed into a man. Without pushing the comparison too far, we may say that in the culture of the European mind, or in Literature which is the symbol and product of this, a certain similarity of prog- ress is manifested. That tuneful Chivalry, that high cheer- ful devotion to the Godlike in heaven, and to Women, its emblems on earth ; those Crusades and vernal Love-songs were the heroic doings of the world’s youth ; to which also a corresponding manhood succeeded. Poetic recognition is followed by scientific examination : the reign of Fancy with its gay images, and graceful, capricious sports, has ended ; and now Understanding, which when reunited to Poetry, will one day become Reason and a nobler Poetry, has to do its part. Meantime, while there is no such union, but a more and more widening controversy, prosaic discord and the un- musical sounds of labour and effort are alone audible. The era of the Troubadours, who in Germany are the Min- nesingers, gave place in that country, as in all others, to a 14 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. period which we might name the Didactic ; for Literature now ceased to he a festal melody, and addressing itself rather to the intellect than to the heart, became as it were a school- lesson. Instead of that cheerful, warbling Song of Love and Devotion, wherein nothing was taught, but all was beheved and worshipped, we have henceforth only wise Apologues, Fables, Satires, Exhortations and all manner of edifying Moralities. Poetry, indeed, continued still to be the form of composition for all that can be named Literature ; except Chroniclers, and others of that genus, valuable not as doers of the work, but as witnesses of the work done, these Teachers all wrote in verse : nevertheless, in general there are few ele- ments of Poetry in their performances ; the internal structure has nothing poetical, is a mere business-like prose : in the rhyme alone, at most in the occasional graces of expression, could we discover that it reckoned itself poetical. In fact, we may say that Poetry, in the old sense, had now altogether gone out of sight : instead of her heavenly vesture and Ariel- harp, she had put on earthly weeds, and walked abroad with ferula and horn-book. It was long before this new guise would sit well on her ; only in late centimes that she ctjuld fashion it into beauty, and learn to move with it, and mount with it, gracefully as of old. Looking now more specially to our historical task, if we inquire how far into the subsequent time this Didactic Period extended, no precise answer can well be given. On this side there seem no positive limits to it ; with many superficial modifications, the same fundamental element pervades all spiritual efforts of mankind through the following centuries. We may say that it is felt even in the Poetry of our own time ; nay, must be felt through all time ; inasmuch as Li- quiry once awakened cannot fall asleep, or exhaust itself ; thus Literature must continue to have a didactic charac- ter ; and the Poet of these days is he who, not indeed by me- chanical but by poetical methods, can instinct us, can more and more evolve for us the mystery of our Life. However, after a certain space, this Didactic Spirit in Literature can- not, as a historical partition and landmark, be available here EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 15 At the era of the Reformation, it reaches its acme ; and, in singular shape, steps forth on the high places of Public Business, and amid storms and thunder, not without bright- ness and true fire from Heaven, convulsively renovates the world. This is, as it were, the apotheosis of the Didactic Spirit, where it first attains a really poetical concentration, and stimulates mankind into heroism of word and of action also. Of the latter, indeed, still more than of the former ; for not till a much more recent time, almost till our own time, has Inquiry in some measure again reconciled itself to Belief ; and Poetry, though in detached tones, arisen on us, as a true musical Wisdom. Thus is the deed, in certain cir- cumstances, readier and greater than the word : Action strikes fiery light from the rocks it has to hew through ; Poetry reposes in the skyey splendour which that rough passage has led to. But after Luther’s day, this Didactic Tendency again sinks to a lower level ; mingles with mani- fold other tendencies ; among which, admitting that it still forms the main stream, it is no longer so preeminent, positive and universal, as properly to characterise the whole. For minor Periods and subdivisions in Literary History, other more superficial characteristics must, from time to time, be fixed on. Neither, examining the other limit of this Period, can we say specially where it begins ; for, as usual in these things, it begins not at once, but by degrees : Kings’ reigns and changes in the form of Government have them day and date ; not so changes in the spiritual condition of a people. The Minne- singer Period and the Didactic may be said to commingle, as it were, to overlap each other, for above a century : some writers partially belonging to the latter class occur even prior to the times of Friedrich H. ; and a certain echo of the Minnesong had continued down to Manesse’s day, under Ludwig the Bavarian. Thus from the Minnesingers to the Church Reformer we have a wide space of between two and three centuries ; in which, of- course, it is impossible for us to do more than point out one or two of, the leading appearances ; a minute survey and exposition being foreign from our object. Among the Minnesingers themselves, as already hinted, 16 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. there are not wanting some with an occasionally didactic character : Gottfried of Strasburg, known also as a translator of Sir Tristrem, and two other singers, Ileinmar von Zweter and Walter von der Vogelweide, are noted in this respect ; the last two especially, for their oblique glances at the Pope and his Monks, the unsound condition of which body could not escape even a Love-minstrel’s eye.' But perhaps the 1 Reinmar von Zweter, for example, says once : Har und hart nach klostersitten, gesnitten Res mnd icli gennog, Icli vinde aber der nit vil dies relite tragen ; Halb visch licdb man ist visch nodi man , Gar visch ist visch, gar man ist man, Als icli erkennen lean : Von hofmunchen und von Jdosterrittern Kan icli nilit gesagen : Hofmunchen, klosterrittern, diesen beiden Wolt icli relit ze relite wol bescheiden, Ob sie sich wolten lassen vinden, Da sie ze relite solten wesen; In ldoster munclie solten genesen, So suln des hofs sich ritter unterwinden. Hair and beard cut in the cloister fashion Of this I find enough, But of those that wear it well I find not many ; Half-fish half-man is neither fish nor man, Whole fish is fish, whole man is man, As I discover can : Of court-monks and of cloister-knights Can I not speak : Court-monks, cloister-knights, these both Would I rightly put to rights, Whether they would let themselves be found Where they by right should be ; In their cloister monks should flourish, And knights obey at court. See also in Fliigel ( GescMchte der Komischen Litteratur , b. iii. s. 11), immediately following this Extract, a formidable dinner course of Lies, ■ — boiled lies, roasted lies, lies with saffron, forced-meat lies, and other varieties, arranged by this same artist;— farther (in page 9), a rather gal- lant onslaught from Walter von der Volgelweide, on the Bnbest (Pope, Papst) himself. All this was before the middle of the thirteenth century. EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 17 special step of transition may be still better marked in the works of a. rhymer named the Strieker, whose province was the epic, or narrative ; into which he seems to have introduced this new character in unusual measure. As the Strieker still retains some shadow of a place in Literary History, the fol- lowing notice of him may be borrowed here. Of his personal history, it may be premised, nothing whatever is known ; not even why he bears this title ; unless it be, as some have fan- cied, that Strieker, which now signifies Knitter, in those days meant Schreiber (Writer) : ‘In truth,’ says Bouterwek, ‘this painstaking man was more a writer than a Poet, yet not altogether without talent in that latter way. Voluminous enough, at least, is his re- daction of an older epic work on the War of Charlemagne with the Saracens in Spain, the old German original of which is perhaps nothing more than a translation from the Latin or French. Of a Poet in the Strieker’s day, when the romantic epos had attained such polish among the Germans, one might have expected that this ancient Fiction, since he was pleased to remodel it, would have served as the material to a new poetic creation ; or at least, that he would have breathed into it some new and more poetic spirit. But such a develop- ment of these Charlemagne Fables was reserved for the Italian Poets. The Strieker has not only left the matter of the old Tale almost unaltered, but has even brought out its unpoet- ical lineaments in stronger light. The fanatical piety with which it is overloaded probably appeared to him its chief merit. To convert these castaway Heathens, or failing this, to annihilate them, Charlemagne takes the field. Next to him, the hero Roland plays a main part there. Consultations are held, ambassadors negotiate ; war breaks out with all its terrors : the Heathen fight stoutly : at length comes the well- known defeat of the Franks at Ronceval, or Roncevaux ; where, however, the Saracens also lose so many men, that their King Marsilies dies of grief. The Narrative is divided into chapters, each chapter again into sections, an epitome of which is always given at the outset. Miracles occur in the story, but for most part only such as tend to evince how God himself inspirited the Christians against the Heathen. Of any- thing like free, bold flights of imagination there is little to be met with : the higher features of the genuine romantic epos 18 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. are altogether wanting. In return, it has a certain didactic temper, which, indeed, announces itself even in the Introduc- tion. The latter, it should be added, prepossesses us in the Poet’s favour ; testifying with what warm interest the noble and great in man’s life affected him .’ 1 The Wdlsche Gast (Italian Guest) of Zirkler or Tirkeler, who professes, truly or not, to be from Friuli, and, as a be- nevolent stranger, or Guest, tells the Germans hard truths somewhat in the spirit of Juvenal ; even the famous Meister FriedavJc (Master Freethought), with his wise Book of rhymed Maxims, entitled Die Bescheidenheit (Modesty) ; still more the sagacious Tyro, King of Scots, quite omitted in history, but who teaches Fnedebrand his Son, with some discrimination, how to choose a good priest ; — all these, with others of still thinner substance, rise before us only as faint shadows, and must not linger in our field of vision. Greatly the most im- portant figure in the earlier part of this era is Hugo von Trim- berg, to whom we must now turn ; author of various poetico- preceptorial works, one of which, named the Benner (Runner), has long been known not only to antiquarians, but, in some small degree, even to the general reader. Of Hugo’s Biog- raphy he has himself incidentally communicated somewhat. His surname he derives from Trimberg, his birthplace, a vil- lage on the Saale, not far from Wurzburg, in Franconia. By profession he appears to have been a Schoolmaster : in the conclusion of his Renner, he announces that ‘ he kept school for forty years at Thiirstadt, near Bamberg ; ’ farther, that his Book was finished in 1300, which date he confirms by other local circumstances. Der dies Buck gedichtet hat, Vierzig jar vor Bdbeiiberg, Der pflag der schulen zu Thurstab Und Mess Hugo von Trymherg. 1 Bouterwek, ix. 245. Other versified Narratives by this worthy Strieker still exist, hut for the most part only in manuscript. Of these the History of Wilhelm von Blumethal , a Round-table adventurer, ap- pears to be the principal. The Poem on Charlemagne stands printed in Schilter s Thesaurus ; its exact date is matter only of conjecture. EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 19 Es ward follenbracht das 1st icahr, Da tausent und dreyhundert jar Nach Ghristus Geburt vergangen waren, Drithalbs jar gleich vor den jaren Da die Juden in Franken warden erscTdagen. Bey der zeit und in den tagen, Da bischoff Leupolt bischoff was Zu Babenberg. Some have supposed that the Schoolmaster dignity, claimed here, refers not to actual wielding of the birch, but to a Mastership and practise of instructing in the art of Poetry, which about this time began to have its scholars and even guild brethren, as the feeble remnants of Minn e-sou g gradu- ally took the new shape, in which we afterwards see it, of Meistergemny (Master-song) : but for this hypothesis, so plain are Hugo’s own words, there seems little foundation. It is uncertain whether he was a clerical personage, certain enough that he w r as not a monk : at all events, he must have been a man of reading and knowledge ; industrious in study, and superior in literary acquirement to most in that time. By a collateral account, we find that he had gathered a library of two hun- dred Books, among which were a whole dozen by himself, five in Latin, seven in German ; hoping that by means of these, and the furtherance they would yield in the pedagogic craft, he might live at ease in his old days ; in which hope, however, he had been disappointed ; seeing, as himself rather feelingly complains, ‘ no one now cares to study knowledge ( Kunst ), which, nevertheless, deserves honour and favour.’ What these twelve Books of Hugo’s own writing were, can, for most part, only be conjectured. Of one, entitled the Sammler (Col- lector), he himself makes mention in the Renner : he had begun it above thirty years before this latter : but having by ill accident lost great part of his manuscript, abandoned it in anger. Of another work Flogel has discovered the following- notice to Johann Wolf : ‘ About this time (1599) did that virt- ‘ uous and learned nobleman, Conrad von Liebenstein, pre- ‘ sent to me a manuscript of Hugo von Trimberg, who flour- ished about the year 1300. It. sets forth the shortcomings 20 EARL Y GERMAN LITERATURE. 1 of all ranks, and especially complains of the clergy. It is ‘ entitled Reu ins Land (Repentance to the Land) ; and now ‘ lies with the Lord of Zillhart.’ 1 The other ten appear to have vanished even to the last vestige. Such is the whole sum-total of information which the assi- duity of commentators has collected touching worthy Hugo’s life and fortunes. Pleasant it were to see him face to face ; gladly would we penetrate through that long vista of five hundred years, and peep into his hook-presses, his frugal fire- side, his noisy mansion with its disobedient urchins, now that it is all grown so silent : but the distance is too far, the inter- vening'inedium intercepts our. light ; only in uncertain fluc- tuating dusk, will Hugo and his environment appear to us. Nevertheless Hugo, as he had in Nature, has in History, an immortal part : as to his inward man, we can still see that he was no mere bookworm, or simple Parson Adams ; but of most observant eye ; shrewd, inquiring, considerate, who from his Thiirstadt school-chair, as from a sedes exploratoria, had looked abroad into the world’s business, and formed his own theory about many things. A cheerful, gentle heart had been given him ; a quiet, sly humour ; light to see beyond the gar- ments and outer hulls of Life into Life itself : the long-necked purse, the threadbare gabardine, the languidly-simmering pot of his pedagogic household establishment were a small matter to him : he was a man to look on these things with a meek .smile ; to nestle down quietly, as the lark, in the lowest fur- row ; nay to mount therefrom singing, and soar above all mere earthly heights. How many potentates, and principali- ties, and proud belligerents have evaporated into utter ob- sivion, while the poor Thiirstadt Schoolmaster still holds to- gether ! This Renner, which seems to be his final work, probably comprises the essence of all those lost Volumes ; and indeed a synopsis of Hugo’s whole Philosophy of Life, such as his two hundred Books and long decades of quiet observation and reflection had taught him. Why it has been named the 1 Flogel (iii. 15), who quotes for it Wolf, Lexicon Memorab. t. ii. p. 1061. EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 21 Renner, •whether by Hugo himself, or by some witty Editor and Transcriber, there are two guesses forthcoming, and no certain reason. One guess is, that this Book was to run after the lost Tomes, and make good to mankind the deficiency occasioned by want of them ; which happy-tliought, hide- bound though it be, might have seemed sprightly enough to Hugo and that age. The second guess is, that our Author, in the same style of easy wit, meant to say, this Book must hasten and run out into the world, and do him a good turn quickly, while it was yet time, he being so very old. But leaving this, we may remark, with certainty enough, that what we have left of Hugo was first printed under this title of Renner, at Frankfort on the Mayn, in 1519 ; and quite incorrectly, being modernised to all lengths, and often without .understanding of the sense ; the Edition moreover is now rare, and Lessing’s project of a new one did not take effect ; so that, except in Manuscripts, of which there are many, and in printed Extracts, which also are numerous, the Renner is to most readers a sealed book. In regard to its literary merit opinions seem to be nearly unanimous. The highest merit, that of poetical unity, or even the lower merit of logical unity, is not ascribed to it by the warmest panegyrist. Apparently this work had been a sort of store-chest, wherein the good Hug-o had, from time to time, deposited the fruits of his meditation as they chanced to ripen for him ; here a little, and there a little, in all varieties of. kind ; till the chest being filled, or the fruits nearly exhausted, it was sent forth and published to the world, by the easy pro- cess of turning up the bottom. ‘ No theme,’ says Bouterwek, ‘ leads with certainty to the other : satirical descriptions, proverbs, fables, jests and other narratives, all huddled together at random, to teach us in a poetical way a series of moral lessons. A strained and frosty Allegory opens the work ; then follow the Chapters of Meyden (Maids) ; of Wicked Masters ; of Pages ; of Priests, Monks and Friars, with great minuteness ; then of a Young Minx with an Old Man ; then of Bad Landlords, and of Bobbers. Next come divers Virtues and Vices, all painted out, and judged of 22 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. Towards the end, there follows a sort of Moral Natural His- tory ; Considerations on the dispositions of various Animals ; a little Botany and Physiology ; then again all manner of didactic Narratives ; and finally a Meditation on the Last Day. 5 Whereby it would appear clearly, as hinted, that Hugo’s Renner pursues no straight course ; and only through the most labyrinthic mazes, here wandering in deep thickets, or even sinking in moist bogs, there panting over mountain-tops by narrow sheep-tracks ; but for most part jigging lightly on sunny greens, accomplishes his wonderful journey. Nevertheless, as we ourselves can testify, there is a certain charm in the worthy man ; his Work, such as it is, seems to flow direct from the heart, in natural, spontaneous abundance ; is at once cheerful and earnest ; his own simple, honest, mildly decided character is everywhere visible. Besides Hugo, as we said, is a person of understanding ; has looked over many provinces of Life, not without insight ; in his quiet, sly way, can speak forth a shrewd word on occasion. There is a gen- uine though slender vein of Humour in him ; nor in his satire does he ever lose temper, but rebukes sportfully ; not indeed laughing aloud, scarcely even sardonically smiling, yet with a certain subdued roguery and patriarchal knowingness. His fancy too, if not brilliant, is copious almost beyond measure ; no end to his crotchets, suppositions, minute speci- fications. Withal he is original : his maxims, even when pro- fessedly borrowed, have passed through the test of his own experience ; all carries in it some stamp of his personality. Thus the Renner, though in its whole extent perhaps too bound- less and planless for ordinary nerves, makes in the fragmentary state no unpleasant reading : that old doggerel is not with- out significance ; often in its straggling, broken, entangled strokes some vivid antique picture is strangely brought out for us. As a specimen of Hugo’s general manner, we select a small portion of his Chapter on The Maidens ; that passage where he treats of the highest enterprise a maiden can engage in, the choosing of a husband. It wall be seen at once that Hugo EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 23 is no Minnesinger, glozing his fair audience with madrigals and hypocritical gallantry ; but a quiet National Historian, reporting such facts as he finds, in perfect good nature, it is true, yet not without an undercurrent of satirical humour. His quaint style of thought, his garrulous minuteness of de- tail are partly apparent here. The first few lines we may give in the original also ; not as they stand in the Fra nk fort Edi- tion, but as professing to derive themselves from a genuine ancient source : Kortzyn mut und lange liaur lian die meyde mnderbar dy zu yren jar en kammen synt dy wal machen yn daz hertze blynt dy auchgn icysen yn den weg wn den auchgn get eyn steg tzu dem hertzen nit gar lang vff deine stege ist vyl mannig gedang wen sy icoln nemen oder nit . 1 Short of sense and long of hair, Strange enough the maidens are ; Once they to their teens have got, Such a choosing, this or that : Eyes they have that ever spy, From the Eyes a Path doth lie To the Heart, and is not long, Hereon travel thoughts a throng, Which one they will have or not. ‘ Woe’s me,’ continues Hugo, ‘ how often this same is re- peated, till they grow all confused how to choose, from so- many, whom they have brought in without number. First they bethink them so : This one is short, that one is long ; he is courtly and old, the other young and ill-favoured ; this is lean, that is bald ; here is one fat, there one thin ; this is noble, that is weak ; he never yet broke a spear : one is white, another black ; that other is named Master Hack ( hartz ) ; this is pale, that again is red ; he seldom eateth cheerful bread ; ’ and so on, through endless other varieties, in new- streams of soft-murmuring doggerel, whereon, as on the Path it would 1 Horn, Geschidhte und Kritik der deutschen Poesie, s. 44. 24 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. represent, do travel thoughts a throng, which one these fair irresolutes will have or not. Thus, for Hugo, the age of Minstrelsy is gone : not soft Love-ditties, and hymns of Lady-worship, hut sceptical criti- cism, importunate animadversion, not without a shade of mock- ery, will he indite. The age of Chivalry is gone also. To a Schoolmaster, with empty larder, the pomp of tournaments could never have been specially interesting ; but now such passages of arms, how free and gallant soever, appear to him no other than the probable product of delirium. ‘ God might ‘ well laugh, could it be,’ says he, 1 to see his mannikins live so * wondrously on this Earth : two of them will take to fighting, ‘ and nowise let it alone ; nothing serves but with two long £ spear they must ride and stick at one another : greatly to ‘ then hurt ; for when one is by the other skewered through 1 the bowels or through the weasand, he hath small pi'ofit there- ‘ by. But who forced them to such straits ? ’ The answer is too plain : some modification of Insanity. Hay, so contemptu- ous is Hugo of all chivalrous things, that he openly grudges any time spent in reading of them ; in Don Quixote’s Library he would have made short work : How Master Dietricli fouglit with Ecken, And how or old the stalwart Recken Were all by women’s craft betrayed : Such things you oft hear sung and said, And wept at, like a case of sorrow ; — Of our own Sins we’ll think to-morrow. This last is one of Hugo's darker strokes ; for commonly, though moral perfection is ever the one thing needful with him, he preaches in a quite cheerful tone ; nay, ever and anon, enlivens us with some timely joke. Considerable part, and apparently much the # best part, of his work is occupied with satirical Fables, and Schwanke (jests, comic tales) ; of which latter class we have seen some possessing true humour, and the simplicity which is then next merit. These, how- ever, we must wholly omit ; and indeed, without farther par- leying, here part company with Hugo. We leave him, not without esteem, and a touch of affection, due to one so true- EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 25 hearted, and, under that old huruble guise, so gifted with in- tellectual talent. Safely enough may be conceded him the _ dignity of chief moral Poet of his time ; nay perhaps, for his solid character, and modest maul}- ways, a much higher dig- nity. Though his Book can no longer be considered, what the Frankfort Editor describes it in his interminable title- page, as a universal vade-mecum for mankind, it is still ‘ so adorned with many fine sayings,’ and in itself of so curious a texture, that it seems well worth preserving. A proper Edi- tion of the Renner will one day doubtless make its appearance among the Germans. Hugo is farther remarkable as the pre- cursor and prototype of Sebastian Brandt, whose Narrenschiff (Ship of Fools) has, with perhaps less merit, had infinitely better fortune than the Renner. Some half century later in date, and no less didactic in character than Hugo’s Renner, another Work, still rising visible above the level of those times, demands some notice from us. This is the Edelstein (Gem) of Bonerius or Boner, which at one time, to judge by the number of Manuscripts, whereof fourteen are still in existence, must have enjoyed great popularity ; and indeed, after long years of oblivion, it has, by recent critics and redactors, been again brought into some circulation. Boner’s Gem is a collection of a Hundred Fables done into German rhyme ; and derives its proud des- ignation not more perhaps from the supposed excellence of the work, than from a witty allusion to the title of Fable First, which, in the chief Manuscript, chances to be that well-known one of the Cock scraping for Barleycorns, and finding instead thereof a precious stone ( Edelstein ) or Gem : Von einem Eanen und dem edelen Steine ; whereupon the author, or some kind friend, remarks in a sort of Prologue : Lies Buclilein mag der Edelstein Wol heiszen, wand es in treit {in sick trdgf) Biscltaft {Beispiel) manger Jduogheit. ‘ This Bookling may well be called the Gem, sith it includes examples of many a prudence ; ’ — which name, accordingly as we see, it bears even to this day. 26 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. Boner and Ms Fables have given rise to much discussion among the Germans : scattered at short distances throughout the last hundred years, there is a series of Selections, Edi- tions, Translations, Critical Disquisitions, some of them in the shape of Academic Program ; among the labourers in which enterprise we find such men as Gellert and Lessing. A Bonerii Gemma, or Latin version of the work, was pub- lished by Oberlin, in 1782 ; Eschenburg sent forth an Edition in modern German, in 1810 ; Benecke a reprint of the an- tique original, in 1816. So that now a faithful duty has been done to Boner ; and what with bibliographical in quiries, what with vocabularies, and learned collations of texts, he that runs may read whatever stands written in the Gem. Of these diligent lucubrations, with which we strangers are only in a remote degree concerned, it will be sufficient here to report in few words the main results, — not indeed very difficult to report. First then, with regard to Boner himself, we have to say that nothing whatever has been discovered : who, when, or what that worthy moralist was, remains, and may always remain, ' entirely uncertain. It is merely con- jectured, from the dialect, and other more minute indications, that his place of abode was the northwest quarter of Switzer- land ; with still higher probability, that he lived about the middle of the fourteenth century ; from' his learning and de- vout pacific temper, some have inferred that he was a monk or priest ; however, in one Manuscript of his Gem, he is designated, apparently by some ignorant Transcriber, a knight, ein Ritter gotz alsus : from all which, as above said, our only conclusion is, that nothing can be concluded. Johann Scherz, about the year 1710, in what he called Philosophies moralis Germanorum medii ceci Specimen, sent forth certain of these Fables, with expositions, but appar- ently without naming the Author ; to which Specimen Gellert in his Dissertatio de Poesi Apologoruni had again, some forty years afterwards, invited attention. Nevertheless, so total was the obscurity which Boner had fallen into, that Bodmer, already known as the resuscitator of the Nibelungen Lied, in printing the Edcldein from an old Manuscript, in 1752, mis- EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 27 took its probable date by about a century, and gave his work the title of Fables from the Minnesinger Period ,' without nam-- ing the Fabulist, or guessing whether there were one or many. In this condition stood the matter, when several years afterwards, Lessing, pursuing another inquiry, -came across the track of this Boner ; was allured into it ; proceeded to clear it ; and moving briskly forward, with a sure eye and sharp critical axe, hewed away innumerable entanglements ; and so opened out a free avenue and vista, where strangely, in remote depth of antiquarian w r oods, the whole ancient Fable-manufactory, with Boner and many others working in it, becomes visible, in all the light which probably will ever be admitted to it. He who has perplexed himself with Rom- ulus and Rimicius, and Nevelet's Anonymus, and Aviahus, and still more, with the false guidance of their many commenta- tors, will find help and deliverance in this light, thorough- going Inquiry of Lessing’s. 2 Now, therefore, it became apparent : first, that those sup- posed Fables from the Minnesinger Period, of Bodmer, were in truth written by one Boner, in quite another Period ; secondly, that Boner was not properly the author of them, but the borrower and free versifier from certain Latin origi- nals ; farther, that the real title Avas Edelstein ; and strangest of all, that the work had been printed three centuries before Bodmer’s time, namely, at Bamberg, in 1461 ; of wdiich Edi- tion, indeed, a tattered copy, typographically curious, lay and probably lies, in the ’Wolfenbiittel Library, where Lessing then waited, and wrote. The other discoveries, touching Boner’s personality and locality, are but conjectures, due also to Lessing, and have been stated already. As to the Gem itself, about which there has been such scrambling, we may say, noAV when it is cleaned and laid out before us, that, though but a small seed-pearl, it has a gen- uine value. To us Boner is interesting by his antiquity, as 1 Koch also, with a strange deviation from his usual accuracy, dates Boner, in one place, 1220 ; and in another, 1 towards the latter half of the fourteenth century. ’ See his Compendium , pp. 28 and 200, vol. i. 2 Sdmmttiche Schriften , h. viii. 28 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. the speaking -witness of many long-past things ; to his con- temporaries again he must have been still more interesting as the reporter of so many new things. These Fables of his, then for the first time rendered out of inaccessible Latin 1 into German metre, contain no little edifying matter, had we not known it before ; our old friends, the Fox with the musical Raven ; the Man and Boy taking their Ass to mar- ket, and so inadequate to please the public in their method of transporting him ; the Bishop that gave his Nephew a Cure of Souls, but durst not trust him with a Basket of Pears ; all these and many more figure here. But apart from the material of his Fables, Boner’s style and manner has an abid- ing merit. He is not so much a Translator as a free Imitator : he tells the story in his ^ own way ; appends his own moral, and, except that in the latter department he is apt to be a little prolix, acquits himself to high satisfaction. His narra- tive, in those old limping rhymes, is cunningly enough brought out : artless, lively, graphic, with a spicing of innocent hu- mour, a certain childlike archness, which is the chief merit of a Fable. Such is the German dEsop ; a- character whom in the northwest district of Switzerland, at that time of day, we should hardly have looked for. Could we hope that to many of our readers the old rough dialect of Boner would be intelligible, it were easy to vindi- 1 The two originals to whom Lessing has traced all his Fables are Aci- anus and N evelet’s Anonymus ; concerning which personages the fol- lowing brief notice by Jordens ( Lexicon , i. 161) may be inserted here : ‘ Flavius Avianus (who must not be confounded with another Latin ‘ Poet, Avienus) lived, as is believed, under the two Antonines in the ‘second century: he has left us forty-two Fables in elegiac measure, the ‘ best Editions of which are that by Kannegiesser (Amsterdam, 1731), ‘that by’ &c. &e. With respect to the Anonymus again: ‘Under this ‘ designation is understood the half-barbarous Latin Poet, whose sixty ‘ Fables, in elegiac measure, stand in the collection, which Xevelet, ‘ under the title Mytliologia AEsopica , published at Frankfort in 1610, ‘ and which directly follow those of Avianus in that work. They are ‘ nothing else than versified translations of the Fables written in prose by ‘ Romulus, a noted Fabulist, whose era cannot be fixed, nor even his ‘ name made out to complete satisfaction.’. — The reader who wants deepei insight into these matters may consult Lessing, as cited above. EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 29 cate these praises. As matters stand, we can only venture on one translated specimen, which in this shape claims much al- lowance ; the Fable, also, is nowise the best, or perhaps the worst, but simply one of the shortest. For the rest, we have rendered the old doggerel into new, with all possible fidelity : THE FROG AND THE STEER. Qf him that striveth after more honour than lie should. A Frog with Frogling by his side Came hopping through the plain, one tide : There he an Os at grass did spy, Much anger’d was the Frog thereby ; He said : “ Lord God, what was my sin Thou madest me so small and thin ? Likewise I have no handsome feature, And all dishonoured is my nature, To other creatures far and near, For instance, this same grazing Steer.” The Frog would fain with Bullock cope, ’Gan brisk outblow himself in hope. Then spake his Frogling : “ Father o’ me, It boots not, let thy blowing be ; Thy nature hath forbid this battle, Thou canst not vie with the black-cattle.” Natliless let be the Frog would not, Such prideful notion had he got ; Again to blow right sore ’gan he, And said : “ Like Ox could I but be In size, within this world there were No Frog so glad, to thee I sweai\” The Son spake : “Father, me is woe Thou shouldst torment tliy body so, I fear thou art to lose thy life ; Come follow me and leave this strife ; Good Father, take advice of me, And let thy boastful blowing be.” Frog said : “ Thou need’st not beck and nod. I will not do’t. so help me God ; Big as this Ox is I must turn, Mine honour now it doth concern.” He blew himself, and burst in twain, Such of that blowing was his gain. 30 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. The like hath oft been seen of such Who grasp at honour overmuch ; They must with none at all he doing, But sink full soon and come to ruin. He that, with wind of Pride accurs’d, Much puffs himself, will surely hurst ; He men miswislies and misjudges, Inferiors scorns, superiors grudges. Of all his equals is a hater, Much griev’d he is at any better ; Wherefore it were a sentence wise Were his whole hod}- set with Eyes, Who envy hath, to see so well What lucky hap each man befell, That so he filled were with fury. And hurst asunder in a hurry ; And so full soon betid him this Which to the Frog hetided is. Readers to whom such stinted twanging of the true Poetic Lyre, such cheerful fingering, though only of one and its lowest string, has any melody, may find enough of it in Be- necke’s Boner, a reproduction, as above stated, of the original Edelstein ; which Edition we are authorised to recommend as ♦ furnished with all helps for such a study : less adventurous readers may still, from Eschenburg’s half-modernised Edition, derive some contentment and insight. Hugo von Trimberg and Boner, who stand out here as our chief Literary representatives of the Fourteenth Century, could play no such pari in them own day, when the great men, who shone in the world’s eye, were Theologians and Jurists, Politicians at the Imperial Diet ; at best Professors in the new Universities ; of whom all memory has long since perished. So different is universal from temporary impor- tance, and worth belonging to our manhood from that merely of our station or calling. Nevertheless, as every writer, of any true gifts, is ‘ citizen both of his time and of his country,’ and the more completely the greater his gifts ; so in the works of these two secluded individuals, the characteristic tenden- cies and spirit of their age may best be discerned. Accordingly, in studying then - commentators, one fact that EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 31 cannot but strike us is, the great prevalence and currency which this species of Literature, cultivated by them, had ob- tained in that era. Of Fable Literature especially, this was the summer-tide and highest efflorescence. The Latin origi- nals which Boner partly drew from, descending, with manifold transformations and additions, out of classical times, were in the hands of the learned ; in the living memories of the people were numerous fragments of primeval Oriental Fable, derived perhaps through Palestine ; from which two sources, curiously intermingled, a whole stream of Fables evolved itself ; whereat the morally athirst, such was the genius of that time, were not slow to drink. Boner, as we have seen, worked in a field then zealously cultivated : nay, was not 2Esop himself, what we have for fEsog, a contemporary of his ; the Greek Monk Plumules and the Swiss Monk Boner might be chanting their Psalter at one and the same hour ! Fable, indeed, may be regarded as the earliest and simplest product of Didactic Poetry, the first attempt of Instruction clothing itself in Fancy : hence the antiquity of Fables, their universal diffusion in the childhood of nations, so that they have become a common property of all : hence also their ac- ceptance and diligent culture among the Germans, among the Europeans, in this the first stage of an era when the whole bent of Literature was Didactic. But the Fourteenth Century Avas the age of Fable in a still wider sense: it was the age AA'hen whatever Poetry there remained took the shape of Apologue and moral Fiction : the higher spirit of Imagination had died aAvay, or withdrawn itself into Religion ; the lower and feebler not only took continual counsel of Understanding, but was content to Avalk in its leading-strings. Now was the time Avhen human life and its relations were looked at Avith an earnest practical eye ; and the moral perplexities that occur there, when man, hemmed-in between the Mould and the Should, or the Must, painfully hesitates, or altogether sinks in that collision, were not only set forth in the way of precept, but embodied, for still clearer instruction, in Examples, and edifying Fictions. The Monks themselves, such of them as had any talent, meditated and taught in this fashion : witness 32 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. that strange Gesta Romanorkm, still extant, and once familiar over all Europe ; — a Collection of Moral Tales, expressly devised for the use of Preachers, though only the Shakspeares, and in subsequent times, turned it to right purpose. 1 These and the like old Gests, with most of which the Romans had so little to do, were the staple Literature of that period ; cultivated with great assiduity, and so far as mere invention, or compilation, of incident goes, with no little merit ; for already almost all the grand destinies, and fundamental ever-recurring entangle- ments of human life, are laid hold of and depicted here ; so that, from the first, our modern Novelists and Dramatists could find nothing new under the sun, but everywhere, in contrivance of then’ Story, saw themselves forestalled. The boundless abundance of Narratives then current, the singular derivations and transmigrations of these, surprise antiquarian commentators : but, indeed, it was in this same century that Boccaccio, refining the gold from that so copious dross, pro- duced his Decamerone, which still indicates the same fact in more pleasant fashion, to all readers. That in these universal tendencies of the time the Germans participated and cooper- ated, Boner’s Fables, and Hugo’s many Narrations, seiious and comic, may, like two specimens from a great multitude, point out to us. The Madrigal had passed into the Apologue ; the Heroic Poem, with its supernatural machinery and senti- ment, into the Fiction of practical Life in which latter spe- cies a prophetic eye might have discerned the coming Tom Joneses and Wilhelm Meisters ; and with still more astonish- ment, the Minerva Presses of all nations, and this then- huge transit-trade in Bags, all lifted from the dunghill, printed on, and returned thither, to the comfort of parties interested. The Drama, as is well known, had an equally Didactic origin ; namely, in those Mysteries contrived by the clergy for bringing home religious truth, with new force, to the uni- versal comprehension. That this cunning device had already found its way into Germany, we have proof in a document too curious to be omitted here : 1 See an account of this curious Book in Douce's learned and ingen- ious Illustrations of Shakspeure. EARL 7 GERMAN LITERATURE. 33 ‘ In the year 1322, there was a play shown at Eisenach, which hacl a tragical enough effect. Markgrat Friedrich of Misnia, Landgraf also of Thuringia, having brought his tedious warfares to a conclusion, and the country beginning now to revive under peace, his subjects were busy repaying themselves for the past distresses by all manner of diversions ; to which end, apparently by the Sovereign’s order, a dramatic representation of the Ten Virgins was schemed, and at Eisenach, in his presence, duly executed. This happened fifteen days after Easter, by indulgence of the Preaching Friars. In the Chronicon Sampetrinam stands recorded that the play was enacted in the Bear-garden (in hortu ferarum ), by the clergy and their scholars. But now, when it came to pass that the Wise Virgins would give the Foolish no oil, and these latter were shut out from the Bridegroom, they began to weep bitterly, and called on the Saints to intercede for them ; who, however, even with Mary at their head, could effect nothing from God ; but the Foolish Virgins w T ere all sentenced to damnation. W'hich things the Landgraf seeing and hearing, he fell into a doubt, and was very angry ; and said, “ What then is the Christian Faith, if God will not take pity on us, for intercession of Mary and all the Saints ? ” In this anger he continued five days ; and the learned men could hardly enlighten him to understand the Gospel. Thereupon he was struck with apoplexy, and became speechless and powerless ; in which sad state he continued bed-rid, two years and seven months, and so died, being then fifty-five. 1 Surely a serious warning, would they but take it, to Dra- matic Critics, not to venture beyond their depth ! Had this fiery old Landgraf given up the reins of his imagination into his author’s hands, he might have been pleased he knew not why : whereas the meshes of Theology, in which he kicks and struggles, here strangle the life out of him ; and the Ten Virgins at Eisenach are more fatal to warlike men than iEschylus’s Furies at Athens were to weak women. Neither were the unlearned People without their Litera- ture, their Narrative Poetry ; though how, in an age with- out printing and bookstalls, it was circulated among them ; i Flogel ( Geschichte der komwclcin Litteratur, iv. 287), who founds on that old Chronicon Sampetrinum Eif wtense, contained in Menke’s Col- lection. 3 34 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. whether by strolling Fideleres (Minstrels), who might recite as well as fiddle, or by other methods, we have not learned. However, its existence and .abundance in this era is suffi- ciently evinced by the multitude of Volksbucher (People’s- Books) which issued from the Press, next century, almost as soon as there was a Press. Several of these, which still languidly survive among the people, or at least the children, of all countries, were of German composition ; of most, so strangely had they been sifted and winnowed to and fro, it was impossible to fix the origin. But borrowed or domestic, they nowhere wanted admirers in Germany : the Patient Helena, the Fair Magelone, Bluebeard, Fortunatus ; these, and afterwards the Seven Wise Masters, with other more directly dEsopic ware, to which the introduction of the old Indian stock, or Book of Wisdom, translated from John of Capua’s Latin , 1 one day formed a inch accession, were in all memories and on all tongues. Beautiful traits of Imagination and a pure genuine feeling, though under the rudest forms, shine forth in some of these old Tales : for instance, in Magelone and Fortunatus ; which two, indeed, with others of a different stamp, Ludwig Tieck has, with singular talent, ventured, not unsuccessfully, to reproduce in our own time and dialect. A second class dis- tinguish themselves by a homely, honest-hearted Wisdom, full of character and quaint devices ; of which class the Seven Wise Masters, extracted chiefly from that Gesta Romanorum above mentioned, and containing ‘ proverb -philosophy, anec- ‘ dotes, fables and jests, the seeds of which, on the fertile ‘German soil, spread luxuriantly through several generations,’ is perhaps the best example. Lastly, in a third class, we find in full play that spirit of broad drollery, of rough saturnine Humour, w r hich the Germans claim as a special characteristic ; among these, we must not omit to mention the SchiUbiirger, correspondent to our own Wise Men of Gotham ; still less, the 'In 1483, by command of a certain Eberhard, Duke of W intern berg-. Wliat relation this old Book of Wisdom bears to our actual Pilpay, wa have not learned. EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 35 far-famed Tyll Eulenspiegel (Tyll Owlglass), whose rogueries and waggeries belong, in the fullest sense, to this era. This last is a true German work ; for both the man Tyll Eulenspiegel, and the Book which is his history, were pro- duced there. Nevertheless, Tyll’s fame has gone abroad into all lands : this, the Narrative of his exploits, has been pub- lished in innumerable editions, even with all manner of learned glosses, and translated into Latin, English, French, Dutch, Polish ; nay, in several languages, as in his own, an Eulenspiegelerei, an Espieglerie, or -dog’s trick, so named after him, still, by consent of lexicographers, keeps his memory alive. We may say, that to few mortals has it been granted to earn such a place in Universal History as Tyll : for now after five centuries, when Wallace’s birthplace is unknown even to the Scots ; and the Admirable Crichton still more rapidly is grown a shadow ; and Edward Longshanks sleeps unregarded save by a few antiquarian English, — Tyll’s native village is pointed out with pride to the traveller, and his tombstone, with a sculptured pun on his name, an Owl, namely, and a Glass, still stands, or pretends to stand, ‘at Mollen, near Lubeck,’ where, since 1350, his once nimble bones have been at rest. Tyll, in the calling he had chosen, naturally led a wandering life, as place after place became too hot for him ; by which means he saw into many things with his own eyes : having been not only over all Westphalia and Saxony, but even in Poland, and as far as Rome. That in his old days, like other great men, he became an Auto- biographer, and in trustful winter evenings, not on paper, but on air, and to the laughter-lovers of Mollen, composed this work himself, is purely a hypothesis ; certain only that it came forth originally in the dialect of this region, namely the Platt-Deutsch ; and was therefrom translated, probably about a century afterwards, into its present High German, as Lessing conjectures, by one Thomas Murner, who on other grounds is not unknown to antiquaries. For the rest, write it who might, the Book is here, ‘ abounding,’ as a wise Critic re- marks, ‘ in inventive humour, in rough merriment and broad ‘ drollery, not without a keen rugged shrewdness of insight ; 36 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. ‘ which properties must have made it irresistibly captivating ‘ to the popular sense ; and, with all its fantastic extrava- ‘ gancies and roguish crotchets, in many points instructive.’ From Tyll’s so captivating achievements, we shall here select one to insert some account of ; the rather as the tale is soon told, and by means of it we catch a little trait of manners, and, through Tyll’s spectacles, may peep into the interior of a Household, even of a Parsonage, in those old days. ‘ It chanced after so many adventures, that Eulenspiegel came to a Parson, who promoted him to be his Sacristan, or as we now say, Sexton. Of this Parson it is recorded that he kept a Concubine who had but one eye' ; she also had a spite at Tyll, and was wont to speak evil of him to his master, and report his rogueries. Now while Eulenspiegel held this Sex- toncy, the Easter-season came, and there was to be a play set forth of the Resurrection of our Lord. And as the peojfle were not learned, and could not read, the Parson took his Concubine and stationed her in the holy Sepulchre by way of Angel. Which thing Eulenspiegel seeing, he took to him three of the simplest persons that could be found there, to enact the Three Marys ; and the Parson himself, with a flag in his hand, represented Christ. Thereupon spake Eulen- spiegel to the simple persons : “ When the Angel asks you, Whom ye seek, ye must answer : The Parson’s one-eyed Con- cubine.” Now it came to pass that the time arrived when they were to act, and the Angel asked them : “ Whom seek ye here ? ” and they answered, as Eulenspiegel had taught and bidden them, and said : “We seek the Parson’s one-eyed Concubine.” Whereby did the Parson observe that he was made a mock of. And when the Parson’s Concubine heard the same, she started out of the Grave, and aimed a box at Eulenspiegel’s face, but missed him, and hit one of the simple persons, who were representing the Three Marys. This lat- ter then returned her a slap on the mouth, whereupon she caught him by the hail - . But his Wife seeing this, came run- ning thither, and fell upon the Parson’s Harlot. Which thing the Parson discerning, he threw down his flag, and sprang forward to his Harlot’s assistance. Thus gave they one another hearty thwacking and basting, and there was great uproar in the Church. But when Eulenspiegel perceived EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 37 that they all liad one another by the ears in the Church, he went his ways, and came no more back.” 1 These and the like pleasant narratives were the People’s Comedy in those days. Neither was their Tragedy wanting ; as indeed both spring up spontaneously in all regions of human Life ; however, their chief work of this latter class, the wild, deep and now world-renowned Legend of Faust, be- longs to a somewhat later date . 2 1 Flfgel, iv. 290. For more of Eulenspiegel, see Gorres Ueber die Volksbiicher. 2 To the fifteenth century, say some who fix it on Johann Faust, the Goldsmith and partial Inventor of Printing: to the sixteenth century, say others, referring it to Johann Faust, Doctor in Philosophy; which individual did actually, as the Tradition also hears, study first at Wit- tenberg (where he might be one of Luther's pupils), then at Ingolstadt, where also he taught, and had a Famulus named Wagner, son of a clergyman at Wasserberg. Melanethon, Tritlieim and other credible witnesses, some of whom had seen the man, vouch sufficiently for these facts. The rest of the Doctor’s history is much more obscure. He seems to have been of a vehement, unquiet temper ; skilled in Natural Phi- losophy, and perhaps in the occult science of Conjuring, by aid of which two gifts, a much shallower man, wandering in Need and Pride over the world in those days, might, without any Mepliistopheles, have worked wonders enough. Nevertheless, that he rode through the ah- on a wine-cask, from Auerbach’s Keller at Leipsig, in 1523, seems question- able ; though an old carving, in that venerable Tavern, still mutely as- serts it to the toper of this day. About 1560, his term of Tlianma- turgy being over, he disappeared : whether under feigned name, by the rope of some hangman ; or ‘ frightfully torn in pieces by the Devil, near the village of Rimlich, between Twelve and One in the morning,’ let each reader judge for himself. The latter was clearly George Rudolf Wiedemann’s opinion, whose Veritable History of the abominable Lins of Dr. Johann Faust came out at Hamburg in 1599 ; and is no less circumstantially announced in the old Feople’s-Eook, That everyichn - infamous Arch-Black- Artist and Conjuror , Dr. Faust's Compact with the Devil, wonderful Walk and Conversation, and terrible End, printed seemingly without date, at Koln (Cologne) and Niirnberg ; read by every one ; written by we know not whom. See again, for farther in- sight, Gorres Ueber die dcntschen Volksbiicher. Another Work (Leipsig, 1824), expressly ‘On Faust and the Wandering Jew,’ which latter, in those times, wandered much in Germany, is also referred to. — Conv. Lexicon, § Faust. 38 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. Thus, though the Poetry which spoke iu rhyme was feeble enough, the spirit of Poetry could nowise be regarded as ex- tinct ; while Fancy, Imagination and all the intellectual fac- ulties necessary for that art, were in active exercise. Neither had the Enthusiasm of heart, on which it still more intimately depends, died out ; but only taken another form. In lower degrees it expressed itself as an ardent zeal for Knowledge and Improvement ; for spiritual excellence such as the time held out and prescribed. This was no languid, low-minded age ; but of earnest busy effort ; in all provinces of culture resolutely struggling forward. Classical Literature, after long hindrances, had now found its way into Germany also : old Home was open, with all its wealth, to the intelligent eye ; scholars of Chrysoloras were fast unfolding the treasures of Greece. School Philosophy, which had never obtained firm footing among the Germans, was in all countries drawing to a close ; but the subtle, piercing vision, which it had fostered and called into activity, was henceforth to employ itself with new profit on more substantial interests. In such manifold praiseworthy endeavours the most ardent mind had ample arena. A higher, purer enthusiasm, again, which no longer found its place in chivalrous Minstrelsy, might still retire to medi- tate aud worship in religious Cloisters, where, amid all the corruption of monkish manners, there were not wanting men who aimed at, and accomplished, the highest problem of manhood, a life of spiritual Truth. Among the Germans especially, that deep-feeling, deep-thinking, devout temper now degenerating into abstruse theosophy, now purifying itself into holy eloquence and clear apostolic light, was awake in this era ; a temper which had long dwelt, and still dwells there ; which erelong was to render that people worthy the honour of giving Europe a new Reformation, a new Religion. As an example of monkish diligence and zeal, if of nothing more, we here mention the German Bible of Mathias von Behaim, which, in his Hermitage at Halle, he rendered from the Vulgate, in 1343 ; the Manuscript of which is still to be seen in Leipzig. Much more conspicuous stand two other EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 39 German Priests of this Period ; to whom, as connected with Literature also, a few words must now be devoted. Johann Tauler is a name which fails in no Literary His- tory of Germany : he was a man famous iu his own day as the most eloquent of preachers ; is still noted by critics for his intellectual deserts ; by pious persons, especially of the class called Mystics, is still studied as a practical instructor ; and by all true inquirers prized as a person of high talent and moral worth. Tauler was a Dominican Monk ; seems to have lived and preached at Strasburg ; where, as his gravestone still testifies, he died in 1361. His devotional works have been often edited : one of his modern admirers has written his biography ; wherein perhaps this is the strangest fact, if it be one, that once in the pulpit, ! he grew suddenly dumb, ‘ and did nothing but weep ; in which despondent state he ‘ continued for two whole years.’ Then, however, he again lifted up his voice, with new energy and new potency. We learn farther, that he ‘ renounced the dialect of Philosophy, and spoke direct to the heart in language of the heart.’ His Sermons, composed in Latin and delivered in German, in which language, after repeated renovations and changes of dialect, they are still read, have, with his other writings, been characterised, by a native critic worthy of confidence, in these terms : ‘ They contain a treasure of meditations, hints, indications, full of heart-felt piety, which still speak to the inmost long- ings and noblest wants of man’s mind. His style is abrupt, compressed, significant in its conciseness ; the nameless depth of feelings struggles with the phraseology. He was the first that wrested from our German speech the fit expression for ideas of moral Reason and Emotion, and has left us riches in that kind, such as the zeal for purity and fulness of lan- guage in our own days cannot leave unheeded.’ — Tauler, it is added, ‘ was a man who, imbued with genuine Devoutness, as it springs from the depths of a soul strengthened in self-con-' templation, and, free and all powerful, rules over Life and Ef- fort,- — attempted to train and win the people for a duty which had hitherto been considered as that of the learned class alone : to raise the Lay-world into moral study of Religion £0 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. for themselves, that so, enfranchised from the bonds of unre- flecting custom, they might regulate Creed and Conduct by strength self-acquired. He taught men to look within ; by spiritual contemplation to feel the secret of their higher Des- tiny ; to seek in their own souls what from without is never, or too scantily afforded ; self-believing, to create what, by the dead letter of foreign Tradition, can never be brought forth.’ 1 Known to ah Europe, as Tauler is to Germany, and of a class with him, as a man of antique Christian walk, of warm devoutly-feeling poetic spirit, and insight and experience in the deepest regions of man’s heart and life, follows, in the next generation, Thomas Hamerken, or Hammerlein (Malleo- lus) ; usually named Thomas a Kempis, that is, Thomas of Kempen, a village near Cologne, where he was born in 1388. Others contend that Kampen in Overyssel was his birthplace ; however, in either case, at that era, more especially consider- ing what he did, we can here regard him as a Deutscher, a German. For his spiritual and intellectual character we may refer to his works, written in the Latin tongue, and still known ; above all, to his far-famed work De Imitations Christi, which has been praised by such men as Luther. Leibnitz, Hal- ler ; and, what is more, has been read, and continues to be read, with moral profit, in all Christian languages and commun- ions, having passed through upwards of a thousand editions, which number is yet daily increasing. A new English Thomas d Kempis was published only the other year. But the ven- erable man deserves a word from us, not only as a high, spot- less Priest, and father of the Church, at a time when such were rare, but as a zealous promoter of learning, which, in his own country, he accomplished much to forward. Ham- merlein, the son of poor parents, had been educated at the famous school of Deventer ; he himself instituted a similar one at Zwoll, which long continued the grand classical semi- nary of the North. Among his own pupils we find enumerated Moritz von Spiegelberg, Rudolf von Lange, Rudolf Agricola. 1 Wacliler, Vorlesunqen fiber die Geschiclite der deuUchen National - litteratur (Lectures on tlie History of German National Literature), b. i. s. 131. EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 41 Antonins Liber, Luclwig Dringenberg, Alexander Hegius ; of whom! Agricola, with other two, by advice of their teacher, visited Italy to study Greek ; the whole six, united through manhood and life, as they had been in youth and at school, are regarded as the founders of true classical literature among the Germans. Their scliolastico-monastic establishments at Deventer,’ with Zwoll and its other numerous offspring, which rapidly extended themselves over the northwest of Europe from Artois to Silesia, and operated powerfully both in a moral and intellectual view, are among the characteristic re- deeming features of that time ; but the details of them fall not within our present limits. 1 If now, quitting the Cloister and Library, we look abroad over active Life, and the general state of culture and spirit- ual endeavour as manifested there, w r e have on all hands the cheering prospect of a society in full progress. The Practical Spirit, which had pressed forward into Poetry itself, could not but be busy and successful in those provinces where its home specially lies. Among the Germans, it is true, so far as political condition was concerned, the aspect of affairs had not changed for the better. The Imperial Constitution was weakened and loosened into the mere semblance of a Govern- ment ; the head of which had still the title, but no longer the reality of sovereign power ; so that Germany, ever since the times of Rudolf, had, as it w r ere, ceased to be one great na- tion, and become a disunited, often conflicting aggregate of small nations. Nay, we may almost say, of petty districts, or even of households : for now, when every pitiful Baron claimed to be an independent potentate, and exercised his divine right of peace and war too often in plundering the industrious Burgher, public Law could no longer vindicate the weak against the strong : except the venerable unwritten code of Faustrecht (Club-Law), there was no other valid. On every steep rock, or difficult fastness, these dread sovereigns perched themselves ; studding the country with innumerable Fiaub- schlosser (Robber-Towers), which now' in the eye of the pict- uresque tourist look interesting enough, but in those days 1 See Eicliliorn's Geschichte dev Litteratur, b. ii. s. 134. 42 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. were interesting on far other grounds. Herein dwelt a race of persons, proud, ignorant, hungry ; who, boasting of an end- less pedigree, talked familiarly of living on the produce of their ‘Saddles’ ( vom Sattel zu leben), that is to say, by the pro- fession of highwayman ; for which unluckily, as just hinted, there was then no effectual gallows. Some, indeed, might plunder as the eagle, others as the vulture and crow ; but, in general, from men cultivating that walk of life, no profit in any other was to be 'looked for. Vain was it, however, for the Kaiser to publish edict on edict against them ; nay, if he de- stroyed their Robber-Towers, new ones were built ; was the old wolf hunted down, the cub had escaped, who reappeared when his teeth were grown. Not till industry and social cul- tivation had everywhere spread, and risen supreme, could that brood, in detail, be extirpated or tamed. Neither was this miserable defect of police the only misery in such a state of things. For the saddle-eating Baron, even in pacific circumstances, naturally looked down on the fruit- producing .Burgher ; who, again, feeling himself a wiser, wealthier, better and in time a stronger man, ill brooked this procedure, and retaliated, or, by quite declining such com- munications, avoided it. Thus, throughout long centuries, and after that old Code of Club-Law had been wellnigh abol- ished, the effort of the nation was still divided into two courses ; the Noble and the Citizen would not work together, freely imparting and receiving their several gifts ; but the culture of the polite arts, and that of the useful arts, had to proceed with mutual disadvantage, each on its separate foot- ing. Indeed that supercilious and too marked distinction of ranks, which so ridiculously characterised the Germans, has only in very recent times disappeared. Nevertheless here, as it ever does, the strength of the country lay in the middle classes ; which were sound and active, and, in spite of all these hindrances, daily advancing. The Free Towns, which, in Germany as elsewhere, the sov- ereign favoured, held within then’ walls a race of men as brave as they of the Robber-Towers, but exercising their bravery on fitter objects ; who, by degrees, too, ventured into EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 43 the field against even the greatest of these kinglets, and in many a stout fight taught them a juristic doctrine, which no head with all its helmets was too thick for taking in. The Four Forest Cantons had already testified in this way ; their Tells and Stauffachers preaching, with apostolic blows and knocks, like so many Luthers ; whereby, from their remote Alpine glens, all lands and all times have heard them, and believed them. By dint of such logic it began to be under- stood everywhere, that a Man, whether clothed in purple cloaks or in tanned sheepskins, wielding the sceptre or the oxgoad, is neither Deity nor Beast, but simply a Man, and must comport himself according!}". But commerce of itself was pouring new strength into every peaceable community ; the Hanse League, now in full vigour, secured the fruits of industry over all the North. The havens of the Netherlands, thronged with ships from every sea, transmitted or collected their wide-borne freight over Germany ; where, far inland, flourished market-cities ‘with their cunning workmen, their spacious warehouses, and merchants who in opulence vied with the richest. Except perhaps in the close vicinity of Bobber-Towers, and even there not always nor altogether, Diligence, good Order, peaceful Abundance were everywhere conspicuous in Ger- many. Petrarch has celebrated, in warm terms, the beauties of the Bhine, as he witnessed them ; the rich, embellished, cultivated aspect of land and people : iEneas Sylvius, af- terwards Pope Pius the Second, expresses himself, in the next century, with still greater emphasis : he says, and he could judge, having seen both, * that the King of Scotland ‘ did not live so handsomely as a moderate Citizen of Nurn- ‘berg : ’ indeed Conrad Celtes, another contemporary witness, informs us, touching thege same citizens, that their wives went abroad loaded with the richest jewels, that ‘most of their household utensils were of silver and gold.’ For, as iEneas Sylvius adds, ‘their mercantile activity is astonishing; the greater part of the German nation consists of merchants.’ Thus too, in Augsburg, the Fugger family which sprang, like that of the Medici, from smallest beginnings, were fast 44 : EAIILT GERMAN LITERATURE. rising into that height of commercial greatness, such that Charles V., in viewing the Royal Treasury at Paris, could say, “I have a weaver in Augsburg able to buy it all with his own gold. ’ 1 With less satisfaction the same haughty Monarch had to see his own Nephew wedded to the fair Philippine Welser, daughter of another merchant in that city, and for wisdom and beauty the paragon of her time . 2 1 Charles had his reasons for such a speech. This same Anton Fugger, to whom he alluded here, had often stood by him in straits ; showing a munificence and even generosity worthy of the proudest princes. Dur- ing the celebrated Diet of Augsburg, in 1530, the Emperor lodged for a whole year in Anton’s house ; and Anton was a man to warm his Em- peror 1 at a fire of cinnamon wood,’ and to burn therein ‘ the bonds for large sums owing him by his majesty.’ For all which, Anton and his kindred had countships and princeships in abundance ; also the right to coin money, but no solid bullion to exercise such right on ; which, however, they repeatedly did on bullion of their own. This Anton left six millions of gold-crowns in cash ; ‘ besides precious articles, jewels, properties in all countries of Europe, and both the Indies.’ The Fug- gers had ships on every sea, wagons on every highway ; they worked the Carinthian Mines ; even Albrecht Durer’s Fictures must pass through their warehouses to the Italian market. However, this family had other merits than their mountains of metal, their kindness to needy Sovereigns, and even their all-embracing spirit of commercial enter- prise. They were famed for acts of general beneficence, and did much charity where no imperial thanks were to be looked for. To found Hospitals and Schools, on the most liberal scale was a common thing with them. In the sixteenth century, three benevolent brothers of the House purchased a suburb of Augsburg ; rebuilt it with small commo- dious houses, to be let to indigent industrious burghers for a trifling rent : this is the well-known Fuggerei, which still existing, with its own walls and gate, maintains their name in daily currency -there. — The formder of this remarkable family did actually drive the shuttle in the village of Goggingen, near Augsburg, about the middle of the Four- teenth Century; ‘but in 1619,’ says the Spiegel d&r Ehren (Mirror of Honour), ‘the noble stem had so branched out, that there were forty - 1 seven Counts and Countesses belonging to it, and of young descend- ‘ ants as many as there are days in the year.’ Four stout boughs of this same noble stem, in the rank of Princes, still subsist and flourish. ‘ Thus in the generous Fuggers,’ says that above-named Mirror , ‘was ‘fulfilled our Saviour’s promise: Give, and it shall be given you.’ — - Corn. Lexicon , § Fugger- Geschlecht. - The Welsers were of patrician descent, and had for many centuries EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 45 In this state of economical prosperity, Literature and Art, such kinds of them at least as had a practical application, could not want encouragement. It is mentioned as one of the furtherances to Classical Learning among the Germans, that these Free Towns, as well as numerous petty Courts of Princes, exercising a sovereign power, required individuals of some culture to conduct their Diplomacy ; one man able at least to write a handsome Latin style was an indispensable requisite. For a long while even this small accomplishment was not to be acquired in Germany ; where, such had been the troublous condition of the Governments, there were yet, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, no Universities ; however, a better temper and better fortune began at length to prevail among the German Sovereigns ; the demands of the time insisted on fulfilment. The University of Prague was founded in 1348, that of Vienna in 1364 ; 1 and now, as if to make up for the delay, princes and communities on all hands made haste to establish similar Institutions ; so that before the end of the century we find three others, Heidelberg, Co- logne, Erfurt ; in the course of the next, no fewer than eight followed commerce at Augsburg, where, next only to the Fuggers, they played a high part. It was they, for example, that, at their own charges, first colonised Venezuela ; that equipped the first German ship to India, ‘ the Journal of which still exists ; ’ they united with the Fuggers to lend Charles V. twelve Tonnen Gold 1,200,000 Florins. The fair Philippine, by her pure charms and honest wiles, worked out a rec- onciliation with Kaiser Ferdinand the First, her Father-in-law; lived thirty happy years with her husband ; and had medals struck by him, Dices Philippines, in honour of her, when (at Inspruck in 1580) he be- came a widower. — Conv. Lexicon , § Welser. 1 There seems to be some controversy about the precedence here : Bou- terwek gives Vienna, with a date 1333, as the earliest ; Koch again puts Heidelberg, 1346, in front ; the dates in the Text profess to he taken from Meiner’s Geschichte der Entslehung und Enlwick'elung der Hohen Sclvulen unsers Erdtlieils (History of the Origin and Development of High Schools in Europe), Gottingen, 1802. The last-established University is that of Miinchen (Munich), in 1826. Prussia alone has 21,000 Public School- masters, specially trained to their profession, sometimes even sent to travel for improvement, at the cost of Government. What says ‘the most enlightened nation in the world’ to this ? — Eats its pudding, and says little or nothing. 46 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. more, of which Leipsig (in 1404) is the most remarkable. Neither did this honourable zeal grow cool in the sixteenth century, or even down to our own, -when Germany, boasting of some forty great Schools and twenty-two Universities, four of which date within the last thirty years, may fairly reckon itself the best school-provided country in Europe ; as, indeed, those who in any measure know it, are aware that it is also indisputably the best educated. Still more decisive are the proofs of national activity, of progressive culture, among the Germans, if we glance at what concerns the practical- Arts. Apart from Universities and learned show, there has always dwelt, in those same Niim- bergs, and Augsburgs, a solid, quietly-perseverant spirit, full of old Teutonic character and old Teutonic sense ; whereby, ever and anon, from under the bonnet of some rugged Ger- man artisan or staid burgher, this and the other World-Inven- tion has been starting forth, where such was least of all looked for. Indeed, with regard to practical Knowledge in general, if we consider the present history and daily life of mankind, it must be owned that while each nation has contributed a share, — the largest share, at least of such shares as can be appro- priated and fixed on any special contributor, belongs to Ger- many. Copernic, Hevel, Kepler, Otto Guericke, are of other times ; but in this era also the spirit of Inquiry, of Invention, was especially busy. Gunpowder (of the thirteenth century), though Milton gives the credit of it to Satan, has helped mightily to lessen the horrors of War : thus much at least must be admitted in its favour, that it secures the dominion of civilised over savage man : nay hereby, in personal con- tests, not brute Strength, but Courage and Ingenuity, can avail ; for the Dwarf and the Giant are alike strong with pis- tols between them. Neither can Valour now find its best arena in War, in Battle, which is henceforth a matter of cal- culation and strategy, and the soldier a chess-pawn to shoot and be shot at ; whereby that noble quality may at length come to reserve itself for other more legitimate occasions, of which, in this our Life-Battle with Destiny, there are enough. And thus Gunpowder, if it spread the havoc of War, mitigates EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 47 it in a still higher degree ; like some Inoculation. — to which may an extirpating Vaccination one day succeed ! It ought to be stated, however, that the claim of Schwartz to the origi- nal invention is dubious ; to the sole invention altogether un- founded : the recipe stands, under disguise, in the writings of Roger Bacon ; the article itself was previously known in the East. Far more indisputable are the advantages of Printing : and if the story of Brother Schwartz’s mortar giving fire and driving his pestle through the ceiling, in the city of Mentz, as the painful Monk and Alchymist was accidentally pounding the ingredients of our first Gunpowder, is but a fable, — that of our first Book being printed there is much better ascer- tained. Johann Gutenberg was a native of Mentz ; and there, in company with Faust and Schoffer appears to have com- pleted his invention between the years 1440 and 1449 : the famous ‘Forty-two hue Bible ’ was printed there in 1455. 1 Of this noble art, which- is like an infinitely intensated organ of Speech, whereby the Voice of a small transitory man may reach not only through all earthly Space, but through all earthly Time, it were needless to repeat the often-repeated praises ; or speculate on the practical effects, the most mo- mentous of which are, perhaps, but now becoming visible. On this subject of the Press, and its German origin, a far humbler remark may be in place here ; namely, that Rag- paper, the material on which Printing works and lives, was also invented in Germany some hundred and fifty years before. ‘ The oldest specimens of this article yet known to exist,’ says Eichhorn, ‘ are some Documents, of the year 1318, in the ‘ Archives of the Hospital at Kaufbeuern. Breitkopf ( Vom ‘ Ursprung der Spielkarten , On the origin of Cards) has dem- ‘ onstrated our claim to the invention ; and that France and ‘ England borrowed it from Germany, and Spain from Italy.’ 2 1 As to the Dutch claim, it rests only on vague local traditions, which were never heard of publicly till their Lorenz Coster had been dead almost a hundred and fifty years ; so that, out of Holland, it finds few partisans. 2 B. ii. s. 91. — ‘ The first German Paper-mill we have sure account of,’ says Koch, ‘worked at Niirnberg in 1390.’ — Vol. i. p. 35. 48 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. On the invention of Printing their followed naturally a multiplication of Books, and a new activity, which has ever since proceeded at an accelerating rate, in the business of Literature ; but for the present, no change in its character or objects. ' Those Universities, and other Establishments and Improvements, were so many tools which the spirit of the time had devised, not for working out new paths, which were their ulterior issue, but in the mean while for proceeding- more commodiously on the old path. In the Prague Univer- sity, it is true, whither Wickliffe’s writings had found their way, a Teacher of more earnest tone had risen, in the person of John Huss, Rector there ; whose Books, Of the Six Errors and Of the Church, still more his energetic, zealously polemi- cal Discourses to the people, were yet unexampled on the Continent. The shameful murder of this man, who lived and died as beseemed a Martyr ; and the stem vengeance which his countrymen took for it, unhappily not on the Constance Cardinals, but on less offensive Bohemian Catholics, kept up during twenty years, on the Eastern Border of Germany, an agitating tumult, not only of opinion, but of action : however, the fierce, indomitable Zisca being called away, and the pusil- lanimous Emperor offering terms, which, indeed, he did not keep, this uproar subsided, and the national activity proceeded in its former course. In German Literature, during those years, nothing presents itself as worthy of notice here. Chronicles were -written ; Class-books for the studious, edifying Homilies, in varied guise, for the busy, were compiled : a few Books of Travels make then- appearance, among which Translations from our too fabulous countryman, Mandeville, are perhaps the most remarkable. Eor the rest, Life continued to be looked at less with poetic admiration, than in a spirit of observation and comparison : not without many a protest against clerical and secular error, such, however, seldom rising into the style of grave hate and hostility, but playfully expressing themselves in satire. The old effort towards the Useful ; in Literature, the old prevalence of the Didactic, especially of the JEsopie, is everywhere manifest. Of this iEsopic spirit, what phases EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 49 it successively assumed, and its significance in these, there were much to be sakh However, in place of multiplying smaller instances and aspects, let us now take up the high- est ; and with the best of all Apologues, Reynard llie Fox, ter- minate our survey of that Fable-loving time. The story of ReinecJce Fuchs, or, to give it the original Low- . German name, Reineke de Fos, is, more than any other, a truly European performance : for some centuries a universal household possession and secular Bible, read everywhere, iu the palace and the hut : it still interests us, moreover, by its intrinsic worth, being, on the whole, the most poetical and meritorious production of our Western World in that kind ; or perhaps of the whole World, though, in such matters, the West has generally yielded to, and learned from, the East. Touching the origin of this Book, as often happens in like cases, there is a controversy, perplexed not only by inevitable ignorance, But also by anger and false patriotism. Into this vexed sea we have happily no call to venture ; and shall merely glance for a moment, from the firm land, where all that can specially concern us in the matter stands rescued and safe. The oldest printed Edition of our actual Reynard is that of Liibeck, in 1498 ; of which there is a copy, understood to be the only one, still extant in the Wolfenbiittel Library. This oldest Edition is in the Low-German or Saxon tongue, and appears to have been produced by Hinrek van Alkmer, who in the preface calls himself ‘ Schoolmaster and Tutor of that noble virtuous Prince and Lord, the Duke of Lorraine,’ and says farther, that by order of this same worthy sovereign, he ‘ sought out and rendered the present Book from Walloon ‘and French tongue into German, to the praise and honour ! of God, and wholesome edification of whoso readeth therein.’ Which candid and business-like statement would doubtless have continued to yield entire satisfaction ; had it not been that, in modem days, and while this first Liibeck Edition was still lying in its dusty recess unknown to Bibliomaniacs, an- other account, dated some hundred years later, and supported by a little subsequent hearsay, had been raked up : how the 4 50 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. real Author was Nicholas Baumann, Professor at Rostock ; how he had been Secretary to the Duke of Juliers, but was driven from his service by wicked cabals ; and so in revenge com- posed this satirical adumbration of the Juliers Court ; putting- on the title-page, to avoid consequences, the feigned tale of its being rendered from the French and Walloon tongue, and the feigned name of Hinrek van Alkmer, who, for the rest, was never Schoolmaster and Tutor at Lorraine, or anywhere else, but a mere man of straw, created for the nonce out of so many Letters of the Alphabet. Hereupon excessive debate, and a learned sharp-shooting, with victory-shouts on both sides ; into which we nowise enter. Some touch of human Sympathy does draw us towards Hinrek, whom, if he was once a real man, with bones and sinews, stomach and prov- ender scrip, it is mournful to see evaporated away into mere vowels and consonants : however, beyond a kind wish, we can give him no help. In Literary History, except on this one oc- casion, as seems indisputable enough, he is nowhere men- tioned or hinted at. Leaving Hinrek and Nicolaus, then, to fight out their quarrel as they may, we remark that the clearest issue of it would throw little light on the origin of Reinecke. The victor could at most claim to be the first German redactor of this Fable, and the happiest ; whose work had superseded and ob- literated all preceding ones whatsoever ; but nowise to be the inventor thereof, who must be sought for in a much remoter period. There are even two printed versions of the Tale, prior in date to this of Liibeck : a Dutch one, at Delft, in 1484 ; and one by Caxton in English, in 1481, which seems to be the earliest of all. 1 • These two differ essentially from Hinrek's ; 1 Caxton’s Edition, a copy of which is in the British Museum, hears title : History e of Reynart the Foxe ; and begins thus : ‘ It was aboute ‘ the tyme of Pentecoste or Whytsontyde that the wodes coniynlv be ‘ lusty and gladsome, and the trees clad with levys and blossoms, and ‘ the grounds with herbes and flowers sweete smellyng ; ’ — where, as in many other passages, the fact that Caxton and Alkmer had the same original before them is manifest enough. Our venerable Printer says in conclusion: ‘I have not added ne mynnsslied but have followed as EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 51 still more so does the French Roman du nouveau Renard, com- posed ‘ by Jacquemars Gielee at Lisle, about the year 1290,’ ■which yet exists in manuscript : however, they sufficiently verify that statement, by some supposed to be feigned, of the German redactor’s having - ‘ sought and rendered ’ his work from the Walloon and French ; in which latter tongue, as we shall soon see, some shadow of it had been known and popu- lar, long centuries before that time. For besides Gielee’s work, we have a Renard Couronne of still earlier, a Renard Contrefait of somewhat later date : and Chroniclers inform us that, at the noted Festival given by Philip the Fair, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, among the dramatic en- tertainments, was a whole Life of Reynard ; wherein it must not surprise us that he ‘ ended by becoming Pope, and still, under the Tiara, continued to eat poultry.’ Nay, curious in- quirers have discovered, on the French and German borders, some vestige of the Story even in Carlovingian times ; which, indeed, again makes it a German original : they will have it that a certain Reinliard, or Reinecke, Duke of Lorraine, who, in the ninth century, by his craft and exhaustless stratagems worked strange mischief in that region, many times overreach- ing Ring Zwentibald himself, and at last, in his stronghold of Durfos, proving impregnable to him, — had in satirical songs of that period been celebrated as a fox, as Reinliard the Fox, and so given rise afar off to this Apologue, at least to the title of it. The name Isegrim, as applied to the Wolf, these same speculators deduce from an Austrian Count Isengrin, who, in those old days, had revolted against Kaiser Arnulph, and otherwise exhibited too wolfish a disposition. Certain it is, at least, that both designations were in universal use during the twelfth century ; they occur, for example, in one of the two sirventes which our Cceur-de Lion has left us : ‘Ye have promised me fidelity,’ says he, ‘but ye have kept it as the ‘ nyghe as I can my copye wliycli was in dutclie ; and by me Willm ‘ Caxton translated in to this rude and symple engdyssli in tliabbey of ‘ Westminster, and fynnyshed the vi daye of Juyn the yere of our lord ‘1481, the 21 yere of the regne of Kvnge Edward the iiijth.’ 52 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. Wolf did to the Fox,’ as Isangrin did to Reinhart.' Nay, per- haps the ancient circulation of some such Song or Tale, among the French, is best of all evinced by the fact that this same Reinhart, or Renard, is still the only word in their lan- guage for Fox ; and thus, strangely enough, the Proper may have become an Appellative ; and sly Duke Reinhart, at an era when the French tongue was first evolving itself from the rubbish of Latin and German, have insinuated his name into Natural as well as Political History. From all which, so much at least would appear : That the Fable of Reynard the Fox, which in the German version we behold completed, nowise derived its completeness from the individual there named Hinrek van Allcmer, or from any other individual or people ; but rather, that being in old times universally current, it was taken up by poets and satirists of all countries ; from each received some accession or improve- ment ; and properly has no single author. We must observe, however, that as yet it had attained no fixation or consistency ; no version was decidedly preferred to every other. Caxton’s and the Dutch appear, at best, but as the skeleton of wliat after- wards became a body ; of the old Walloon version, said to have been discovered lately, we are taught to entertain a similar opinion : 2 in the existing French versions, which are all older', either in Gielee’s or in the others, there is even less analogy. Loosely conjoined, therefore, and only in the state of dry bones, was it that Hinrek, or Nicolaus, or some Lower-Saxon whoever he might be, found the story ; and blowing on it with the breath of genius, raised it up into a consistent Fable. Many additions and some exclusions he must have made ; was probably enough assisted by personal experience of a Court, whether that of Juliers or some other ; perhaps also he admitted personal allusions, and doubtless many an oblique glance at existing things : and thus was produced the Low- German Reineke de Fos ; which version, shortly after its ap- pearance, had extinguished all the rest, and come to be what } Fidget (iii. 31), wlto quotes tlie Histoire Littemire des Troubadours, t.i. p. 63. 2 See Sclieller : Reineke de Fos, To Brunsicyk, 1825 ; Vorrede. EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 53 it still is, tlie sole veritable representative of Reynard, inas- much as all subsequent translations and editions have derived themselves from it. The farther history of Reinecke is easily traced. In this new guise, it spread abroad over all the world, with a scarcely exampled rapidity ; fixing itself also as a firm possession in most countries, where, indeed, in this character, we still find it. It was printed and rendered, innumerable times : in the original dialect alone, the last Editor has reckoned up more than twenty Editions ; on one of which, for example, we find such a name as that of Heinrich Voss. It was first translated into High-German in 1545 ; into Latin in 1567, by Hartmann Schopper, whose smooth style and rough fortune keep him in memory with Scholars : 1 a new version into short German verse appeared next century ; in our own times, Goethe has not disdained to reproduce it, by means of his own, in a third shape : of Soltau’s version, into literal doggerel, we have al- ready testified. Long generations before, it had been manu- factured into Prose, for the use of the people, and was sold 1 While engaged in this Translation, at Freiburg in Baden, he was im- pressed as a soldier, and carried, apparently in fetters, to Vienna, having given his work to another to finish. At Vienna he stood not long in the ranks; having fallen violently sick, and being thrown out in the streets to recover there. He says, ‘ he was without bed, and had to seek quar- ters on the muddy pavement in a Barrel.’ Here too, in the night, some excessively straitened individual stole from him his cloak and sabre. However, men were not all hvsenas : one Josias Hufnagel, unknown to him, but to whom by his writings he was known, took him under his roof, procured medical assistance, equipped him anew ; so that ‘ in the ‘ harvest-season, being half-cured, he could return or rather recrawl to ‘Frankfort on the Mayn.’ There too ‘a Magister Johann Cuipius, * Christian Egenolph’s son-in-law, kindly received him,’ and encouraged him to finish his Translation ; as accordingly he did, dedicating it to the Emperor, with doleful complaints, fruitless or not is unknown. For now poor Hartmann, no longer an Autobiographer, quite vanishes, and we can understand only that he laid his wearied back one day in a most still bed, where the blanket of the Night softly enwrapped him and all his woes. -His Book is entitled Opus poeticum de admirabili Falladd et Astutid Vulperulce ReineJccs, &c. &c. ; and in the Dedication and Preface contains all these details. 51 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. on stalls ; where still, with the needful changes in spelling, and printed on grayest paper, it tempts the speculative eye. Thus has our old Fable, rising like some Biver in the re- mote distance, from obscure rivulets, gathered strength out of every valley, out of every country, as it rolled on. It is European in two senses ; for as all Europe contributed to it, so all Europe has enjoyed it. Among the Germans, Reineclce Fuchs was long a House-book and universal Best-companion • it has been lectured on in the Universities, quoted in Im- perial Council -halls ; it lay on the toilette of Princesses ; and was thumbed to pieces on the bench of the Artisan ; we hear of grave men ranking it only nest to the Bible. Neither, as we said, was its popularity confined to home ; Translations erelong appeared in French, Italian, Danish, Swedish, Dutch, English : 1 nor was that same stall-honour, which has been reckoned the truest literary celebrity, refused it here ; per- haps many a reader of these pages may, like the writer of them, recollect the hours, when, hidden from unfeeling gaze of pedagogue, he swallowed The most pleasant and delightful His- tory of Reynard the Fox, like stolen waters, with a timorous joy. So much for the outward fortunes of this remarkable Book. It comes before us with a character such as can belong only to a very few ; that of being a true World’s-Book, which through centuries was everywhere at home, the spirit of which diffused itself into all languages and all minds. These quaint iEsopic figures have painted themselves in innumera- able heads ; that rough, deeply-lying humour has been the 1 Besides Gaston’s orignal, of which little is known among ns hut the name, we have two versions ; one in 1667, ‘ with excellent Morals and Expositions,’ which was reprinted in 1681, and followed in 1684- by a Continuation, called tj*/e Shifts of Reynardine the son of Reynard, of English growth ; another in 1708, slightly altered from the former, ex- plaining what appears doubtful or allegorical ; ‘ it being originally writ- ‘ ten,’ says the brave Editor elsewhere, * by an eminent Statesman of the ‘ German Empire, to show some Men their Follies, and correct the Tices ‘ of the Times he lived in.’ Not only Reynardine, but a second Appen- dix, Gawood the Rook, appears here ; also there are ‘ curious Devices, or Pictures.’ — Of Editions ‘printed for the Flying-Stationers’ we say nothing. EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 55 laughter of many generations. So that, at worst, we must regard this Reinecke as an ancient Idol, once worshipped, and still interesting for that circumstance, were the sculpture never so rude. We can love it, moreover, as being indigenous, wholly of our own creation : it sprang up from European sense and character, and was a faithful type and organ of these. But independently of all extrinsic considerations, this Fable of Reinecke may challenge a judgment on its own merits. Cunningly constructed, and not without a true poetic life, we must admit it to be : great power of conception and inven- tion, great pictorial fidelity, a warm, sunny tone of colouring, are manifest enough. It is full of broad rustic mirth ; inex- haustible in comic devices ; a World-Saturnalia, where Wolves tonsured into Monks, and nigh starved by short commons, Foxes pilgriming to Borne for absolution, Cocks pleading at the judgment-bar, make strange mummery. Nor is this wild Parody of Human Life without its meaning and moral : it is an air-pageant from Fancy’s dream-grotto, yet wisdom lurks in it ; as we gaze, the vision becomes poetic and prophetic. A true Irony must have dwelt in the Poet’s heart and head ; here, under grotesque shadows, he gives us the sadder picture of Beality ; yet for us without sadness ; his figures mask them- selves in uncouth, bestial vizards, and enact, gambolling ; their Tragedy dissolves into sardonic grins. He has a deep, heart- felt Humour, sporting with the world and its evils in kind mockery : this is the poetic soul, round which the outward material has fashioned itself into living coherence. And so, in that rude old Apologue, we have still a mirror, though now tarnished and timeworn, of true magic reality ; and can dis- cern there, in cunning reflex, some image both of our destiny and of our duty : for now, as then, Prudence is the only virtue sure of its reward, and Cunning triumphs where Honesty is worsted ; and now, as then, it is the wise man’s part to know this, and cheerfully look for it, and cheerfully defy it : TJt vulpis adulatio Here through his own world moveth, Sic Jwminis et ratio Iviost like to Reynard's provetli. 56 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. Ut mipis aclulatio Nu in de werlde blikket : Sic horninis et ratio Gelyk dem Eos sik shiklcet. Motto to Reineke. If Reinecke is nowise a perfect Comic Epos, it has various features of such, and above all, a genuine Epic spirit, which is the rarest feature. Of the Eable, and its incidents and structure, it is perhaps superfluous to offer any sketch ; to most readers the whole may be already familiar. How Noble, King of the Beasts, holding a solemn Court one Whitsuntide, is deafened on all hands with complaints against Keinecke ; Hinze the Cat, Lampe the Hare, Isegrim the Wolf, with innumerable others, having suffered from his villany, Isegrim especially, in a point which most keenly touches honour ; nay, Chanticleer the Cock ( Henning de Hane), amid bitterest wail, appearing even with the corpus delicti , the body of one of his children, whom that arch-knave has feloniously murdered with intent to eat How his indignant Majesty thereupon despatches Bruin the Bear to cite the delinquent in the King’s name ; how Brain, inveigled into a Honey-expedition, returns without his errand, without his ears, almost without his life ; Hinze the Cat, in a subsequent expedition, faring no better. How at last Bei- necke, that he may not have to stand actual siege in his fort- ress of Malapertus, does appear for trial, and is about to be hanged, but on the gallows-ladder makes a speech unrivalled in forensic eloquence, and saves his life ; nay, having incident- ally hinted at some Treasures, the hiding-place of which is well known to him, rises into high favour ; is permitted to depart on that pious pilgrimage to Borne he has so much at heart, and furnished even with shoes, cut from the living hides of Isegrim and Isegrim’s much-injured spouse, his worst ene- mies. How, the Treasures not making their appearance, but only new misdeeds, he is again haled to judgment ; again glozes the general ear with sweetest speeches ; at length, being challenged to it, fights Isegrim in knightly tourney, and by EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 57 the cunningest, though the most unchivalrous method, not to be further specified in polite writing, carries off a complete victory ; and having thus, by wager of battle, manifested his innocence, is overloaded with royal favour, created Chancellor, and Pilot to weather the Storm ; and so, in universal honour and authority, reaps the fair fruit of his gifts and labour’s : Whereby shall each to wisdom turn, Evil eschew and virtue learn, Therefore was this same story wrote, That is its aim, and other not. This Book for little price is sold, But image clear of world doth hold ; Whoso into the world would look, My counsel is, — he buy this book. So endeth Reynard Fox’s story : God help us all to heavenly glory ! It lias been objected that the Animals in Reineeke are not Animals, but Men disguised ; to which objection, except in so far as grounded on the necessary indubitable fact that this is an Apologue or emblematic Fable, and no Chapter of ’Natural History, we cannot in any considerable degree accede. Nay, that very contrast between Object and Effort, where the Passions of men develop themselves on the Interests of ani- mals, and the whole is huddled together in chaotic mockery, is a main charm of the picture. For the rest, we should rather say, these bestial characters were moderately well sus- tained : the vehement, futile vociferation of Chanticleer ; the hysterical promptitude, and earnest profession and protesta- tion of poor Larnpe the Hare ; the thickheaded ferocity of Isegrim ; the sluggish, gluttonous opacity of Bruin’ ; above all, the craft, the tact and inexhaustible knavish adroitness of Reineeke himself, are in strict accuracy of costume. Often_ also their situations and occupations are bestial enough. What quantities of bacon and other proviant do Isegrim and Reineeke forage ; Reineeke contributing the scheme,— for the two were then in partnership, — and Isegrim paying the shot 58 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. in broken bones ! Wliat more characteristic than the fate of Bruin, when ill-counselled, he introduces his stupid head into Rustefill’s half-split log ; has the wedges whisked away, and stands clutched there, as in* a rice, and uselessly roaring ; disappointed of honey, sure only of a beating without paral- lel ! Not to forget the Mare, whom, addressing her by the title of Goodwife, with all politeness, Isegrim, sore-pinched with hunger, asks whether she will sell her foal : she answers, that the price is written on her hinder hoof ; which document the intending purchaser, being ‘ an Erfurt graduate,’ declares his full ability to read ; but finds there no wilting, or print, — save only the print of six horsenails on his own mauled visage. And abundance of the like ; sufficient to excuse our old Epos on this head, or altogether justify it. Another objection, that, namely, which points to the great and excessive coarse- ness of the work here and there, it cannot so readily turn aside ; being indeed rude, old-fashioned, and homespun, apt even to draggle in the mire : neither are its occasional dul- ness and tediousness to be denied ; but only to be set against its frequent terseness and strength, and pardoned as the product of poor humanity, from whose hands nothing, not even a Reineke de Fos, comes perfect. He who would read, and still understand this old Apo- logue, must apply to Goethe, whose version, for poetical use, we have found infinitely the best ; like some copy of an ancient, bedimmed, half-obliterated woodcut, but new-done on steel, on India-paper, with all manner of graceful yet ap- propriate appendages. Nevertheless, the old Low-German original has also a certain charm, and simply as the original, would claim some notice. It is reckoned greatly the best performance that was ever brought out in that dialect ; inter- esting, moreover, in a philological point of view, especially to us English ; being properly the language of our old Saxon Fatherland ; and still curiously like oiu- own, though the two, for some twelve centuries, have had no brotherly communica- tion. One short specimen, with the most verbal .translation, we shall insert here, and then have done with Reinedce : 3ARLT GERMAN LITERATURE. 59 ‘ De Greving was Reiuken broder’s sone, The Badger was Reinke's brother's son, De sprat do, un was ser kone. He spoke there,- and was (sore) very (keen) bold. He forantworde in dem Hove den Fos, He ( for-answered ) defended in the Court the Fox, De dog was ser falsh un lcs. That (though) yet was very false and loose. He sprak to deme Wulve also ford: He spoke to the Wolf so forth : Here Isegrim, it is ein oldspriiken word, Master Isegrim, it is an old-spoken word, Des fyendes mund shaffet selden from ! The (fiend's) enemy's mouth (shapeth) bringeth seldom advantage ! So do ji ok by Reinken, minem om. So do ye (eke) too by Reinke, mine (erne) unde. Were lie so wol alse ji liyr to Hove, Were he as well as ye here at Court, Un stunde lie also in des Koninge's love, And stopd he so in the King' s favour. Here Isegrim, alse ji dot, Master Isegrim, as ye do, It sholde ju nigt diinken god, It should you not (think) seem good, Dat ji en hyr alsus forspriiken That ye him here so for spalce Un de olden stiikke hyr forraken. And the old tricks here forth-raked. Men dat kwerde, dat ji Reinken havven gedan, But the ill that ye Reinke have done, Dat late ji al agter stan. That let ye all (after stand) stand by. It is nog etliken lieren wol kund, It is yet to some gentlemen well known, Wo ji mid Reinken maken den ferbund, How ye with Reinke made (bond) alliance, Un wolden wiiren twe like gesellen : And would be two (like) equal partners : Dat mot ik dirren heren fortallen. That mote I these gentlemen forth-tell. Wente Reinke, myn cm in wintersnod, Since Reinke, mine uncle, in winter' s-need, Umme Isegrim's willen, fylna was dod. For Isegrim's (will) sake, full-nigh was dead. Wente it geshag dat ein kwam gefaren, 60 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. For it chanced that one mme (faring) driving , De liadde grote fislie up ener karen : Who had many fishes upon a car : Isegrim liadde geren der fislie gehaled, Isegrim had fain the fishes (have haled) have got, Men he liadde nigt, darmid se Worden hetaled. Bat he lmd not wherewith they should be (betold) paid. He bragte rninen om in de grote nod, He brought mine uncle into great ( need) straits, Urn sinen willen ging he liggen for dod, For his sake went he to (lig) lie for dead, Regt in den wag, nn stund aventur. Right in the way, and stood (adventure) chance. Market, worden em ok de fishe sur ? Mark, were him eke the fishes (sour) dear-bought? Do jenne mid der kare gefaren kwam When (yond) he with the cur driving came Un minen 6m darsiilvest fornem, And mine unde (there-self) even there perceived, Hastigen tog he syn swerd un snel, Hastily (took) drew he his sword and (sncll) quick, Un wolde mineme ome torriikken en fel. And would my uncle ( tatter in fell) tear in pieces. Men he rogede sik nigt klen nog grot ; But he stirred himself not (little nor great) more or less Do mende he dat he were dod ; Then ( meaned ) thought he that he teas dead ; He lade on up de kar, und dayte en to lillen, He laid him upon the car, and thought him to skin, Dat wagede he all dorg Isegrim's willen ! That risked he all through Isegrim’s will ! Do he fordan begunde to faren, When he f orth-on began to fare, Warp Reinke etlike fishe fan der karen, Cast Reinke some fishes from the car, Isegrim fan ferae agteona kwam Isegrim from far after came Un derre fishe al to sik nam. And these fishes all to himself took. Reinke sprang wedder fan der karen ; Reinke sprang again f rom the car ; Em liistede to nigt longer to faren. Him listed not longer to fare. He liadde ok gerne der fishe begerd, He (had) would have also fain of the fishes required. EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. 61 Men Isegrim hadde se alle forterd. But Isegrim had them all consumed. He had de geten dat he wolde barsten, He had eaten so that he would burst , Un moste darumme gen torn arsten. And must thereby go to the doctor. Do Isegrim der graden nigt en mogte, As Isegrim the fish-bones not liked , Der siiWen he em ein weinig brogte. Of these {self) same he him a Uttle brought.' Wlierebj it would appear, if we are to believe Grimbart the Badger, that Reinecke was not only the cheater in this case, but also the cheatee : however, he makes matters straight again in that other noted fish-expedition, where Isegrim, minded not to steal but to catch fish, and having no fishing-tackle, by Reinecke’s advice inserts his tail into the lake, in winter- season ; but before the promised string of trouts, all hooked to one another and to him, will bite, — is frozen in, and left there to his own bitter meditations. We here take leave of Reineke de Fos, and of the whole iEsopic genus, of which it is almost the last, and by far the most remarkable example. The Age of Apologue, like that of Chivalry and Love-singing, is gone ; for nothing in this Earth has continuance. If we ask, Where are now our People’s-Books ? the answer might give room for reflections. Hinrek van Alkmer has passed away, and Dr. Birkbeck has risen in his room. What good and evil lie in that little sen- tence ! — But doubtless the day is coming when what is want- ing here will be supplied ; when as the Logical, so likewise the Poetical susceptibility and faculty of the people, — their Fancy, Humour, Imagination, wherein lie the main elements of spiritual life,— will do longer be left uncultivated, barren, or bearing ouly spontaneous thistles, but in new and finer harmony with an improved Understanding, will flourish in new vigour ; and in our inward world there will again be a sunny Firmament and verdant Earth, as well as a Pantry and culinary Fire ; and men will learn not only to recapitulate 62 EARLY GERMAN LITERATURE. and compute, but to worship, to love ; in tears or in laughter, hold mystical as well as logical communion with the high and the low of this wondrous Universe ; and read, as they should live, with their whole being. Of which glorious consumma- tion there is at all times, seeing these endowments are inde- structible, nay essentially supreme in man, the firmest ulterior certainty, but, for the present, only faint prospects and far- off indications. Time brings Roses ! THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. About the j r ear 1757, a certain antiquarian tendency in literature, a fonder, more earnest looking hack into the Past, began to manifest it- self in all nations. Growth and fruit of this tendency in Germany. The Nibelungen, a kind of rude German Epos : It belongs specially "to us English Teutones, as well as to the German. Northern Archaeology, a chaos of immeasurable shadows: The Heldenbuch, the most important of these subsidiary Fictions ; and throwing some little light on the Nibelungen : Outline of- the Story. Early adventures of the brave Sieg- fried, whose history lies at the heart of the whole Northern Traditions : His Invulnerability, wonderful Sword Balmung, and Cloak of Dark- ness: His subsequent history belongs to the Song of the Nibelungen. (p. 65).- — Singular;poetic excellence of that old Epic Song : Simplicity, and clear decisive ring of its language : Deeds of high temper, harsh self-denial, daring and death, stand embodied in soft, quick-flowing, joyfully -modulated verse : AYonderful skill in the construction of the story ; and the healthy subordination of the marvellous to the actual. Abstract of the Poem, — How Siegfried wooed and won the beautiful Chriemhild ; and how marvellously he vanqttislied the Amazonian Brunhild for king Gunther : Heyday of peace and gladdest sunshine. Jealousy of queen Brunhild : how the two queens rated oue another ; and how Chriemhild extinguished Brunhild. Brunhild in black revenge gets Siegfried murdered : Unhapjiy Chriemhild, her husband’s grave is all that remains to her : Her terrible doomsday vengeance. (82). — Antiquarian researches into the origin of the Nibelungen Lied: His- torical coincidences. The oldest Tradition, and the oldest Poem of Modern Europe. Who the gifted Singer may have been, remains alto- gether dark : The whole spirit of Chivalry, of Love and heroic Valour, must have lived in him and inspired him : A true old Singer, taught of Nature herself ! (112). THE MEBELTTN G-EN LIED . 1 [1831.] In the year 1757, the Swiss Professor Bodmer printed an ancient poetical manuscript, under the title of Chriemhilden Rache unci die Klage (Chriemhilde’s Bevenge, and the La- ment) ; which may be considered as the first of a series, or stream of publications and speculations still rolling on, with increased current, to the present day. Not, indeed, that all these had their source or determining cause hi so insignifi- cant a circumstance ; their source, or rather thousand sources, lay far elsewdiere. As has often been remarked, a certain antiquarian tendency in literature, a fonder, more earnest looking back into the Past, began about that time to manifest itself in all nations (witness our own Percy’s Reliques ) : this was among the first distinct symptoms of it in Germany ; where, as with ourselves, its manifold effects are still visible enough. Some fifteen years after Bodmer’s publication, which, for the rest, is not celebrated as an editorial feat, one C. H. Muller undertook a Collection of German Poems from the Twelfth, Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries ; wherein, among other articles, he reprinted Bodmer’s Chriemhilde and Klage, with a highly remarkable addition prefixed to the former, essential indeed to the right understanding of it ; and the whole now stood before the world as one Poem, under the name of the Nibelungen Lied, or Lay of the Nibelungen. It has since been ascertained that the Klage is a foreign inferior ‘Westminster Review, No. 29 .—Das Nibelungen Lied , ubersetzt von Karl Simrock (The Nibelungen Lied, translated by Karl Simrock). 2 vols., 12mo. Berlin, 1827. 5 66 THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. appendage ; at best, related only as epilogue to the main work : meanwhile out of this Nibelungen, such as it was, there soon proceeded new inquiries, and kindred enterprises. For much as the Poem, in the shape it here bore, was defaced and marred, it failed not to attract observation : to all open- minded lovers of poetry, especially where a strong patriotic feeling existed, the singular antique Nibelungen was an inter- esting appearance. Johannes Muller, in his famous Swiss History, spoke of it in warm terms : subsequently, August Wilhelm Schlegel, through the medium of the Deutsche Museum, succeeded in awakening something like a universal popular feeling on the subject ; and, as a natural consequence, a whole host of Editors and Critics, of deep and of shallow endeavour, whose labours we yet see in progress. The Nibe- lungen has now been investigated, translated, collated, com- mented upon, with more or less result, to almost boundless lengths : besides the Work named at the head of this Paper and which stands there simply as one of the latest, we have Versions into the modern tongue by Von der Hagen, by Hins- berg, Lachmann, Biisching, Zeune, the last in Prose, and said to be worthless ; Criticisms, Introductions, Keys, and so forth, by innumerable others, of whom we mention only Docen and the Brothers Grimm. By which means, not only has the Poem itself been eluci- dated with all manner of researches, but its whole environ- ment has come forth in new light : the scene and personages it relates to, the other fictions and traditions connected with it, have attained a new importance and coherence. Manu- scripts, that for ages had lain dormant, have issued from their archives into public view ; books that had circulated only in mean guise for the amusement of the people, have become important, not to one or two virtuosos, but to the general body of the learned : and now a whole System of antique Teutonic Fiction and Mythology unfolds itself, shedding here and there a real though feeble and uncertain glimmer over what was once the total darkness of the old Time. Xo fewer than Fourteen ancient Traditionary Poems, all strangely in- tertwisted, and growing out of and into one another, have THE NIBEL UNGEN LIED. 67 come to light among the Germans ; who now, in looking back, find that they too, as well as the Greeks, have their Heroic Age, and round the old Valhalla, as their Northern Pantheon, a world of demi-gods and wonders. Such a phenomenon, unexpected till of late, cannot but in- terest a deep-thinking, enthusiastic people. For the Nibelun- gen especially, which lies as the centre and distinct key-stone of the whole too chaotic System, — let us say rather, blooms as a firm sunny island in the middle of these cloud-covered, ever-shifting sand-whirlpools, — they cannot sufficiently testify their love and veneration. Learned professors lecture on the Nibelungen in public schools, with a praiseworthy view to ini- tiate the German youth in love of their fatherland ; from many zealous and nowise ignorant critics we hear talk of a ‘ great Northern Epos,’ of a ‘ German Iliad ; ’ the more satur- nine are shamed into silence, or hollow-mouth-homage : thus from all quarters comes a sound of joyful acclamation ; the Nibelungen is welcomed as a precious national possession, re- covered after six centuries of neglect, and takes undisputed place among the sacred books of German literature. Of these curious transactions some rumour has not failed to reach us in England, where our minds, from them own anti- quarian disposition, were willing enough to receive it. Ab- stracts and extracts of the Nibelungen have been piinted in our language ; there have been disquisitions on it in our Re- views : hitherto, however, such as nowise to exhaust the sub- ject. On the contrary, where so much was to be told at once, the speaker might be somewhat puzzled where to begin : it was a much readier method to begin with the end, or with any part of the middle, than like Hamilton’s Earn (whose ex- ample is too little followed in literary narrative) to begin with the beginning. Thus has our stock of intelligence come rush- ing out on us quite promiscuously and pell-mell ; whereby the whole matter cordd not but acquire a tortuous, confused, altogether inexplicable and even dreary aspect ; and the class of ‘ well-informed persons ’ now find themselves in that uncomfortable position, where they are obliged to profess ad- miration, and at the same time feel that, except by name, they 68 THE NIBEL UN GEN LIED. know not what the thing admired is. Such a position towards the venerable Nibelungen, which is no less bright and graceful than historically significant, cannot be the right one. More- over, as appears to us, it might be somewhat mended by very simple means. Let any one that had honestly read the Nibe- lungen, which in these days is no surprising achievement, only tell us what he found there, and nothing that he did not find : we should then know something, and, what were still better, be ready for knowing more. To search out the secret roots of such a production, ramified through successive layers of centuries, and drawing nourishment from each, may be work, and too hard work, for the deepest philosopher and critic ; but to look with natural eyes on what part of it stands visibly above ground, and record his own experiences there- of, is what any reasonable mortal, if he will take heed, can do. Some such slight service we here intend proffering to our readers : let them glance with us a little into that mighty maze of Northern Archaeology ; where, it may be, some pleas- ant prospects will open. If the Nibelungen is what we have called it, a firm sunny island amid the weltering chaos of an- tique tradition, it must be worth visiting on general grounds ; nay, if the primeval rudiments of it have the antiquity assigned them, it belongs specially to us English Teutones as well as to the German. Far be it from us, meanwhile, to venture rashly, or farther than is needful, into that same traditionary chaos, fondly named the ‘Cycle of Northern Fiction, with its Fourteen Sectors ’ (or separate Poems), which are rather Fourteen shore- less Limbos, where we hear of pieces containing ‘ a hundred thousand verses,’ and ‘ seventy thousand verses,’ as of a quite natural affair ! How travel through that inane country ; by what art discover the little grain of Substance that casts such multiplied immeasurable Shadows ? The primeval Mythus, were it at first philosophical truth, or were it historical 'inci- dent, floats too vaguely on the breath of men : each successive Singer and Redactor furnishes it with new personages, new scenery, to please a new audience ; each has the privilege of THE NIBEL UNGEN LIED. G9 inventing, and the far wider privilege of borrowing and new- niodelhng from all that have preceded him. Thus though Tradition may have but one root, it grows like a Banian, into a whole overarching labyrinth of trees. Or rather might we say, it is a Hall of Mirrors, where in pale light each mirror reflects, convexly or concavely, not only some real Object, but the Shadows of this in other mirrors ; which again do the like for it : till in such reflection and re-reflection the whole im- mensity is filled with dimmer and dimmer shapes ; and no firm scene lies round us, but a dislocated, distorted chaos, fading away on all hands, in the distance, into utter night. Only to some brave Yon der Hagen, furnished with indefati- gable ardour, and a deep, almost religious love, is it given to find sure footing there, and see his way. All those Dulces of Aquitama, therefore, and EtzeVs Court-holdings, and Dietrichs and Sigenots we shall leave standing where they are. Such as desire farther information, will find an intelligible account of the whole Series or Cycle, in Messrs. Weber and Jamieson’s Illustrations of Northern Antiquities ; and all possible further- ance, in the numerous German works above alluded to ; among which Von der Hagen’s writings, though not the readi- est, are probably the safest guides. . But for us, our business here is with the Nibelungen, the inhabited poetic country round which all these wildernesses lie ; only as environments of which, as routes to which, are they of moment to us. Per- haps our shortest and smoothest route will be through the Heldenbuch (Hero-book) ; wTick is greatly the most impor- tant of these subsidiary Fictions, not without interest of its own, and closely related to the Nibelungen. This Heldenbuch, therefore, we must now address ourselves to traverse with all despatch. At the present stage of the business too, w*e shall forbear any historical inquiry and argument concerning the date and local habitation of those Traditions ; reserving what little is to be said on that matter till the Traditions them- selves have become better known to us. Let the reader, on trust for the present, transport himself into the twelfth or thirteenth century ; and therefrom looking back into the sixth or fifth, see what presents itself. 70 THE NIB EL UN GEN LIED. Of the Heldenbuch, tried on its own merits, and except as illustrating that other far worthier Poem, or at most as an old national, and still in some measure popular book, we should have felt strongly inclined to say, as the Curate in Don Quixote so often did, Al corral con ello, Out of window with it ! Doubtless there are touches of beauty in the work, and even a sort of heartiness and antique quaintness in its wildest follies ; but on the whole that George-and-Dragon species of composition has long ceased to find favour with any one ; and except for its groundwork, more or less dis- cernible, of old Northern Fiction, this Heldenbuch has little to distinguish it from these. Nevertheless, what is worth remark, it seems to have been a far higher favourite than the Nibelungen, with ancient readers : it was printed soon after the invention of planting ; some think in 1472, for there is no place or date on the first edition ; at all events, in 1491, in 1509, and repeatedly since ; whereas the Nibelungen, though written earlier, and in worth immeasurably superior, had to remain in manuscript three centuries longer. From which, for the thousandth time, inferences might be drawn as to the infallibility of popular taste, and its value as a criterion for poetry. However, it is probably in virtue of this neglect, that the Nibelungen boasts of its actual purity ; that it now comes before us, clear and graceful as it issued from the old Singer’s head and heart ; not overloaded with Ass-eared Giants, Fiery Dragons, Dwarfs and Hairy Women, as the Heldenbuch is, many of which, as charity would hope, may be the produce of a later age than that famed Swabian Era, to which these poems, as we now see them, are commonly referred. Indeed, one Casper von Roen is understood to have passed the whole Hel- denbuch through his limbec, in the fifteenth century ; but like other rectifiers, instead of purifying it, to have only dragged it -with still fiercer ingredients to suit the sick appetite of the time. Of this dragged and adulterated Hero-book (the only one we yet have, though there is talk of a better) we shall quote the long Title-page of Lessing’s Copy, the edition of 1560 ; from which, with a few intercalated observations, the read- THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. 71 er’s curiosity may probably obtain what little satisfaction it wants : Das Heldenbuch, welchs auffs new corrigirt unci gebessert ist, nut shonen Figuren geziert. Gedr'uckt zu Frankfurt am 3Iayn, durch Weygand Hanund Sygmund Feyerabend, &c. That is to say : ‘ The Ilero-book, which is of new corrected and improved, ‘ adorned with beautiful Figures. Printed at Frankfurt on ‘ the Mayn, through Weygand Han and Sygmund Feyer- c abend. ‘ Part First saith of Kaiser Ottnit and the' little King Elbe- ‘ rich, how they with great peril, over sea, in Heathendom, ‘ won from a king his daughter (and how he in lawful marriage ‘ took her to wife).’ From which announcement the reader already guesses the contents : how this little King Elberich was a Dwarf, or Elf, some half-span long, yet full of cunning practices, and the most helpful activity ; nay, stranger still, hack been Kaiser Ottnit of Lamp arte i or Lombardy’s father, — having had his own ulterior views in that indiscretion. How they sailed with Messina ships, into Paynim land ; fought with that un- speakable Turk, King Machabol, in and about his fortress and metropolis of Montebur, which was all stuck round with Christian heads ; slew from seventy to a hundred thousand of the Infidels at one heat ; saw the lady on the battlements ; and at length, chiefly by Dwarf Elberich’s help, carried her off' in triumph ; wedded her in Messina ; and without diffi- culty, rooting out the Mahometan prejudice, converted her to the creed of Mother Church. The fair runaway seems to have been of a gentle, tractable disposition, very different from old Machabol ; concerning whom it is here chiefly to be noted that Dwarf Elberich, rendering himself invisible 'on their first interview, plucks out a handful of hair from his chin ; therebj" increasing to a tenfold pitch the royal choler ; and, what is still more remarkable, furnishing the poet Wie- land, sis centuries afterwards, with the critical incident in his Oberon. As for the young lady herself, we cannot but admit that she was well worth sailing to Heathendom for ; and shall 72 TEE NIBELUNGEN LIED. here, as our sole specimen of that old German doggerel, give the description of her, as she first appeared on the battle- ments during the fight ; subjoining a version as verbal and literal as the plainest prose can make it. Considered as a de- tached passage, it is perhaps the finest we have met with in the Heldenbuch. lhr hers brann also schone, Recht als ein rot rubein , Gleich dem vollen mone Gdben ihr duglein scliein. Sich hett die maget reine Mit rosen icohl bekleid Und aucli mit berlin Heine ; Niemand da trost die meid. . Her heart burnt (with anxiety) as beautiful Just as a red ruby, Like the full moon Her eyes (eyelings, pretty eyes) gave sheen. Herself had the maiden pure Well adorned with roses, And also with pearls small : No one there comforted the maid. Sie war schon an dem leibe, Und zu den seiten schmal ; Recht als ein kertze scheibe Wohlgescliaffen uberaU : lhr beyden hand gemeine Ears ihr gents nichts gebrach ; lhr ndglein schon und reine, Das man sich darin besach. She was fair of body, And in the waist slender ; Right as a (golden) candlestick Well-fashioned everywhere : Her two hands proper, So that she wanted naught ; Her little nails fair and pure, That you could see yourself therein. Ihr liar tear schon urnbfangen Mit elder seidenfein ; THE N1BEL JJN-GEN LIED. 73 Das Hess sie nieder hangen, Das hubsche magedlein. Sie trug ein kron mit steinen, Sie war von gold so rot ; Elberich dem viel kleinen War zu der magte not. Her liair was beautifully girt With noble silk (band) fine ; She let it flow down, The lovely maidling. She wore a crown with jewels, It was of gold so red : For Elberich the very small The maid had need (to console her). Da vornen in den kronen Lag ein karfunkelstein, Der in dem pallast schonen Aecht als ein kertz erschein ; Aufjrem haupt das hare War tauter und auchfein, Es leuchtet also Mare Recht als der sonnen scliein. There in front of the crown Lay a carbuncle-stone, Which in the palace fair Even as a taper seemed ; On her head the hair Was glossy and also fine, It shone as bright Even as the sun’s sheen. Die magt die stand aileine, Gar trawrig war j r mut ; llirfarb und die war reine, Lieblich-we milch und blut : Her durch jr zapffe reinen Schienjr hats als der schnee : Elberich dem viel kleinen That der maget jammer weh. The maid she stood alone, Right sad was her mind ; 74 - TEE NIBELUNGEN LIED. Her colour it was pure, Lovely as milk and blood : Out through her pure locks Shone her neck like the snow. Elberich the very small Was touched with the maiden’s sorrow. Happy man was Kaiser Ottnit, blessed witb sucli a wife, after all bis travail ; — bad not tbe Turk Macbabol cunningly sent bim, in revenge, a box of young Dragons, or Dragon-eggs, by tbe bands of a caitiff Infidel, contriver of tbe mischief ; by whom in due course of time they were batched and nursed, to tbe infinite woe of all Lampartei, and ultimately to tbe death of Kaiser Ottnit himself, whom tbey swallowed and at- tempted to digest, once without effect, but tbe next time too fatally, crown and all ! ‘ Part Second announceth ( meldet ) of Hen- Hugdietrich and ‘bis son Wolfdietrich ; bow tbey for justice-sake, oft by their ‘ doughty acts succoured distressed persons, witb other bold ‘ heroes that stood by them in extremity.’ Concerning which Hugdietrich, Emperor of Greece, and bis son Wolfdietrich, one day tbe renowned Dietrich of- Bern, we can here say httle more than that tbe former trained himself to sempstress-work; and for many weeks pbed bis needle, before be could get wedded and produce Wolf die trich ; who coming into tbe world in this clandestine manner, was let down into tbe castle-ditch, and like Komulus and Kenius nursed by a Wolf, whence bis name. However, after never- imagined adventures, with enchanters and enchantresses, pa- gans and giants, in all quarters of tbe globe, be finally, witb utmost effort, slaughtered those Lombardy Dragons ; then married Kaiser Ottnit’s. widow, whom be bad rather fiirted witb before ; and so hved universally respected in bis new empire, performing yet other notable achievements. One strange property be bad, sometimes useful to bim, sometimes hurtful : that bis breath, when be became angry, grew flame, red-hot, and would take tbe temper out of swords. We find bim again in the Nibelungen, among King Etzel's (Attila’s) followers ; a staid, cautious, yet still invincible man ; on which THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. 75 occasion, though, with great reluctance, he is forced to inter- fere, and does so with effect. Dietrich is the favourite hero of all those Southern Fictions, and well acknowledged in the Northern also, where the chief man, however, as we shall find, is not he but Siegfried. ‘ Part Third showeth of the Rose-garden at Worms, which ‘ was planted by Chrimhilte, King Gibich’s daughter ; where- ‘ by afterwards most part of those Heroes and Giants came to ‘ abstraction and were slain.’ In this Third Part the Southern or Lombard Heroes come into contact and collision wdth another as notable Northern class, and for us much more important. Chriemhild, whose ulterior history makes such a figure in the Nibelungen, had, it would seem, near the ancient City of Worms, a Rose-garden, some seven English miles in circuit ; fenced only by a silk thread ; wherein, however, she maintained Twelve stout fight- ing men ; several of whom, as Hagen, Volker, her three Brothers, above all the gallant Siegfried her betrothed, we shall meet wdth again : these, so unspeakable was their prow- ess, sufficed to defend the silk-thread Garden against all mor- tals. Our good antiquary, Yon der Hagen, imagines that this Rose-garden business (in the primeval Tradition) glances ob- liquely at the Ecliptic with its Twelve Signs, at Jupiter’s fight with the Titans, and we know not what confused skirmishing in the Utgard, or Asgard, or Midgard of the Scandinavians. Be this as it may, Chriemhild, we are here told, being very beautiful, and very wilful, boasts, in the pride of her heart, that no heroes on earth are to be compared with hers ; and hearing accidentally that Dietrich of Bern has a high charac- ter in this line, forthwith challenges him to visit Worms, and with eleven picked men to do battle there against those other Twelve champions of Christendom that watch her Rose-gar- den. Dietrich, in a towering passion at the style of the mes- sage, which was ‘ surly and stout,’ instantly pitches upon his eleven seconds, who also are to be principals ; and with a ret- inue of other sixty thousand, by quick stages, in which ob- stacles enough are overcome, reaches Worms, and declares himself ready. Among these eleven Lombard heroes of his 76 TEE N1BELUNGEN LIED. are likewise several whom we meet with again in the Nibe- lungen ; beside" Dietrich himself, we have the old Duke Hilde- brand, Wolfhart, Ortwin. Notable among them, in another way, is Monk Ilsan, a truculent, gray -bearded fellow*, equal to any Friar Tuck in Robin Hood. The conditions of fight are soon agreed on : there are to be twelve successive duels, each challenger being expected to find his match ; and the prize of victory is a Rose-garland from Chriemhild, and ein Helssen und ein Kussen, that is to say virtually, one kiss from her fair bps to each. But here as it ever should do, Pride gets a fall ; for Chriemhild’s bully- hectors are, in divers ways, all successively felled to the ground by the Berners ; some of whom, as old Hildebrand, will not even take her Kiss when it is due : even Siegfried himself, most reluctantly engaged with by Dietrich, and for a while victorious, is at last forced to seek shelter in her lap. Nay, Monk Ilsan, after the regular fight is over, and his part in it well performed, calls out in succession fifty-two other idle Champions of the Garden, part of them Giants, and routs the whole fraternity ; thereby earning, besides his own regu- lar allowance, fifty-two spare Garlands, and fifty-two several Kisses ; in the course of which latter, Chriemhild’s cheek, a just punishment as seemed, was scratched to the drawing of blood by his rough beard. It only remains to be added, that King Gibich, Chriemhild’s Father, is now fain to do homage for his kingdom to Dietrich ; who returns triumphant to his own country ; wdiere also, Monk Ilsan, according to promise, distributes these fifty-two Garlands among his fellow Friars, crushing a garland on the bare crown of each, till 1 the red blood ran. over their ears.’ Under which hard, but not unde- served treatment, they all agreed to pray for remission of Rsan’s sins : indeed, such as continued refractory he tied to- gether by the beards, and hung pair-wise over poles ; whereby the stoutest soon gave in. So endetli here this ditty Of strife from woman’s pride : God on our griefs take pity, And Mary still by us abide. THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. 77 ‘In Part Fourth is announced (genielt) of the little King ‘Laurin, the Dwarf, how he encompassed his Rose-garden ‘ with so great manhood and art-magic, till at last he was ‘ vanquished by the heroes, and forced to become their Jug- ‘gler, with &c. &c.’ Of which Fourth and happily last part we shall here say nothing ; inasmuch as, except that certain of our old heroes again figure there, it has no coherence or connexion with the rest of the Heidenbuch ; and is simply a new tale, which by way of episode Heinrich von Ofterdingen, as we learn from his own words, had subsequently appended thereto. He says ; Heinrich von Ofterdingen This story hath been singing, To the joy of Princes bold, They gave him silver and gold, Moreover pennies and garments rich : Here endeth this Book the. which Doth sing our noble Heroe’s story : » God help us all to heavenly glory. Such is some outline of the famous Heidenbuch ; on which it is not our business here to add any criticism. The fact that it has so long been popular betokens a certain worth in it ; the kind and degree of which is also in some measure apparent. In poetry ‘the rude man,’ it has been said, re- ‘ quires only to see something going on ; the man of more ‘ refinement wishes to feel ; the truly refined man must be ‘ made to reflect.’ For the first of these classes our Hero-book, as has been apparent enough, provides in abundance ; for the other two scantily, indeed for the second not at all. Nevertheless our estimate of this work, which as a series of Antique Traditions may have considerable meaning; is apt rather to be too low. Let us remember that this is not the original Heidenbuch which we now see ; but only a version of it into the Knight-errant dialect of the thirteenth, indeed partly of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, with all the fantastic monstrosities, now so trivial, pertaining to that style ; under which disguises the really antique earnest ground- THE NIBEL UNGEN LIED. ■work, interesting as old Thought, if not as old Poetry, is all but quite obscured from us. But Antiquarian diligence is now busy with the Heldenbuch also, from which what light is in it will doubtless be elicited, and here and there a deform- ity removed. Though the Ethiop cannot change his skin, there is no need that even he should go abroad unwashed . 1 Casper von Roen, or whoever was the ultimate redactor of the Heldenbuch, whom Lessing designates as ‘ a highly ill- informed man,’ would have done better had he quite omitted that little King Laurin, ‘ and his little Rose-garden,’ which properly is no Rose-garden at all; and instead thereof in- troduced the Gehornte Siegfried (Behorned Siegfried), whose history lies at the heart of the whole Northern Traditions ; and, under a rude prose dress, is to this day a real child’s- book and people’s-book among the Germans. Of this Sieg- fried we have already seen somewhat in the Rose-garden at Worms ; and shall erelong see much more elsewhere ; for he is the chief hero of the Nibelungen : indeed nowhere can we dip into those old Fictions, whether in Scandinavia 'or the Rhine land, but under one figure or another, whether as Dragon-killer and Prince-royal, or as Blacksmith and Horse- subduer, as Sigurd, Sivrit, Siegfried, we are sure to light on him. As his early adventures belong to the strange sort, and will afterwards concern us not a little, we shall here endeav- our to piece together some consistent outline of them ; so far indeed as that may be possible ; for his biographers, agreeing in the main points, differ widely in the details. First, then, let no one from the title Gehornte (Horned, Behorned), fancy that our brave Siegfried, who was the love- liest as well as the bravest of men, was actually comuted, and had horns on his brow, though like Michael Angelo’s 1 Our inconsiderable knowledge of tlie lleldenbuch is derived from various secondary sources ; chiefly from Lessing’s Werke (h. xiii.), where the reader will find an epitome of the whole Poem, with Extracts by Herr Fulleborn from which the above are taken. A still more accessi- ble and larger Abstract, with long specimens translated into verse, stands in the Illustrations of Northern Antiquities (pp. 45-167). You der Hagen has since been employed specially on the Heldenbuch j with what result we have not yet learned. THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. 79 Moses ; or even that his skin, to which the epithet Behorned refers, was hard like a crocodile’s, and not softer than the softest shamoy : for the truth is, his Hornedness means only an Invulnerability, like that of Achilles, which he came by in the following manner. All men agree that Siegfried was a king’s son ; he was born, as we here have good reason to know, ‘ at Santen in Netherland,’ of Siegemund and the fair Siegfelinde ; yet by some family misfortune or discord, of which the accounts are very various, he came into singular straits during boyhood ; having passed that happy period of life, not under the canopies of costly state, but by the sooty stithy, in one Mimer a Blacksmith’s shop. Here, however, he was nowise in his proper element ; ever quarrelling with his fellow-apprentices ; nay, as some say, breaking the hard- est an»ils into shivers by his too stout hammering. So that Mimer, otherwise a first-rate Smith, could by no means do with him there. He sends him, accordingly, to the neigh- bouring forest, to fetch charcoal ; well aware that a monstrous Dragon, one Begm, the Smith’s own Brother, would meet him and devour him. But far otherwise it proved ; Siegfried by main force slew' this Dragon, or rather Dragonised Smith’s- Brother ; made broth of him ; and warned by some signifi- cant phenomena, bathed therein ; or, as others assert, bathed directly in the monster’s blood, without cookery ; and hereby attained that Invulnerability, complete in all respects, save that between his shoulders, where a lime-tree leaf chanced to settle and stick during the process, there was one little spot, a fatal spot as afterwards turned out, left in its natural state. Siegfried, now seeing through the craft of the Smith, re- turned home and slew him ; then set forth in search of ad- ventures, the bare catalogue of which were long to recite. We mention only two, as subsequently of moment both for him and for us. He is by some said to have courted, and then jilted, the fair and proud Queen Brunhild of Isenland ; nay to have thrown down the seven gates of her Castle ; and then ridden off with her wil'd-horse Gana, having mounted him iu the meadow, and instantly broken him. Some cross 80 THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. passages between him and Queen Brunhild, who understood no jesting, there must clearly have been, so angry is her rec- ognition of him in the Nibelungen ; nay, she bears a lasting grudge against him there ; as he, and indeed she also, one day too sorely felt. His other grand adventure is with the two sons of the de- ceased King Nibelung, in Nibelungen-land : these two youths, to whom their father had bequeathed a Hoard or Treasure beyond all price or computation, Siegfried, ‘ riding by alone,’ found on the side of a mountain, in a state of great perplex- ity. They had brought out the Treasure from the cave where it usually lay ; but how to part it was the difficulty ; for, not to speak of gold, there were as many jewels alone ‘ as twelve ‘ wagons in four days and nights, each going three journeys, ‘ could carry away ; ’ nay, ‘ however much you took |rom it ‘ there was no diminution : ’ besides in real property, a Sword, Balmung, of great potency ; a Divining-rod, ‘ which gave power over every one ; ’ and a Tarnkappe (or Cloak of Dark- ness), which not only rendered the wearer invisible, but also gave him twelve men’s strength. So that the two Princes Royal, without counsel save from then - Twelve stupid Giants, knew not how to fall upon any amicable arrangement ; and, seeing Siegfried ride by so opportunely, requested him to be arbiter ; offering also the Sword Balmung for his trouble. Siegfried, who readily undertook the impossible problem, did his best to accomplish it ; but, of course, without effect ; nay the two Nibelungen Princes, being of choleric temper, grew impatient, and provoked him ; whereupon, with the Sword Balmung he slew them both, and their Twelve Giants (per- haps originally Signs of the Zodiac) to boot. Thus did the famous Nibelungen Hort (Hoard), and indeed the whole Nibe- lungen-land, come into his possession : wearing the Sword Balmung, and having slain the two Princes and then Cham- pions, what was there farther to oppose him ? Vainly did the Dwarf Alberich, our old friend Elberich of the Heldenbuch, who had now become special keeper of this Hoard, attempt some resistance with a Dwarf Army ; he was diiven back into the cave ; plundered of his Tarnkappe ; and obliged with all THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. 81 liis myrmidons to swear fealty to the conqueror, whom indeed thenceforth he and they punctually obeyed. Whereby Siegfried might now farther style himself King of the Nibelungen ; master of the infinite Nibelungen Hoard (collected doubtless by art-magic in the beginning of Time, m the deep bowels of the Universe), with the Wiinschelruthe (Wishing or Divining Rod) pertaining thereto ; owner of the Tarnkappe, which he ever after kept by him, to put on at will ; and though last not least, Bearer and Wielder of the Sword Balmung,' by the keen edge of which all this gain had come to him. To -which last acquisitions adding his previously acquired Invulnerability, and his natural dignities as Prince 1 By this Sword Balnumg also hangs a tale. Doubtless it was one of those invaluable weapons sometimes fabricated by the old Northern Smiths, compared with which our modern Foxes, and Ferraras, and Toledos, are mere leaden tools. Von der Hagen seems to think it simply the Sword Mimung under another name ; in which case Siegfried’s old master, Mimer, had been the maker of it, and called it after himself, as if it had been his son. In Scandinavian chronicles, veridical or not, we have the following account of that transaction. Mimer (or, as some have it, surely without ground, one Velint, once an apprentice of his) was challenged by another Craftsman, named Amilias, who boasted that he had made a suit of armour which no stroke could dint, — to equal that feat, or own himself the second Smith then extant. This last the stout Mimer would in no case do, but proceeded to forge the Sword Mimung ; with which, when it was finished, he, * in presence of the King,’ cut asunder ‘ a thread of wool floating on water.’ This would have seemed a fair fire-edge to most smiths : not so to Mimer ; he sawed the blade in pieces, welded it in ‘ a red-hot fire for three days,’ tem- pered it ‘with milk and oatmeal,’ and by much other cunning, brought out a sword that severed ‘ a ball of wool floating on water.’ But neither would this suffice him ; he returned to his smithy, and by means known only to himself, produced, in the course of seven weeks, a third and final edition of Mimung. which split asunder a whole floating pack of wool. The comparative trial now took place forthwith. Amilias, cased in his impenetrable coat of mail, sat down on a bench, in presence of assembled thousands, and bade Mimer strike him. Mimer fetched of course his best blow, on which Amilias observed, that there was a strange feeling of cold iron in his inwards. “Shake thyself,” said Mimer ; the luckless wight did so, and fell in two halves, being cleft sheer through from collar to haunch, never more to swing hammer in this world. — See Illustrations of Northern Antiquities, p. 31. 6 S2 THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. of Netlierland, be might well show himself before the fore- most at Worms or elsewhere ; and attempt any the highest adventure that fortune could cut out for him. However, his subsequent history belongs all to the Nibelungen Song ; at which fair garden of poesy we are now, through all these shaggy wildernesses and enchanted woods, finally arrived. Apart from its antiquarian value, and not only as by far the finest monument of old German art ; but intrinsically, and as a mere detached composition, this Nibelungen has an excellence that cannot but surprise us. With little prepara- tion, any reader of poetry, even in these days, might find it interesting. It is not without a certain "Unity of interest and purport, and internal coherence and completeness ; ;t is a Whole, and some spirit of Music informs it : these are the highest characteristics of a true Poem. Considering farther what intellectual environment we now find it in, it is doubly to be prized and wondered at ; for it differs from those Hero- books, as molten or carved metal does from rude agglomerated ore ; almost as some Shakspeare from his fellow Dramatists, whose Tamburlaines and Island Princesses, themselves not des- titute of merit, first show us clearly in what pure loftiness and loneliness the Hamlets and Tempests reign. The unknown Singer of the Nibelungen, though no Shak- speare, must have had a deep poetic soul ; wherein things discontinuous and inanimate shaped themselves together into life, and the Universe with its wondrous purport stood signifi- cantly imaged ; overarching as with heavenly firmaments and eternal harmonies, the little scene where men strut and fret their hour. His Poem, unlike so many old and new pretend- ers to that name, has a basis and organic structure, a begin- ning, middle and end ; there is one great principle and idea set forth in it, round which all its multifarious parts com- bine in living union. Remarkable it is, moreover, how along with this essence and primary condition of all poetic virtue, the minor external virtues of what we call Taste and so forth, are, as it were, presupposed ; and the living soul of Poetry being there, its body of incidents, its garment of language, come of them own accord. So too in the case of Shakspeare, THE NIB E LUNG EN LIED. S3 his feeling of propriety, as compared with that of the Mar- lowes and Fletchers, his quick sure sense of what is fit and unfit, either in act or word, might astonish us, had he no other superiority. But true Inspiration, as it may well do, includes that same Taste, or rather a far higher and heartfelt Taste, of which that other ‘ elegant ’ species is hut an ineffect- ual, irrational apery : let us see the herald Mercury actually descend from his Heaven, and the blight wings, and the graceful movement of these, will not be wanting. With an instinctive art, far different from acquired artifice, this Poet of the Nibelungen, working in the same province with his contemporaries of the Heldenbuch, on the same ma- terial of tradition, has, in a wonderful degree, possessed him- self of what these could only strive after ; and with his 1 clear feeling of fictitious truth,’ avoided as false the errors and monstrous perplexities in which they vainly struggled. He is of another species than they ; in language, in purity and depth of feeling, in fineness of invention, stands quite apart from them. The language of the Heldenbuch, as we saw above, was a feeble, half -articulate child’s-speech, the metre nothing better than a miserable doggerel ; wFereas here in the old Frankish ( Ober'deutsch ) dialect of the Nibelungen, we have a clear deci- sive utterance, and in a real system of verse, not without es- sential regularity, great liveliness, and now and then even harmony of rhythm. Doubtless we must often call it a dif- fuse diluted utterance ; at the same time it is gen uin e, with a certain antique garrulous heartiness, and has a rhythm in the thoughts as well as the words. The simplicity is never silly ; even in that perpetual recurrence of epithets, sometimes of rhymes, as where two words, for instance lip (body, life, leib) and iv ip (woman, wife, weib) are indissolubly wedded together, and the one never shows itself without the other folio-wing, — there is something which reminds us not so much of poverty, as of trustfulness and childlike innocence. Indeed a strange charm lies in those old tones, where, in gay dancing melo- dies, the sternest tidings are sung to us ; and deep floods of Sadness and Strife play lightly in little curling billows, like 84 THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. seas in summer. It is a meek smile, in whose still, thought- ful depths a whole infinitude of patience, and love, and heroic strength lie revealed. But in other cases too, we have seen this outward sport and inward earnestness offer grateful contrast, and cunning excitement ; for example, in Tasso ; of whom, though otherwise different enough, this old Northern Singer has more than once reminded us. There too, as here, we have a dark solemn meaning in light guise ; deeds of high temper, harsh self-denial, daring and death, stand embodied in that soft, quick-flowing, joyfully -modulated verse. Nay farther, as if the implement, much more than we might fancy, had influenced the work done, these two Poems, could we trust our individual feeling, have in one respect the same po- etical result for us : in the Nibelungen, as in the Gerusalemme, the persons and their story are indeed brought vividly before us, yet not near and palpably present ; it is rather as if we looked on that scene through an inverted telescope, whereby the whole was carried far away into the distance, the life- large figures compressed into brilliant miniatures, so clear, so real, yet tiny, elf-like and beautified as well as lessened, their colours being now closer and brighter, the shadows and triv- ial features no longer visible. This, as we partly apprehend, comes of singing Epic Poems ; most part of which only pre- tend to be sung. Tasso’s rich melody still lives among the Italian people ; the Nibelungen also is what it professes to be, a Song. No less striking than the verse and language is the quality of the invention manifested here. Of the Fable, or narrative material of the Nibelungen, we should say that it had high, almost the highest merit ; so daintily yet firmly is it put to- gether ; with such felicitous selection of the beautiful, the essential, and no less felicitous rejection of whatever was uubeautiful or even extraneous. The reader is no longer afflicted with that chaotic brood of Fire-drakes, Giants, and malicious turbaned Turks, so fatally rife in the Heldenbucli : all this is swept away, or only hovers in faint shadows afar off : and free field is open for legitimate perennial interests. Tel neither is the Nibelungen without its wonders ; for it is poetry THE NIB EL UNGEN LIED. 85 and not prose ; here too, a supernatural world encompasses the natural, and, though at rare intervals and in calm manner, reveals itself there. It is truly wonderful with what shill our simple untaught Poet deals with the marvellous ; admitting it without reluctance or criticism, yet precisely in the degree and shape that will best avail him. Here, if in no other re- spect, we should say, that he has a decided superiority to Homer himself. The whole story of the Nibelungen is fateful, mysterious, guided on by unseen influences ; yet the actual marvels are few, and done in the far distance ; those Dwarfs, and Cloaks of Darkness, and charmed Treasure-caves, are heard of rather than beheld, the tidings of them seem to issue from unknown space. Vain were it to inquire where that Nibelungen -land specially is : its very name is Nebei-land or Nifl-land, the land of Darkness, of invisibility. The ‘ Nibe- lungen Heroes ’ that muster in thousands and' tens of thou- sands, though they march to the Rhine or Danube, and we see their strong limbs and shining armour, we could almost fancy to be children of the ah’. Far beyond the firm horizon, that wonder-bearing region swims on the infinite waters ; unseen by bodily eye, or at most discerned as a faint steak, hanging in the blue depths, uncertain whether island or cloud. And thus the Nibelungen Song, though based on the bottomless foundations of Spirit, and not unvisited of skyey messengers, is a real, rounded, habitable Earth, where we find firm foot- ing, and the wondrous and the common live amicably to- gether. Perhaps it would be difficult to find any Poet of an- cient or modern times, who in this trying problem has steered his way with greater delicacy and success. To any of our readers who may have personally studied the Nibelungen, these high praises of ours will not seem exagger- ated : the rest, who are the vast majority, must endeavour to accept them with some degree of faith, at least of curiosity ; to vindicate, and judicially substantiate them would far exceed our present opportunities. Nay in any case, the criticism, the alleged Characteristics of a Poem are so many Theorems, which are indeed enunciated, truly or falsely, but the Demon- stration of which must be sought for in the reader’s own study 86 THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. and experience. Nearly all that can be attempted here, is some hasty epitome of the mere Narrative ; no substantial image of the work, but a feeble outline and shadow. To which task, as the personages and their environment have already been in some degree illustrated, we can now proceed without obstacle. The Nibelungen has been called the Northern Epos ; yet it has, in great part, a Dramatic character : those thirty-nine Aventiuren (Adventurers), which it consists of, might be so many scenes in a Tragedy. The catastrophe is dimly proph- esied from the beginning ; and, at every fresh step, rises more and more clearly into view. A shadow of coming Fate, as it were, a low inarticulate voice of Doom falls, from the first, out of that charmed Nibelungen-land : the discord of two women is as a little spark of evil passion, which erelong enlarges itself into a crime ; foul murder is done ; and now the Sin rolls on like a devouring fire, till the guilty and the innocent are alike encircled with it, and a whole land is ashes, and a whole race is swept away. Uns ist in alien mceren Wunders ril geseit, Von lielden lobebeeren Von groser chuonheit ; Von vrouden und hodi-gezilen, Von iceinen und von chlagen, Von dinner reclien striten , Muget ir nu icunder horen sagen. We find in ancient story Wonders many told, Of heroes in g-reat glory With spirit free and hold ; Of joyances and high tides, Of weeping and of woe, Of noble Recken striving. Mote ye now wonders know. This is the brief artless Proem ; and the promise contained in it proceeds directly towards fulfilment. In the very second stanza, we leam : Es icu7is in Burgonden Ein ril edel magedin, Das in alien landen Niht sdwners rnohte sin : Ghriemhill was si gelteien, Si wart ein sdione trip ; Darumbe rn men degene Vil verliesen den lip. T1IE HI BEL UNGEN LIED, 87 A right noble maiden Did grow in Burgundy, That in all lands of earth Naught fairer mote there be, C'hriemhild of Worms she bight, She was a fairest wife For the which must warriors A many lose their life. 1 Chriemhild, this world’s wonder, a king’s daughter and king’s sister, and no less coy and proud than fan - , dreams one night that ‘ she had petted a falcon, strong, beautiful and ‘ wild ; which two eagles snatched away from her : this she ‘ was forced to see ; greater sorrow felt she never in the ‘ world.’ Her mother, IJte, to whom she relates the vision, soon redes it for her ; the falcon is a noble husband, whom, God keep him, she must suddenly lose. Chriemhild declares warmly for the single state ; as, indeed, living there at the Court of Worms, with her brothers, Gunther, Gernot, Geisel- her, ‘ three kings noble and rich,’ in such pomp and renown, the pride of Burgun den -land and Earth, she might readily enough have changed for the worse. However, dame IJte bids her not be too emphatical ; for ‘if ever she have heartfelt joy ‘ in life, it will be from man’s love, and she shall be a fair wife ‘ {wip), when God sends her a right worthy Bitter’s lip.’ Chriemhild is more in earnest than maidens usually are when they talk thus ; it appears, she guarded against love, ‘ for many a lief-long day ; ’ nevertheless, she too must yield to destiny. ‘ Honourably she was to become a most noble Bit- ter’s wife.’ ‘This,’ adds the old Singer, ‘was that same fal- 1 This is the first of a thousand instances, in which the two insepara- bles, wip and Up, or in modern tongue, iceib and Icib, as mentioned above, appear together. From these two opening stanzas of the JSIbe- lungen Lied , in its purest form, the reader may obtain some idea of the versification ; it runs on in more or less regular Alexandrines, with a caesural pause in each where the capital letter occurs ; indeed, the lines seem originally to have been divided into two at that point, for some- times, as in Stanza First, the middle words ( mceren , lobebmren ; geziten, striten ) also rhyme ; hut this is rather a rare case. The word reclien or recken, used in the First Stanza, is the constant designation for bold fighters, and has the same root with rich (thus in old French, hornmes riches, in Spanish, vicos hoiubres), which last is here also synonymous with powerful, and is applied to kings, and even to the Almighty, Got clem lichen. 88 THE NIDELUNOEN LIED. ‘ con slie dreamed of : how sorely she since revenged him on- ‘ her nearest kindred ! For that one death died f rill many a ‘ mother’s son.’ It may be observed, that the Poet here, and at all times, shows a marked partiality for Ckriemhild ; ever striving, un- like his fellow-singers, to magnify her worth, her faithfulness and loveliness ; and softening, as much as may be, whatever makes against her. No less a favourite with him is Siegfried, the prompt, gay, peaceably fearless hero ; to whom, in the Second A ventiure, we are here suddenly introduced, at Santen (Xanten), the Court of Netherland ; whither, to his glad par- ents, after achievements (to us partially known) ‘of which one might sing and tell forever,’ that noble prince has returned. Much as he has done and conquered, he is but just arrived at man’s years : it is on occasion of this joyful event, that a high- tide ( hochgezit ) is now held there, with infinite j oustings, min- strelsy, largesses and other chivalrous doings, all which is sung with utmost heartiness. The old King Siegemund offers to resign his crown to him ; but Siegfried has other game a-field : the unparalleled beauty of Chriemhild has reached his ear and his fancy ; and now he will to Worms and woo her, at least ‘ see how it stands with her.’ Fruitless is it for Siege- mund and the mother Siegelinde to represent the perils of that enterprise, the pride of those Burgundian Gunthers and Ger- nots, the fierce temper of their uncle Hagen ; Siegfried is as obstinate as young men are in these cases, and can hear no counsel. Nay he will not accept the much more liberal prop- osition, to take an army with him, and conquer the country, if it must be so ; he will ride forth, hke himself, with twelve champions only, and so defy the future. Whereupon, the old people finding that there is no other course, proceed to make him clothes ; 1 — at least, the good queen with ‘ her fair women sitting night and day,’ and sewing, does so, the father furnish- ing noblest battle and riding gear ; — and so dismiss him with many blessings and lamentations. ‘For him wept sore the 1 This is a never-failing preparative for all expeditions, and always specified and insisted on with a simple, loving, almost female impres- siveness. THE N1BELUNGEN LIED. 89 ‘ king and his wife, but he comforted both their bodies (lip) ; ‘ he said, “ Ye must not weep, for my body ever shall ye be ‘ without care.” ’ Sad was it to the Recken, Stood weeping many a maid ; I ween their heart had them The tidings true foresaid, That of their friends so many Death thereby should find ; Cause had they of lamenting, Such boding in their mind. Nevertheless, on the seventh morning, that adventurous com- pany ‘ride up the sand,’ on the Rliinebeach, to TVorms ; in high temper, in dre^j and trappings, aspect and bearing more than kingly. Siegfried’s reception at King Gunther’s court, and his brave sayings and doings there for some time, we must omit. One fine trait cd his chivalrous delicacy it is that, for a whole year, he never hints at his errand ; never once sees or speaks of Chriemhild, whom, nevertheless, he is longing day and night to meet. She, on her side, has often through her lat- tices noticed the gallant stranger, victorious in all tiltings and knightly exercises ; whereby it would seem, in spite of her rigorous predeterminations, some kindness for him is already gliding in. Meanwhile, mighty wars and threats of invasion arise, and Siegfried does the state good service. Returning victorious, both as general and soldier, from Hessen (Hessia), where, by help of his own courage and the sword Balmung, he has captured a Danish king, and utterly discomfited a Saxon one ; he can now show himself before Chriemhild with- out other blushes than those of timid love. Nay the maiden has herself inquired pointedly of the messengers, touching his exploits ; and ‘ her fair* face grew rose-red when she heard them.’ A gay High-tide, by way of triumph, is ap- pointed ; several kings, and two-and-thirty princes, and knights enough with ‘ gold-red saddles,’ come to joust ; and better than whole infinities of kings and princes with their saddles, the fair Chriemhild herself, under guidance of her mother, chiefly too in honour of the victor, is to grace that sport. ‘ Ute the full rich ’ fails not to set her needle-women to work, and ‘ clothes of price are taken from their presses,’ 90 THE N1 BEL UNGEN LIED. for the love of her child, ‘ wherewith to deck many women and maids.’ And now, ‘on the Whitsun-morning,’ all is ready, and glorious as heart could desire it ; brave Ritters, ‘ five thousand or more/ all glancing in the lists ; but grander still, Chriemhild herself is advancing beside her mother, with a hundred body-guards, all sword-in-hand, and many a noble maid ‘ wearing rich raiment,’ in her train. ‘Now issued forth the lovely one ( minnechliche ), as the red morning doth from troubled clouds ; much care fled away from him who bore her in his heart, and long had done ; he saw the lovely one stand in her beauty. ‘ There glanced from her garments full many precious stones, her rose-red colour shone full lovely ; try what he might, each man must confess that in this world he had not seen aught so fair. ‘Like as the light moon stands before the stars, and its sheen so clear goes over the clouds, even so stood she now before many fair women ; whereat cheered was the mind of the hero. ‘ The rich chamberlains you saw go before her, the high- spirited Recken would not forbear, but pressed on where they saw the lovely maiden. Siegfried the lord was both glad and sad. ‘ He thought in his mind, How could this be that I should woo thee ? That was a foolish dream ; yet must I forever be a stranger, I were rather ( sanfter , softer) dead. He became, from these thoughts, in quick changes, pale and red. ‘ Thus stood so lovely the child of Siegelinde, as if he wei’e limned on parchment by a master’s art ; for all granted that hero so beautiful they had never seen.’ In this passage, which we have rendered, from the Fifth Aventiure, into the closest prose, it is to be remarked, among other singularities, that there are two similes : in which fig- ure of speech our old Singer deals very sparingly. The first, that comparison of Chriemhild to the moon among stars with its sheen going over the clouds, has now for many cen- turies had little novelty or merit : but the second, that of Siegfried to a Figure in some illuminated Manuscript, is graceful in itself ; and unspeakably so to antiquaries, seldom THE NIB EL UN GEN LIED. 91 honoured, in their Black-letter stubbing and grabbing, with such a poetic windfall ! A prince and a princess of this quality are clearly made for one another. Nay, on the motion of young Herr Gernot, fair Ckriemkild is bid specially to salute Siegfried, she who had never before saluted man ; which unparalleled grace the lovely one, in all courtliness, openly does him. “Be wel- come,” said she, “Herr Siegfried, a noble Bitter good;” from which salute, for this seems to have been all, ‘ much raised was his mind.’ He bowed with graceful reverence, as his manner was with women ; she took him by the hand, and with fond stolen glances they looked at each other. Whether in that ceremonial joining of hands there might not be some soft, slight pressure, of far deeper import, is what our Singer will not take upon him to say ; however, he thinks the af- firmative more probable. Henceforth, in that bright May weather, the two were seen constantly together : nothing but felicity around and before them. — In these days, truly, it must have been that the famous Prize-fight, with Dietrich of Bern and his Eleven Lombardy champions took place, little to the profit of the two Lovers ; were it not rather that the whole of that Bose-garden transaction, as given in the Heldenbuch, might be falsified and even imaginary ; for no mention or hint of it occurs here. War or battle is not heard of ; Sieg- fried the peerless walks wooingly by the side of Chriemhild the peerless ; matters, it is evident, are in the best possible course. But now comes a new side-rand, which, however, in the long-run also forwards the voyage. Tidings, namely, reached over the Bkine, not so surprising we might hope, ‘ that there was many a fair maiden ; ’ whereupon Gunther the King ‘thought with himself to win one of them.’ It was an hon- est purpose in King Gunther, only his choice was not the discreetest. For no fair maiden will content him but Queen Brunhild, a lady who rules in Isenland, far over sea, famed indeed for her beauty, yet no less so for her caprices. Fables we have met with of this Brunhild being properly a Valkyr, or Scandinavian Houri, such as were wont to lead old northern 92 THE N1DELUNGEN LIED. warriors from their last battle-field into Valhalla ; and that her castle of Isenstem stood amidst a lake of fire : but this, as we said, is fable and groundless calumny, of which there is not so much as notice taken here. Brunhild, it is plain enough, was a flesh-and-blood maiden, glorious in look and faculty, only with some preternatural talents given her, and the strangest wayward habits. It appears, for example, that any suitor proposing for her has this brief condition to pro- ceed upon: he must try the adorable in the three several games of hurling the Spear (at one another), Leaping, and throwing the Stone ; if victorious, he gains her hand ; if van- quished, he loses his own head ; which latter issue, such is the fan’ Amazon’s strength, frequent fatal experiment has shown to be the only probable one. Siegfried, who knows something of Brunhild and her ways, votes clearly against the whole enterprise ; however, Gunther has once for all got the whim in him, and must see it out. The prudent Hagen von Troneg, uncle to love-sick Gunther, and ever true to him, then advises that Siegfried be requested to take part in the adventure ; to which request Siegfried readily accedes on one condition : that, should they prove fortunate, he himself is to have Chiiemliild to wife when they return. This readily settled, he now takes charge of the business, and throws a little light on it for the others. They must lead no army thither ; only two, Hagen and Dankwart, besides the king and himself, shall go. The grand subject of ivaete ' (clothes) is next hinted at, and in general terms eluci- dated ; whereupon a solemn consultation with Chriemhild ensues ; and a great cutting-out, on her part, of white silk from Araby, of green silk from Zazemang, of strange fish- skins covered with morocco silk ; a great sewing thereof for seven weeks, on the part of her maids ; lastly, a fitting on of the three suits by each hero, for each had three ; and heartiest thanks in return, seeing all fitted perfectly, and was of grace and price unutterable. What is still more to the point, Sieg- fried takes his Cloak of Darkness with him, fancying he may 1 Hence our English weeds, and. Scotch wad (pledge) ; and, say the etymologists, wadding , and even wedding. THE NIBEL UN GEN LIED. 93 need it there. The good old Singer, who has hitherto al- luded only in the faintest way to Siegfried’s prior adventures and miraculous possessions, introduces this of the Tarnkappe with great frankness and simplicity. ‘ Of wild dwarfs (cjet- ‘ wergen),’ says he, ‘ I have heard tell, they are in hollow ‘ mountains, and for defence wear somewhat called Tarnkap>pe, 1 of wondrous sort ; ’ the qualities of which garment, that it renders invisible, and gives twelve men’s strength, are already known to us. The voyage to Isenstein, Siegfried steering the ship thither, is happily accomplished in twenty days. Gunther admires to a high degree the fine masonry of the place ; as indeed he well might, there being some eighty-six towers, three immense palaces and one immense hall, the whole built of ‘ marble green as grass ; ’ farther he sees many fair women looking from the windows down on the bark, and thinks the loveliest is she in the snow-white dress ; which, Siegfried informs him, is a worthy choice ; the snow-white maiden being no other than Brunhild. It is also to be kept in mind that Siegfried, for reasons known best to himself, had previously stipulated that, though a free king, they should all treat him as vassal of Gunther, for whom accordingly he holds the stirrup, as they mount on the beach ; thereby giving rise to a misconception, wdiich in the end led to saddest consequences. Queen Brunhild, who had called back her maidens from the windows, being a stxict disciplinarian, and retired into the interior of her green marble Isenstein, to dress still better, now inquires of some attendant, Who these strangers of such lordly aspect are, and what brings them ? The attendant pro- fesses himself at a loss to say ; one of them looks like Sieg- fried, the other is evidently by his port a noble king. His notice of Yon Troneg Hagen is peculiarly vivid : The third of those companions He is of aspect stern, And yet with lovely body, Rich queen, as ye might discern ; From those his rapid glances, For the eyes naught rest in him, Meseems this foreign Recke Is of temper fierce and grim. This is one of those little graphic touches, scattered all over our Poem, which do more for picturing out an object, espe- 94 THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. cially a man, than whole pages of enumeration and mensura- tion. Never after do we hear of this stout indomitable Hagen, in all the wild deeds and sufferings he passes through, but those swinden ■ blicken of his come before us, with the restless, deep, dauntless spirit that looks through them. Brunhild’s reception of Siegfried is not without tartness ; which, however, he, with polished courtesy, and the nimblest address, ever at his command, softens down, or hurries over ; he is here, without will of his own, and so forth, only as at- tendant on his master, the renowned King Gunther, who comes to sue for her hand, as the summit and keystone of all earthly blessings. Brunhild, who had determined on fighting Siegfried himself, if so he willed it, makes small account of this King Gunther or his prowess ; and instantly clears the ground, and equips her for battle. The royal wooer must have looked a little blank when he saw a shield brought in for his fair one’s handling, ‘ three spans thick with gold and iron,’ which four chamberlains could hardly bear, and a spear or. javelin she meant to shoot or hurl, which was a burden fox- three. Hagen, in angry apprehension for his king and nephew, exclaims that they shall all lose their life (lip), and that she is the tiuvels wip, or Devil’s wfife. Nevertheless Siegfried is already there in his Cloak of Darkness, twelve men strong, and privily whispers in the ear of royalty to be of comfort ; takes the shield to himself, Gunther only affecting to hold it, and so fronts the edge of battle. Brunhild performs prodi- gies of spear-hurling, of leaping, and stone-pitching ; but Gunther, or rather Siegfried, ‘ who does the work, he only acting the gestures,’ nay w-ho even snatches him up into the air, and leaps carrying him, — gains a decided victory, and the lovely Amazon must own xvith surprise and shame, that she is fairly won. Siegfried presently appears without Tarnkappe, and asks with a grave face, When the games then are to begin ? So far well ; yet somewhat still remains to be done. Brun- hild will not sail for Worms, to be wedded, till she have as- sembled a fit train of warriors.: wherein the Burgundians, being here without l'etinue, see symptoms or possibilities of THE NIB EL UN GEN LIED. 96 mischief. The deft Siegfried, ablest of men, again knows a resource. In his Tarnkappe he steps on board the bark, which seen from the shore, appears to drift-off* of its own ac- cord ; and therein, stoutly steering towards Nibelungen-land, lie reaches that mysterious country and the mountain where his Hoard lies, before the second morning ; finds Dwarf Al- berich and all his giant sentinels at their post, and faithful almost to the death ; these soon rouse him thirty thousand Nibelungen Recken, from whom he has only to choose one thousand of the best ; equip them splendidly enough ; and therewith return to Gunther, simply as if they were that sov- ereign’s own body-guard, that had been delayed a little by stress of weather. The final arrival at Worms ; the bridal feasts, for there are two, Siegfried also receiving his reward ; and the joj'ance and splendour of man and maid, at this lordliest of high-tides ; and the j oustings, greater than those at Aspramont or Montauban, — every reader can fancy for himself. Remarkable only is the evil eye with which Queen Brunhild still continues to re- gard the noble Siegfried. She cannot understand how Gun- ther, the Landlord of the Rhine , 1 should have bestowed his sister on a vassal : the assurance that Siegfried also is a prince and heir-apparent, the prince namely of Netherland, and little inferior to Burgundian majesty itself, yields no complete sat- isfaction ; and Brunhild hints plainly that unless the truth be told her, unpleasant consequences may follow. Thus is there ever a ravelled thread in the w r eb of life ! But for this little cloud of spleen, these bridal feasts had been all bright and balmy as the month of J une. Unluckily too, the cloud is an electric one ; spreads itself in time into a general earthquake ; nay that very night becomes a thunder-storm, or tornado, un- ] ar allele d we may hope in the annals of connubial happiness. The Singer of the Nibelungen, unlike the Author of Rod- erick Random, cai'es little for intermeddling with ‘the chaste mysteries of Hymen.’ Could we, in the corrupt ambiguous 1 Der Wirt ton Itine : singular enough, the word Wirth, often applied to royalty in that old dialect, is now also the title of innkeepers. To such base uses may we come. 96 THE NIBEL UN GEN LIED. modern tongue, hope to exhibit any shadow of the old simple, true-hearted, merely historical spirit, with which, in perfect purity of soul, he describes things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme, — we could a tale unfold ! Suffice it to say, King Gunther, Landlord of the Rhine, falling sheer down from the third heaven of hope, finds his spouse the most athletic and intractable of women ; and himself, at the close of the advent- ure, nowise encircled in her aims, but tied hard and fast, hand and foot, in her girdle, and hung thereby, at consider- able elevation, on a nail in the wall. Let any reader of sen- sibility figure the emotions of the royal breast, there as he vibrates suspended on his peg, and his inexorable bride sleep- ing sound in her bed below ! Towards morning he capitu- lates ; engaging to observe the prescribed line of conduct with utmost strictness, so he may but avoid becoming a laughing-stock to all men. No wonder the dread king looked rather grave next morn- ing, and received the congratulations of mankind in a cold manner. He confesses to Siegfried, who partly suspects how it may be, that he has brought the ‘ evil devil ’ home to his house in the shape of wife, whereby he is wretched enough. However* there are remedies for all things but death. The ever-serviceable Siegfried undertakes even here to make the crooked straight. What may not an honest friend with Tamkappe and twelve men’s strength perform ? Proud Brunhild, next night, after a fierce contest, owns herself again vanquished ; Gunther is there to reap the fruits of another's victory ; the noble Siegfried withdraws, taking nothing with him but the luxury of doing good, and the proud queen’s Ring and Girdle gained from her in that struggle ; which small trophies he’' with the last infirmity of a noble mind, pre- sents to his own fond wife, little dreaming that they would one day cost him and her, and all of ' them, so dear’. Such readers as take any interest in poor Gunther will be gratified fo leam, that from this hour Brunhild’s preternatural facul- ties quite left her, being all dependent on her maidliood ; so that any more spear-hurling, or other the like extraordinary work, is not to be apprehended from her. THE NIBEL UN GEN LIED. 97 If we add, that Siegfried formerly made over to his dear Chriemhild the Nibelungen Hoard, by way of Morgengabe (or, as we may say, Jointure) ; and the high-tide, though not the honeymoon being past, returned to Netherland with his spouse, to be welcomed there with infinite rejoicings,- — we have gone through as it were the First Act of this Tragedy ; and may here pause to look round us for a mo- ment. The main characters are now introduced on the scene, the relations that bind them together are dimly sketched out : there is the prompt, cheerfully heroic, invulnerable and invincible Siegfried, now happiest of men; the high Chriem- hild, fitly-mated, and if a moon, revolving glorious round her sun, or Friedel (joy and darling) ; not without pride and female aspirings, yet not prouder than one so gifted and placed is pardonable for being. On the other hand, we have King Gunther, or rather let us say king’s-mantle Gunther, for never except in that one enterprise of courting Brunhild, in which too, without help, he would have cut so poor a fig- ure, does the worthy sovereign show will of his own, or char- acter other than that of good potter’s clay ; farther, the sus- picious, forecasting, yet stout and reckless Hagen, him with the rapid glances, and these turned not too kindly on Sieg- fried, whose prowess he has used yet dreads, whose Nibe- lungen Hoard lie perhaps already covets ; lastly, the rigorous and vigorous Brunhild, of whom also more is to be feared than hoped. Considering the fierce nature of these now mingled ingredients ; and how, except perhaps in the case of Gunther, there is no menstruum of placid stupidity to soften them ; except in Siegfried, no element of heroic truth to mas- ter them and bind them together, — unquiet fermentation may readily be apprehended. Meanwhile, for a season all is peace and sunshine. Sieg- fried reigns in Netherland, of which his father has surren- dered him the crown ; Chriemhild brings him a son, whom in honor of the uncle he christens Gunther, which courtesy the uncle and Brunhild repay in kind. The Nibelungen Hoard is still open and inexhaustible ; Dwarf Alberich and all the Kecken there still loyal ; outward relations friendly. 7 98 THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. internal supremely prosperous : these are halcyon days. But, alas, they cannot last. Queen Brunhild, retaining •with true female tenacity her first notion, right or wrong, reflects one day that Siegfried, who is and shall be nothing but her husband’s vassal, has for a long while paid him no service ; and, determined on a remedy, manages that Siegfried and his queen shall be invited to a high-tide at Worms, where opportunity may chance for enforcing that claim. Thither accordingly, after ten years’ absence, we find these illustrious guests returning ; Siegfried escorted by a thousand Nibe- lungen Bitters, and farther by his father Siegemund who leads a train of Netherlanders. Here for eleven days, amid infinite j oustings, there is a true heaven-on-earth ; but the apple of discord is already lying in the knightly ling, and two Women, the proudest and keenest-tempered of the world, simultaneously stoop to lift it. A ventiure Fourteenth is entitled ‘ How the two queens rated one another.’ Never was courtlier Billingsgate uttered, or which came more di- rectly home .to the business and bosoms of women. The subject is that old story of Precedence, which indeed, from the time of Cain and Abel downwards, has wrought such effusion of blood and bile both among men and women : lying at the bottom of all armaments and battle-fields, whether Blenheims and Waterloos, or only plate-displays, and tongue-and-eye skirmishes, in the circle of domestic Tea : nay, the very animals have it ; and horses, were they but the miserablest Shelties and Welsh ponies, will not graze together till it has been ascertained, by clear fight, who. is master of whom, and a proper drawing-room etiquette estab- lished. Brunhild and Chriemliild take to arguing about the merits of their husbands : the latter, fondly expatiating on the pre- eminence of her Friedel, how he walks ‘ like the moon among stars ’ before all other men, is reminded by her sister that one man at least must be excepted, the mighty King Gunther of Worms, to whom by his own confession long ago at Isenstein, he is vassal and servant. Chriemliild will sooner admit that clay is above sunbeams, than any such proposition ; which THE N I BEL UN G EW LIED. 9 ?) therefore she, in all politeness, requests of her sister never-' more to touch upon while she lives. The result may be fore- seen : rejoinder follows reply, statement grows assertion ; Hint-sparks have fallen on the dry flax, which from smoke bursts into conflagration. The two queens part in hottest, though still clear-flaming anger. Not, however, to let their anger burn out, but only to feed it with more solid fuel. Chriemhild dresses her forty maids in finer than royal ap- parel ; orders out all her husband’s Recken ; and so attended, walks foremost to the Minster, where mass is to be said ; thus practically asserting that she is not only a true queen, but the worthier of the two. Brunhild, quite outdone in splendour, and enraged beyond all patience, overtakes her at the door of the Minster, with peremptory order to stop : “ be- fore king’s wife shall vassal’s never go.” Then said the fair Chriemhild, Right angry was her mood : “ Couldest thou hut hold thy peace, It were surely for thy good ; Thyself hast all polluted "With shame thy fair bodye ; How can a Concubine By right a King’s wife be '! ” “Whom hast thou Concubined ?” The King’s wife quickly spake ; “That do I thee,” said Chriemhild; “For thy pride and vaunting’s sake ; Who first had thy fair body Was Siegfried my beloved Man ; My Brother it was not That thy maidhood from thee wan.” . In proof of which outrageous saying, she produces that Ring and Girdle ; the innocent conquest of which, as we well know, had a far other origin. Brunhild burst into tears ; ‘ sadder day she never saw.’ Nay, perhaps a new light now rose on her over much that had been dark in her late history ; ‘she rued full sore that ever she was born.’ Here, then, is the black injury, which only blood will wash away. The evil fiend has begun his work ; and the issue of it lies beyond man’s control. Siegfried may protest his in*- nocence of that calumny, and chastise his indiscreet spouse for uttering it even in the heat of anger : the female heart .is wounded beyond healing ; the old springs of bitterness 100 THE NIBEL UNGEN LIED. against this hero unite into a fell flood of hate ; while he sees the sunlight, she cannot know a joyful hour. Vengeance is soon offered her : Hagen, who lives only for his prince, un- dertakes this bad service ; by treacherous professions of at- tachment, and anxiety to guard Siegfried's life, he gains from Chriemhild the secret of his vulnerability ; Siegfried is car- ried out to hunt ; and in the hour of frankest gaiety is stabbed through the fatal spot ; and, felling the murderer to the ground, dies upbraiding his false kindred, yet, with a touch- ing simplicity, recommending his child and wife to their pro- tection. ‘ “ Let her feel that she is your sister ; was there ‘ ever virtue in princes, be true to her ; for me my Father and ‘ my men shall long wait.” The flowers all around w r ere wetted ‘ with blood, then he straggled with death ; not long did he ‘ this, the weapon cut him too keen ; so he could speak naught ‘more, the Recke bold and noble.’ At this point, we might say, ends the Third Act of our Tragedy ; the whole story henceforth takes a darker charac- ter ; it is as if a tone of sorrow and fateful boding became more and more audible in its free, light music. Evil has pro- duced new evil in fatal augmentation : injury is abolished ; but in its stead there is guilt and despair. Chriemhild, an hour ago so rich, is now robbed of all : her grief is boundless as her love has been. No glad thought can ever more dwell in her ; darkness, utter night has come over her, as she looked into the red of morning. The spoiler took walks abroad un- punished ; the bleeding corpse witnesses against Hagen, nay lie himself cares not to hide the deed. But who is there to avenge the friendless ? Siegfried’s Father has returned in haste to his own land ; Chriemhild is now alone on the earth, her husband’s grq.ve is all that remains to her ; there only can she sit, as if waiting at the threshold of her own dark home ; and in prayers and tears pour out the sorrow and love that have no end. Still farther injuries are heaped on her : by advice of the crafty Hagen, Gunther, who had not planned the murder, yet permitted and witnessed it, now comes with whining professions of repentance and good-will ; persuades her to send for the Nibelungen Hoard to Worms ; where no. THE NIBELUNGEN LIEU. 101 sooner is it arrived, than Hagen and the rest forcibly take it from her ; and her last trust in affection or truth from mortal is rudely cut away. Bent to the earth, she weeps only for her lost Siegfried, knows no comfort, but wall weep forever. One lurid gleam of hope, after long years of darkness, breaks in on her, in the prospect of revenge. King Etzel sends from his far country to solicit her hand : the embassy she hears at first, as a woman of ice might do ; the good Rudiger, Etzel’s spokesman, pleads in vain that this king is the richest of all earthly kings ; that he is so lonely ‘ since Frau Helke died ; ’ that though a heathen, he has Christians about him, and may one day be converted : till at length, when he hints distantly at the power of Etzel to avenge her injuries, she on a sudden becomes all attention. Hagen, forseeing such possibilities, protests against the match ; but is overruled : Chriemhild departs with Rudiger for the land of the Huns ; taking cold leave of her relations ; only two of whom, her brothers Ger- not and Geiselher, innocent of that murder, does she admit near her as convoy to the Donau. The Nibelungen Hoard has hitherto been fatal to all its possessors ; to the two sons of Nibelung ; to Siegfried its con- queror ; neither does the Burgundian Royal House fare better with it. Already, discords threatening to arise, Hagen sees prudent to sink it in the Rhine ; first taking oath of Gunther and his brothers, that none of them shall reveal the hiding- place, wdiile any of the rest is alive. But the curse that clave to it could not be sunk there. The Nibelun gen-land is now theirs : they themselves are henceforth called Nibelungen ; and this history of their fate is the Nibelungen Song, or Nibe- lungen Noth (Nibelungen’s Need, extreme need, or final wreck and abolition). The Fifth Act of our strange eventful history now draws on. Chriemhild has a kind husband, of hospitable disposi- tion, who troubles himself- little about her secret feelings and intents. With his permission, she sends two minstrels, in- viting the Burgundian Court to a higli-tide at Etzel's : she . has charged the messengers to say that she is happy, and to bring all Gunther’s champions with them. Her eye was on 102 TEE NIB EL UNO EE LIED. Hagen, but she could not single Lim from the rest. After seven days’ deliberation, Gunther answers that he will come. Hagen has loudly dissuaded the journey, but again been over- ruled. ‘It is his fate,’ says a commentator, ‘like Cassandra’s, ‘ ever to foresee the evil, and ever to be disregarded. He ‘ himself shut his ear against the inward voice ; and now his 4 warnings are uttered to the deaf.’ He argues long, but hi vain : nay young Gernot hints at last that this aversion orig- inates in personal fear : Then spake Yon Troneg Hagen : “ Nowise is it through fear ; So you command it, Heroes, Then up, gird on your gear ; I ride with you the foremost Into King Etzel’s land.” Since then full many a helm Was shivered by his hand. Frau Ute’s dreams and omens are now unavailing with him ; “ whoso heedeth dreams,” said Hagen, “ of the light story wotteth not : ” he has computed the worst issue, and defied it. Many a little touch of pathos, and even solemn beauty lies carelessly scattered in these rhymes, had we space to exhibit such here. As specimens of a strange, winding, diffuse, yet innocently graceful style of narrative, we had translated some considerable portion of this Twenty-fifth Aventiure, ‘ How the Nibelungen marched (fared) to the Huns,’ into verses as literal as might be ; which now, alas, look mournfully different from the original ; almost like Scriblerus’s shield when the barba- rian housemaid had scoured it ! Nevertheless, to do for the reader what we can, let somewhat of that modernised ware, such as it is, be set before him. The brave Nibelungen are on the eve of departure ; and about ferrying over the Rhine : and here it may be noted that Worms, 1 with our old Singer, 1 This City of Worms, had we a right imagination, ought to be as vener- able to us Moderns, as. any Thebes or Troy was to the Ancients. Whether founded by the Cods or not, it is of quite unknown antiquity, and has witnessed the most wonderful things. Within authentic times, the Ho- mans were here ; and if tradition may be credited, Attila also ; it was the seat of the Austrasian kings ; the frequent residence of Charlemagne himself ; innumerable Festivals, High-tides, Tournaments and Imperial THE NIB EL UNGEN LIED. 103 lies not in its true position,- but at some distance from tlie river ; a proof at least that he was never there, and probably sang and lived in some very distant region : The boats were floating ready, And many men there were ; What clothes of price they had They took and stow’d them there Was never a rest from toiling Until the eventide, Then they took the flood right gaily, Would longer not abide. Brave tents and hutches You saw raised on the grass, Other side the Rliine-stream That camp it pitched was : The king to stay a while Was besought of his fair wife ; That night she saw him with her, And never more in life. Trumpets and flutes spoke out, At dawning of the day, That time was come for parting, So they rose to march away : Who loved-one had in arms Did kiss that same, I ween ; And fond farewells were bidden By cause of Etzel’s Queen. Diets were held in it, of which latter, one at least, that where Luther ap- peared in 1521, will be forever remembered by all mankind. Nor is Worms more famous in history than, as indeed we may see here, it is in romance ; whereof many monuments and vestiges remain to this clay. ‘ A pleasant meadow there,’ says Yon der Hagen, ‘ is still called Chriem- ‘ lxild’s Bosengarten. The name Worms itself is derived (by Legendary ‘ Etymology) from the Dragon, or Worm, which Siegfried slew, the figure ‘ of which once formed the City Arms ; in past times, there was also to ‘ be seen here an ancient strong Bicsen-ETaus (Giant’s house), and many ' a memorial of Siegfried : his Lance, 66 feet long (almost 80 English ‘ feet), in the Cathedral ; his Statue, of gigantic size, on the Neue Thurm ‘ (New Tower) on the Rhine ; ’ &c. &c. ‘ And lastly the Siegfried’s Chapel, ‘ in primeval, Pre-Gothic architecture, not long since pulled down. ‘ In the time of the Meislers'dngers too, the Stadtrath was bound to give ‘ every Master, who sang the Lay of Siegfried ( Meisterlied ton Siegfrie- ‘ den the purport of which is now unknown) without mistake, a certain 1 gratuity.’ — Glossary to the Nibelungen , § Worms. One is sorry to learn that this famed Imperial City is no longer Impe- rial but much fallen in every way from its palmy state ; the 30,000 in- habitants to be found there in Gustavus Adolphus’ time, having now declined into some 6,800, — ‘ who maintain themselves by wine-growing, Rhine-boats, tobacco-manufacture, and making sugar-of-lead. ’ So hard has war, which respects nothing, pressed on Worms, ill-placed for safety, on the hostile border: Louvois, or Louis XIV., in 1689, had it utterly devastated ; whereby in the interior, ‘ spaces that were once covered with buildings are now gardens.’ — See Conv. Lexicon, § Worms. 104 THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. Frau Ute’s noble sons They had a serving-man, A brave one and a true : Or ever the march began, He speaketh to King Gunther, What for his ear was fit, He said : “ Woe for this journey, I grieve because of it.” He Rum old hight, the Sewer, Was known as hero true ; He spake : “ Whom shall this people And land be trusted to ? Woe on’t, will naught persuade ye, Brave Recken, from this road! Frau Chriemhild’s flattering message No good doth seem to bode.” “ The land to thee be trusted, And my fair boy also, And serve thou well the women, I tell thee ere I go ; Whomso thou findest weeping Her heart give comfort to ; No harm to one of us King Etzel’s wife will do.” The steeds were standing ready, For the Kings and for their men ; With kisses tenderest Took leave full many then, Who, in gallant cheer and hope, To march were naught afraid: Them since that day bewaileth Many a noble wife and maid. But when the rapid Recken Took horse and prickt away, The women shent in sorrow You saw behind them stay ; Of parting all too long Their hearts to them did tell ; When grief so great is coming; The mind forbodes not well. Nathless the brisk Burgoden All on their way did go, Then rose the country over A mickle dole and woe ; On both sides of the hills Woman and man did weep : Let their folk do how they list, These gay their course did keep. The Nibelungen Recken 1 Did march with them as well, In a thousand glittering hauberks, Who at home had ta’en farewell Of many a fair woman Should see them never more : The wound of her brave Siegfried Did grieve Cliriemliilde sore. Then ’gan they shape their journey Towards the River Maine, All on through Bast -Franconia, King Gunther and his train ; Hagen he was their leader, Of old did know the way ; Dankwart did keep, as marshal, Their ranks in good array. ' These are the Nibelungen proper who had come toWorms with Sieg- fried, on the famed bridal journey from Isenstein, long ago Observe, at the same time, that ever since the Nibelungen Hoard was transferred to Rhine-land, the whole subjects of King Gunther are often called Nibel- ungen, and their subsequent history is this Nibelungen Song. THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. 105 As they, from East-Franconia, The Salfield rode along, Might you have seen them prancing, A bright and lordly throng, The Princes and their vassals, All heroes of great fame : The twelfth morn brave King Gunther Unto the Donau came. There rode Yon Troneg Hagen, The foremost of that host, He was to the Kibelungen The guide they lov’d the most : The Ritter keen dismounted, Set foot on the sandy ground, His steed to a tree he tied, Look’d wistful all around. “ Much scaitli,” Von Troneg said, “ May lightly chance to thee, King Gunther, by this tide, As thou with eyes mayst see : The river is overflowing, Full strong runs here its stream, For crossing of this Donau Some counsel might well beseem.” “ What counsel hast thou, brave Hagen,” King Gunther then did say “ Of thy own wit and cunning ? Dishearten me not, I pray : Thyself the ford wilt find us, If knightly skill it can, That safe to yonder shore We may pass both horse and man.” “ To me, I trow,” spake Hagen, “ Life hath not grown so cheap To go with will and drown me In riding these waters deep ; But first, of men some few By this hand of mine shall die, In great King Etzel’s country, As best good-will have I. “ But bide ye here by the River, Ye Ritters brisk and sound, Myself will seek some boatman, If boatman here be found, To row us at liis ferry, Across to Gelfrat s land : ” The Troneger grasped his buckler. Fared forth along the strand. He was full bravely harness’d, Himself he knightly bore, With buckler and with helmet, Which bright enough he wore ; And, bound above his hauberk, A weapon broad was seen, That cut with both its edges, Was never sword so keen. Then hither he and thither Search’d for the Ferryman, He heard a splashing of waters, To watch the same he ’gan, It was the white Mer-women, That in a fountain clear, To cool their fair bodyes, Were merrily bathing here. From these Mer-women, who ‘ shimmed aloof like white cygnets ’ at sight of him, Hagen snatches up ‘ their wondrous raiment ; ’ on condition of returning which, they rede him his fortune ; how this expedition is to speed. At first favour- 106 TIIE NIB EL UN GEN LIED. She said : “To Etzel’s country, Of a truth ye well may hie, For here I pledge my hand, Now kill me if I lie, That heroes seeking honour Did never arrive thereat So richly as ye shall do, Believe thou surely that.” But no sooner is the wondrous raiment restored them, than they change their tale ; for in spite of that matchless honour it appears every one of the adventurous Beckon is to perish. Outspake the wild Mer-woman : “I tell thee it will arrive, Of all your gallant host No man shall be left alive, Except King Gunther s chaplain, As we full well do know ; He only, home returning, To the Rhine-land back shall go.” Then spake Yon Troneg Hagen, His wrath did fiercely swell: “ Such tidings to my master I were right loath to tell, That in King Etzel’s country We all must lose our life : Yet show me over the water, Thou wise all-knowing wife .” Thereupon, seeing him bent on ruin, she gives directions how to find the ferry, but withal counsels him to deal warily ; the ferry-house stands on the other side of the river ; the boatman, too, is not only the hottest-tempered of men, but rich and indolent ; nevertheless, if nothing else will serve, let Hagan call himself Amelrich, and that name will bring him. All happens as predicted : the boatman, heedless of all shout- ing and offers of gold clasps, bestirs him lustily at the name of Amelrich ; but the more indignant is he, on taking-in his fare, to find it a counterfeit. He orders Hagen, if he loves his life, to leap out. “ Now say not that,” spake Hagen ; “ Right hard am I bested, Take from me for good friendship This clasp of gold so red ; And row our thousand heroes And steeds across this river.” Then spake the wrathful boatman, “That will I surely never.” Then one of his oars he lifted, Right broad it was and long, He struck it down on Hagen, Did the hero mickle wrong, That in the boat he staggered, And alighted on his knee ; Other such wrathful boatman Did never the Troneger see. THE NIBEL UN GEN LIED. 107 His proud unbidden guest Fe would now provoke still more, He struck his head so stoutly That it broke in twain the oar, With strokes on head of Hagen ; He was a sturdy wight : Nathless had Gelfrat s boatman Small profit of that fight. With fiercely raging spirit, The Troneger turn'd him round, Clutch’d quick enough his scabbard, And a weapon there he found ; He smote his head from off him, And cast it on the sand, Thus had that wrathful boatman His death from Hagen's hand. Even as Von Troneg Hagen The wrathful boatman slew, The boat whirl’d round to the river, He had work enough to do ; Or ever he turn'd it sliorewards, To weary he began, But kept full stoutly rowing, The bold King Gunther’s man. He wheel'd it back, brave Hagen, 'With many a lusty stroke, The strong oar, with such rowing, In his hand asunder broke ; He fain would reach the Recken, All waiting on the shore, No tackle now he had ; Hei, 1 how deftly he spliced the oar, With thong from off his buckler ! It was a slender band ; Right over against a forest He drove the boat to land ; Where Gunther s Recken waited, In crowds along the beach ; Full many a goodly hero Moved down his boat to reach. Hagen ferries them over himself ‘ into the unknown land, like a right yare steersman ; yet ever brooding fiercely on that prediction of the wild Mer- woman, which had outdone even his own dark forebodings. Seeing the Chaplain, who alone of them all was to return, standing in the boat beside his chappelsoume (pyxes and other sacred furniture), he deter- mines to belie at least this part of the prophecy, and on a sudden hurls the chaplain overboard. Nay as the poor priest swims after the boat, he pushes him down, regardless of all remonstrance, resolved that he shall die. Nevertheless it 1 These apparently insignificant circumstances, down even to mend- ing the oar from his sliiel 1, are preserved with a singular fidelity in the most distorted editions of the Tale : see, for example, the Danish ballad, Lady GrimhiZd's Wrack (translated in the Northern Antiquities , p. 275, by Mr. Jamieson). This ‘ Hei /’ is a brisk interjection, whereby the worthy old Singer now and then introduces his own person, when any- thing very eminent is going forward. 108 THE NIB EL UN GEN LIED. proved not so : the chaplain made for the other side ; when his strength failed, ‘ then God’s hand helped him,’ and at length he reached the shore. Thus does the stern truth stand revealed to Hagen, by the very means he took for eluding it : ‘ he thought with himself these Recken must all lose their lives.’ From this time, a grim reckless spirit takes possession of him ; a courage, an audacity, waxing more and more into the fixed strength of desperation. The passage once finished, he dashes the boat in pieces, and casts it in the stream, greatly as the others wonder at him. “ Why do ye this, good brother ? Said the Ritter Dankwart then ; “ How shall we cross this river, When the road we come again ? Returning home from Hunland, Here must we lingering stay ? ” — Not then did Hagen tell him That return no more could they. In this shipment ‘ into the unknown land,’ there lies, for the more penetrating sort of commentators, some hidden meaning and allusion. The destruction of the unreturning Ship, as of the Ship Argo, of iEneas’s Ships, and the like, is a constant feature of such traditions : it is thought, this ferrying of the Nibelungen has a reference to old Scandina- vian Mythuses ; nay, to the oldest, most universal emblems shaped out by man’s Imagination ; Hagen the ferryman being, in some sort, a type of Heath, who ferries over his thousands and tens of thousands into a Land still more un- known . 1 But leaving these considerations, let us remark the deep fearful interest, which, in gathering strength, rises to a really tragical height in the close of this Poem. Strangely has the old Singer, in these his loose melodies, modulated the wild narrative into a poetic whole, with what we might call true art, were it not rather an instinct of genius still more unerring. A fateful gloom now hangs over the fortunes of the Nibelungen, which deepens and deepens as they march onwards to the judgment-bar, till all are engulfed in utter night. 1 See Von der Hagen’s Nibelungen Hire Bedeutung , Sec. TEE NIBEL UN GEN LIED. 109 Hagen himself rises in tragic greatness ; so helpful, so prompt and strong is he, and true to the death, though with- out hope. If sin can ever be pardoned, then that one act of his is pardonable ; by loyal faith, by free daring and heroic constancy, he has made amends for it. Well does he know what is coming ; yet he goes forth to meet it, offers to Bum his sullen welcome. Warnings thicken on him, which he treats lightly, as things now superfluous. Spite of our love for Siegfried, we must pity and almost respect the lost Ha- gen, now in his extreme need, and fronting it so nobly. ‘ Mixed was his hair with a gray colour, his limbs strong, and threatening his look.’ Nay, his sterner qualities are beautifully tempered by another feeling, of which till now we understood not that he was capable, — the feeling of friend- ship. There is a certain Volker of Alsace here introduced, not for the first time, yet first in decided energy, who is more to Hagen than a brother. This Volker, a courtier and noble, is also a Spielmann (minstrel), a Fidelere gut (fiddler good) ; and surely the prince of all Fideleres ; in truth a very phoenix, melodious as the soft nightingale, yet strong ■ as the royal eagle : for also in the brunt of battle he can play tunes ; and, with a Steel Fiddlebow, beats strange music from the cleft liel- ments of his enemies. There is, in this continual allusion to Volker ’s Schwert-fidelbogen (Sword -fiddlebow), as rude as it sounds to us, a barbaric greatness and depth ; the light min- strel of kingly and queenly halls is gay also in the storm of Fate, its dire rushing pipes and whistles to him : is he not the image of every brave man fighting with Necessity, be that duel when and where it may ; smiting the fiend with giant strokes, yet every stroke musical ? — This Volker and Hagen are united inseparably, and defy death together. ‘ Whatever Volker said pleased Hagen ; whatever Hagen did pleased Volker.’ But into these last Ten Aventiures, almost like the image of a Doomsday, we must hardly glance at present. Seldom, per- haps, in the poetry of that or any other age, has a grander scene of pity and terror been exhibited than here, could we look into it clearly. At every new step new shapes of fear 110 THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. arise. Dietrich of Bern meets the Nibelungen on their way, with ominous warnings : hut warnings, as we said, are now superfluous, when the evil itself is apparent and inevitable. Chriemhild, wasted and exasperated here into a frightful Medea, openly threatens Hagen, but is openly defied by him ; he and Volker retire to a seat before her palace, and sit there, while she advances in angry tears, with a crowd of armed Huns, to destroy them. But Hagen has Siegfried’s Balmung lying naked on his knee, the Minstrel also has drawn his keen Fiddlebow, and the Huns dare not provoke the battle. Chriemhild would fain single out Hagen for ven- geance ; but Hagen, like other men, stands not alone ; and sin is an infection which will not rest with one victim. Par- takers or not of his crime, the others also must share his punishment. Singularly touching, in the mean while, is King Etzel’s ignorance of what every one else understands too well ; and how, in peaceful hospitable spirit, he exerts himself to testify his joy over these royal guests of his, who are bid- den hither for far other ends. That night the wayworn Nibe- lungen are sumptuously lodged ; yet Hagen and Yolker see good to keep watch : Yolker plays themto sleep : ‘ under the ‘ porch of the house he sat on the stone : bolder fiddler was ‘ there never any ; when the tones flowed so sweetly, they all ‘ gave him thanks. Then sounded his strings till all the ‘ house rang ; his strength and the art were great ; sweeter ‘ and sweeter he began to play, till flitted forth from him into ‘ sleep full many a careworn soul.’ It was them last lullaby ; they were to sleep no more. Armed men appear, but sud- denly vanish, in the night ; assassins sent by Chriemhild, expecting no sentinel : it is plain that the last hour- draws nigh. In the morning the Nibelungen are for the Minster to hear mass ; they are putting on gay raiment ; but Hagen tells them a different tale : ‘ “ ye must take other garments, ‘ Becken ; instead of silk shirts hauberks,, for rich mantles, ‘ your good shields : and, beloved masters, moreover squires ‘ and men, ye shall full earnestly go to the church, and plain ‘to God the powerful (Got dem richen ) of your sorrow and THE NIB EL UN GEN LIED. Ill ‘utmost need ; and know of a surety that death for us is • nigh.” ’ In Etzel's Hall, where the Nibelungen appear at the royal feast in complete armour, the Strife, incited by Chriemhild, begins ; the first answer to her provocation is from Hagen, who hews off the head of her own and Etzel’s son, making it bound into the mother’s bosom : ‘ then began among the Recken, a murder grim and great/ Dietrich, with a voice of preternatural power, commands pause ; re- tires with Etzel and Chriemhild ; and now r the bloody work has free course. We have heard of battles, and massacres, and deadly straggles in siege and storm ; but seldom has even the poet’s imagination pictured any tiling so fierce and terrible as this. Host after host, as they enter that huge vaulted Hall, perish in conflict with the doomed Nibelungen ; and ever after the terrific uproar, ensues a still more terrific silence. All night, and through morning it lasts. They throw the dead from the windows ; blood runs like water ; the Hall is set fire to, they quench it with blood, them own burning thirst they slake with blood. It is a tumult like the Crack of Doom, a thousand-voiced, wild-stunning hubbub ; and, fiightful like a Tramp of Doom, the Sword-fiddleboio of Yolker, who guards the door, makes music to that death- dance. Nor are traits of heroism wanting, and thrilling tones of pity and love ; as in that act of Rudiger, Etzel’s and Chriemhild’s champion, who, bound by oath, ‘ lays his soul in God’s hand,’ and enters that Golgotha to die fighting against his friends ; yet first changes shields with Hagen, whose owm, also given him by Rudiger in a far other hour, had been shattered in the fight. ‘ When he so lovingly bade ‘ give him the shield, there were eyes enough red with hot ‘ tears ; it was the last gift which Rudiger of Bechelaren ‘gave to any Recke. As grim as Hagen was, and as hard ‘ of mind, he wept at this gift which the hero good, so near ‘ his last times, had given him ; full many a noble Ritter ‘ began to weep.’ At last Yolker is slain ; they are all slain, save only Hagen and Gunther, faint and wounded, yet still unconquered among the bodies of the dead. Dietrich the wary, though 112 THE N1BELUNGEN LIED. strong and invincible, whose Reckon too, except old Hilde- brand, lie now finds are all killed, though he had charged them strictly not to mix in the quarrel, at last arms himself to finish it. He subdues the two wearied Nibelungen, binds them, delivers them to Chriemhild ; ‘ and Herr Dietrich went ‘ away with weeping eyes, worthily from the heroes.’ These never saw each other more. Chriemhild demands of Hagen, Where the Nibeluugen Hoard is ? But he answers her, that he has sworn never to disclose it, while any of her brothers live. “I bring it to an end,” said the infuriated woman ; orders her brother’s head to be struck off, and holds it up to Hagen. ‘ “ Thou hast it now according to thy will,” said Hagen ; “‘of the Hoard knoweth none but God and I ; from ‘ thee, she-devil (ualendinne), shall it forever be hid.” ’ She kills him with his own sword, once her husband’s ; and is herself struck dead by. Hildebrand, indignant at the woe she has wrought ; King Etzel, there present, not opposing the deed. Whereupon the curtain drops over that wild scene : ‘ the full highly honoured were lying dead ; the people all had ‘ sorrow and lamentation ; in grief had the king’s feast ended, ‘ as all love is wont to do : ’ Ine chan iu nicht bescheiden Waz sicler da geschach , Wan ritter unde unvmen Weinen man do sack, JJar-zuo die edeln chnechte Ir lieben vriunde tot : Ha hat das nicer e ein ende ; Hiz ist der JS'ibdunge not I cannot say you now What hatli befallen since ; The women all were weeping, And the Eitters and the prince, Also the nohle squires, Their dear friends lying dead : Here hath the story ending ; This is the Nibelungen's Neea. We have now finished our slight analysis of this Poem : and hope that readers, who are curious in this matter, and ask themselves, What is the Nibelungen ? may have here found some outlines of an answer, some help towards farther researches of their own. To such readers another question will suggest itself : Whence this singular production comes to us, When and How it originated ? On which point also. THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. 113 what little light our investigation has yielded may be sum- marily given. The worthy Yon der Hagen, who may well understand the Nibelungen better than any other man, having rendered it into the modern tongue, and twice edited it in the original, not without collating some eleven manuscripts, and travelling- several thousands of miles to make the last edition perfect, — writes a Book some years ago, rather boldly denominated The Nibelungen, its Meaning for the present and forever ; wherein, not content with any measurable antiquity of centuries, he would fain claim an antiquity beyond all bounds of dated time. Working his way with feeble mine-lamps of etymology and the like, he traces back the rudiments of his beloved Nibelungen, ‘ to which the flower of his whole life has been consecrated,’ into the thick darkness of the Scandinavian Nijiheim and Muspelheim, and the Hindoo Cosmogony ; con- necting it farther (as already in part we have incidentally pointed out) with the Ship Argo, with Jupiter’s goatskin JEgis, the fire-creed of Zerdusht, and even with the heavenly Constellations. His reasoning is somewhat abstruse ; yet an honest zeal, very considerable learning and intellectual force bring him tolerably through. So much he renders plausible or probable ; that in the Nibelungen, under more or less defacement, he fragments, scattered like mysterious Runes, yet still in part decipherable, of the earliest Thoughts of men ; that the fiction of the Nibelungen was at first a religious or philosophical Mythus ; and only in later ages, incorporat- ing itself more or less completely with vague traditions of real events, took the form of a story, or mere Narrative of earthly transactions ; in which last form, moreover, our actual Nibe- lungen Lied is nowise the original Narrative, but the second, or even the third redaction of one much earlier. At what particular era the primeval fiction of the Nibelungen passed from its Mythological into its Historical shape ; and the. obscure spiritual elements of it wedded themselves to the obscure remembrances of the Northern Immigrations ; and the Twelve Signs of the Zodiac became Twelve Champions of Attila’s Wife, — there is no fixing with the smahest certainty. 8 114 TEE NIBELJJ NGEE LIED. It is known from history that Eginhart, the secretary of Charlemagne, compiled, by order of that monarch, a collection of the ancient German Songs ; among which, it is fondly be- lieved by antiquaries, this Nibelungen (not indeed our actual Nibelungen Lied, yet an- older one of similar purport), and the main traditions of the Heldenbuch connected therewith, may have had honourable place. Unluckily Eginkart’s Collection has quite perished, and only his Life of the Great Charles, in which this circumstance stands noted, survives to provoke curiosity. One thing is certain, Fulco, Archbishop of Rheirns, in the year 885, is introduced as ‘ citing certain German books,’ to enforce some argument of his by instance of ‘King Ermerich’s crime toward his relations which King Ermerich and his crime are at this day part and parcel of the ‘ Cycle of German Fiction,’ and presupposed in the Nibelungen. 1 Later notices, of a more decisive sort, occur in abundance. Saxo Grammaticus, who flourished in the twelfth century, re- lates that about the year 1130, a Saxon minstrel being sent to Seeland, with a treacherous invitation from one royal Dane to another ; and not daring to violate his oath, yet compassionat- ing the victim, sang to him by way of indirect warning ‘the Song of Chriemhilcl’s Treachery to her Brothers ; ’ that is to say, the latter portion of the Story which we still read at greater length in the existing Nibelungen Lied. To which di- rect evidence, that these traditions were universally known in the twelfth century, nay had been in some shape committed to writing, as ‘ German Books,’ in the ninth or rather in the eighth, — we have still to add the probability of their being ‘ ancient songs,’ even at that earliest date ; all which may perhaps carry us back into the seventh or even sixth century ; yet not farther, inasmuch as certain of the poetic personages that figure in them belong historically to the fifth. Other and more open proof of antiquity lies in the fact, that these Traditions are so universally diffused. There are Danish and Icelandic versions of them, externally more or less altered and distorted, yet substantially real copies, professing indeed to be borrowed from the German ; in particular we 1 Yon der Hagen’s Nibelungen, Einleitung, § vii. THE NIB EL UN GEN LIED. 115 have the Nijlinga and the Wilkina Saga, composed in the thir- teenth century, which still in many ways illustrate the Ger- man original. Innumerable other songs and sagas point more remotely in the same direction. Nay, as Von der Hagen in- forms us, certain rhymed tales, founded on these old advent- ures, have been recovered from popular recitation in the Faroe Islands, within these few years. If we ask now, What lineaments of Fact still exist in these Traditions ; what are the Historical events and persons which our priveval Mythuses have here united with, and so strangely metamorphosed ? the answer is unsatisfactory enough. The great Northern Immigrations, unspeakably momentous and glorious as they were for the Germans, have wellnigh faded away utterly from all vernacular records. Some traces, never- theless, some names and dim shadows of occurrences in that grand movement, still linger here ; which, in such circum- stances, we gather with avidity. There can be no doubt, for example, but this ‘ Etzel, king of Hunland,’ is the Attila, of history ; several of whose real achievements and relations are faintly yet still recognisably pictured forth in these Poems. Thus his first queen is named Halke, and in the Scandina- vian versions, Herka ; which last (Erca) is also the name that Priscus gives her, in the well-known account of his Embassy to Attila. Moreover, it is on his second marriage, which had in fact so mysterious and tragical a character, that the w-hole catastrophe of the Nibelungen turns. It is true, the ‘ Scourge of God ’ plays but a tame part here ; however, his great acts, though all past, are still visible in their fruits : besides, it is on the Northern or German personages that the tradition chiefly dwells. Taking farther into account the general ‘ Cycle,’ or System of Northern Tradition, w-hereof this Nibelungen is the centre and keystone, there is, as indeed we saw in the Heldenbuch, a certain Kaiser Ottnit and a Dietrich of Bern ; to wdiom also it seems unreasonable to deny historical existence. This Bern (Verona), as well as the jRabenschlacht (Battle of Ravenna), is continually figuring in these fictions ; though whether under Ottnit w r e are to understand Odoaeer the vanquished, 116 TEE NIBELUNGEN LIED. and under Dietrich of Bern Theodoricus Veronensis, the victor both at Verona and Ravenna, is by no means so indubitable. Chronological difficulties stand much in the 'way. For our Dietrich of 'Bern, as we saw in the Nibelungen, is represented as one of Etzel’s Champions : now Attila- died about the year 450 ; and this Ostrogoth Theocloric did not fight his great Battle of Verona till 489 ; that of Ravenna, which was followed by a three years’ siege, happening next year. So that before Dietrich could become Dietrich of Bern, Etzel had been gone almost half a century from the scene. Startled by this an- achronism, some commentators have fished out another Theo- doric, eighty years prior to him of Verona, and who actually served in Attila’s hosts, with a retinue of Goths and Germans ; ■with which new Theocloric, however, the old Ottnit, orOdoacer, of the Heldenbuch must, in his turn, part company ; whereby the case is no whit mended. Certain it seems, in the mean time, that Dietrich, which signifies Fdcli in People, is the same name which in Greek becomes Theodoricus ; for at first (as in Procopius) this very Theodoricus is always written Qeioepiy, which almost exactly corresponds with the German sound. But such are the inconsistencies involved in both hypotheses, that we are forced to conclude one of two things : either that the Singers of those old Lays were little versed in the niceties of History, and unambitious of passing for authorities therein ; which seems a remarkably easy conclusion : or else, with Less- ing, that they meant some quite other series of persons and transactions, some Kaiser Otto, and his two Anti-Kaisers (in the twelfth century) ; which, from what has come to light since Lessing’s day, seems now an untenable position. However, as concerns the Nibelungen, the most remark- able coincidence, if genuine, remains yet to be mentioned. ‘ Thwortz,’ a Hungarian Chronicler (or perhaps Chronicle), of we know not what authority, relates, 1 that Attila left his king- ‘ dom to his two sons Chaba and Aladar, the former by a ‘ Grecian mother, the latter by Kremheilch (Chriemhild) a ‘ German ; that Theodoric, one of his followers, sowed dis- ‘ sension between them ; and, along with the Teutonic hosts, ‘ took part with his half-countryman the younger son ; where- THE NIB EL UN GEN LIED. 117 ‘ upon rose a great slaughter, which lasted for fifteen days, ‘and terminated in the defeat of Chaba (the Greek), and his ‘ flight into Asia .’ 1 Could we but put faith in this Thwortz, we might fancy that some vague rumour of that Kremheilch tragedy, swoln by the way, had reached the German ear and imagination ; where, gathering round older Ideas and Mythuses, as Matter round its Spirit, the first rude form of Chriemhilde’s Eeoenge and the Wreck of the Nibelungen bodied itself forth in Song. Thus any historical light emitted by these old Fictions is little better than darkness visible ; sufficient at most to indi- cate that great Northern Immigrations, and wars and rumours of war have been ; but nowise how and what they have been. Scarcely clearer is the special history of the Fictions them- selves ; where they were first put together, who have been their successive redactors and new-modellers. Yon der Hagen, as we said, supposes that there may have been three several series of such. Two, at all events, are clearly indicated. In their present shape, we have internal evidence that none of these poems can be older than the twelfth century ; indeed, great part of the Hero-book can be proved to be considerably later. With this last it is understood that Wolfram von Esch- enbacli and Heinrich von Ofterdingen, two singers otherwise noted in that era, were largely concerned ; but neither is there any demonstration of this-vague belief : while again, in regard to the Author of our actual Nibelungen not so much as a plausible conjecture can be formed. Some vote for a certain Conrad von Wurzburg ; others for the above-named Eschenbach and Ofterdingen ; others again for Illingsohr of Ungerland, a minstrel who once passed for a magician. Against all and each of which hypotheses there are objections ; and for none of them the smallest conclusive evidence. Who this gifted singer may have been, only in so far as his Work itself proves that there was but One, and the style points to the latter half of the twelfth century, — remains altogether dark : the unwearied Yon der Hagen himself, 1 Weber (Illustrations of Northern Antiquities , p. 39), who cites Gor- res (Zcitung fur Einsiedler) as his authority. 118 TIIE NIBEL TJNGEN LIED. after fullest investigation, gives for verdict, ‘ we know it not.’ Considering the high wortli of the Nibelungen, and how many feeble balladmongers of that Swabian Era have transmitted us them names, so total an oblivion, in this infinitely more important case, may seem surprising. But those Mirmelieder (Love- songs) and Proven9al Madrigals were the Court Poetry of that time, and gained honour in high places ; while the old National Traditions were common property and plebeian, and to sing them an unrewarded labour. Whoever he may be, let him have our gratitude, our love. Looking back with a farewell glance, over that wondrous old Tale, with its many-coloured texture ‘of joyances and high tides, of weeping and of woe,’ so skilfully yet artlessly knit up into a whole, we cannot but repeat that a true epic spirit lives in it ; that in many ways it has meaning and charms for us. Not only as the oldest Tradition of Modem Europe, does it possess a high antiquarian interest ; but farther, and even in the shape we now see it under, unless the ‘ Epics of the Son of Fingal ’ had some sort of authenticity, it is our oldest Poem also ; the earliest product of these New Ages, which on its own merits, both in form and essence, can be named Poet- ical. Considering its chivalrous, romantic tone, it may rank as a piece of literary composition, perhaps considerably higher than the Spanish Cid ; taking in its historical signifi- cance, and deep ramifications into the remote Time, it ranks indubitably and greatly higher. It has been called a Northern Iliad ; but except in the fact that both poems have a narrative character, and both sing ‘ the destructive rage ’ of men, the two have scarcely any sim- ilarity. The Singer of the Nibelungen is a far different per- son from Homer ; far inferior both in culture and in genius. Nothing of the glowing imagery, of the fierce bursting energy, of the mingled fire and gloom, that dwell in the old Greek, makes its appearance here. The German Singer is compar- atively a simple nature ; has never penetrated deep into life ; never ‘ questioned Fate ; ’ or struggled with fearful mysteries ; of all wdiich we find traces in Homer, still more in Shak- speare ; but with meek believing submission, has taken the THE N1BELUNGEN LIED. 119 Universe as lie found it represented to liim ; and rejoices with a fine childlike gladness in the mere outward shows of things. He has little power of delineating character ; perhaps he had no decisive vision thereof. His persons are superficially dis- tinguished, and not altogether without generic difference ; but the portraiture is imperfectly brought out ; there lay no true living original within him. He has little Fancy ; we find scarcely one or two similitudes in his whole Poem ; and these one or tw 7 o, which moreover are repeated, betoken no special faculty that way. He speaks of the * moon among stars ; ’ says often, of sparks struck from steel armour in battle, and so forth, that they were wie es wehte der wind, ‘ as if the wind were blowing them.’ We have mentioned Tasso along with him ; yet neither in this case is there any close resemblance ; the light playful grace, still more the Italian pomp and sunny luxuriance of Tasso are wanting in the other. His are hum- ble wood-notes wild ; no nightingale’s, but yet a sweet sky- hidden lark's. In all the rhetorical gifts, to say nothing of rhetorical attainments, we should pronounce him even poor. Nevertheless, a noble soul he must have been, and fur- nished with far more essential requisites for Poetry than these are ; namely, with the heart and feeling of a Poet. He has a clear eye for the Beautiful and True ; all unites itself gracefully and compactly in his imagination : it is strange with what careless felicity he winds his way in that complex Narrative, and be the subject what it will, comes through it unsullied, and with a smile. His great strength is an uncon- scious instinctive strength ; wherein truly lies his highest merit. The whole spirit of Chivalry, of Love, and heroic Valour, must have lived in him, and inspired him. Every- where he shows a noble Sensibility ; the sad accents of part- ing friends, the lamentings of women, the high daring of men, all that is worthy and lovely prolongs itself in melodious echoes through his heart. A true old Singer, and taught of Nature herself ! Neither let us call him an inglorious Milton, since now he is no longer a mute one. What good were it that the four or five Letters composing his Name could be 120 THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. printed, and pronounced, with absolute certainty? All that was mortal in him is gone utterly ; of his life, and its envi- ronment, as of the bodily tabernacle he dwelt in, the very ashes remain not : like a fair heavenly Apparition, which in- deed he was, he has melted into air, and only the Voice he uttered, in virtue of its inspired gift, yet lives and will live. To the Germans this Nibelungen Song is naturally an ob- ject of no common love ; neither if they sometimes overvalue it, and vague antiquarian wonder is more common than just criticism, should the fault be too heavily visited. Alter long ages of concealment, they have found it in the remote wilder- ness, still standing like the trunk of some almost antediluvian oak ; nay with boughs on it still green, after all the wind and weather of twelvq hundred years. To many a patriotic feeling, which lingers fondly in solitary places of the Past, it may well be a rallying-point, and ‘ Lovers’ Trysting-tree.’ For us also it has its worth. A creation from the old ages, still bright and balmy, if we visit it ; and opening into the first History of Europe, of Mankind. Thus all is not oblivion ; but on the edge of the abyss, that separates the Old world from the New, there hangs a fair Rainbow-land ; which also, in curious repetitions of itself (twice over, say the critics), as it were in a secondary and even a ternary reflex, sheds some feeble twilight far into the deeps of the primeval Time. APPENDIX. APPENDIX. Richter’s Review of Madame de Stael’s ‘ Allemagne.’ To review a Revieweress of two literary Nations no easy task. Ma- dame de Stael’s peculiar advantages and fitness, in everything hut a com- prehension of her subject : Her French intellect, and German heart. Parisian refinement: Classical indifference to the ’household-stuff’ of Religion, and to mere Work-people. How she bleaches and clear- starches the Rainbow ; and ev.en makes a polished gentleman of the German Hercules. German dingy impracticability, notwithstanding : Mere Nightingales, compared with Peacocks. Poor naked, unfallen Eves and Graces ; How shall they be presented at our Parisian Court! (p. 123). — -Value, and deep human interest of national peculiarities. We cannot wholly see ourselves, except in the e}’e of a foreign seer. Use and abuse of the literary file. German political subserviency ; and French Imperial sycophancy. German conversational maladroitness : Awkward tendency to try and say something truly ; rather than, like the polished Frenchman, to say nothing elegantly : German wit, and French witticisms. Shallow estimate of Goethe : Better insight into Schiller : Jean Paul’s literary delinquencies. Intellectual ladies, and their easy solution of metaphysical insolvabilities. Madame de Stael’s high and earnest character : The language of her heart always a noble, pure, and rich one. (138). APPENDIX JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER’S REVIEW OF MADAME DE ST A EL’S 1 ALLEMAGNE. ’ 1 [1830.] %* There are few of our readers but hare read and partially admired Madame de Stael’s Germany ; the work, indeed, which, with all its vagueness and manifold shortcomings, must he regarded as the pre- cursor, if not parent, of whatever acquaintance with German Literature exists among us. There are few also but have heard of Jean Paul, here and elsewhere, as of a huge mass of intellect, with the strangest shape and structure, yet with thews and sinews like a real Son of Anak. Students of German Literature will he curious to see such a critic as Madame de Stael adequately criticised, in what fashioif the best of the Germans write reviews, and what worth the best of them acknowledge in this their chief eulogist and indicator among foreigners. We trans- late the Essay from Richter’s Kleine Bueherscliau , as it stands there reprinted from the Heidelberg Jalirbucher, in which periodical it first appeared, in 1815. We have done our endeavour to preserve the quaint grotesque style so characteristic of Jean Paul ; rendering with literal fidelity whatever stood before us, rugged and unmanageable as it often seemed. This article on Madame de Stael passes, justly enough, for the best of his reviews ; which, however, let our readers understand, are no important part of his writings. This is not the lion that we see, but only a claw of the lion, whereby some few may recognise him. To review a Revieweress of two literary Nations is not easy ; for you have, as it were, three things at once to give account of. With regard to France and Germany, however, it is chiefly in reference to the judg- ment which the intellectual Amazon of these two countries has pro- nounced on them, and thereby on herself, that they come before us here. To write such a Literary Gazette of our whole literary Past, enacting edi- tor and so many contributors in a single person, not to say a female one ; above all, summoning and spellbinding the spirits of German philosophy — this, it must be owned, would have been even for a Villers, though Til- lers can now retranslate himself from German into French, no unheroic undertaking. Meanwhile, Madame de Stael had this advantage, that she 1 Fraser's Magazine, Nos. 1 and 4 . 124 APPENDIX. writes especially for Frenchmen ; who, knowing ahont German art and the German language simply nothing, still gain somewhat, when they learn never so little. On this subject you can scarcely tell them other truths than new ones, whether pleasant or not. They even know more of the English,— as these do of them, — than of the Germans. Our in- visibility among the French proceeds, it may be hoped, like that of Mercury, from our proximity to the Sun-god ; but in regard to other countries, we should consider, that the constellation of our New Liter- ature having risen only half a century ago, the rays of it are still on the road thither. Greatly in favour of our Authoress, in this her picture of Germany, was- her residence among us ; and the title-page might be translated 1 Letters from Germany’ ( de V Allemagne ), as well as on Germany. We Germans are in the habit of limning Paris and London from the distance ; which capitals do sit to us, truly, — but only on the book-stall of their works. For the deeper knowledge of a national poetry, not only the poems are necessary, but the poets, at least their country and countrymen : the living multitude are note variorum to the poem. A German himself could write his best work on French poetry nowhere but in Paris. Now our Authoress, in her acquaintance with the greatest German poets, had, as it were, a living translation of their poems; and Weimar, the focus of German poesy, might be to her what Paris were to the German re- viewer of the Parisian. But what chiefly exalts her to be our critic, and a poetess herself, is the feeling she manifests : with a taste sufficiently French, her heart is German and poetic. When she says , 1 ‘ Toutes les fois que de nos jours on a pu faire entrer un peu de seve etrangere, les Fran9ais y ont applaudi avec transport. J. J. Rousseau, Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, Chateaubriand, &c. Ac., dans quelques-uns de leurs ouvrages, sont tous, meme d leur ins^u, de l’ecole germanique, c’est a. dire, qu’ils ne puisent leur talent que dans le fond de leur ame ; ’ she might have classed her own works first on the list. Everywhere she breathes the aether of higher sentiments than the marsh-miasma of Salons and French Materialism could support. The chapters, in Vol- ume Sixth, on philosophy, depict what is Germanism of head badly enough, indeed ; but the more warmly and justly what is Germanism of heart, with a pure clearness not unworthy of a Herder. For the French, stript bare by encyclopedists, and revolutionists, and conscripts, and struggling under heart-ossification, and contraction of the breast, such German news of a separation and independence be- tween Virtue and Self-Interest, Beauty and Utility, &c. will not come too late : a lively people, for whom pleasure or pain, as daylight or cloudy weather, often hide the upper starry heaven, can at least use 1 Tom. ii. i>. G. APPENDIX. 125 star catalogues, and some planisphere thereof. Many are the jewel- gleams with which she illuminates the depths of the soul against the Gallic lownesses. Of this sort are, for instance, the passages where 1 she refuses to have the Madonna of Beauty made a housemaid of Utility ; where she asks, Why Nature has clothed, not the nutritive plants, but only the useless flowers with charms ? ‘ D’ou vient, cependant, que pour parer l’autel de la Divinite, on clier- cherait plutot les inutiles fleurs que les productions neeessaires V D’oi vient que ce qui sert au maintien de votre vie aie moins de dignit - que les fleurs sans hut ? C’est que le beau nous rappelle une existence immortelle et divine, dont le souvenir et le regret vivent a la fois dans notre coeur.’ Also 2 the passages where, in contradiction to the principle that places the essence of Art in imitation of Reality, she puts the question : ‘ Le premier des arts, la musique, qn’imite-t-il ? De tous les dons de la Divinite, cependant, c’est le plus magnifique, car il semble, pour ainsi dire, superflu. Lesoleil nous eclaire, nous respirons l'air du ciel serein, toutes les beautes de la nature servent en quelque facon a l’homme ; la musique seule est d’une noble inutilitt, et c’est pour cela qu’elle nous cmeut si profondement ; plus elle est loin de tout but, plus elle se rap- proclre de cette source intime de nos pensces que l’application a un ob- jet quelconque r'serre dans son cours. ’ So, likewise, is she the protecting goddess of the higher feelings in love ; and the whole Sixth Volume is an altar of religion, which the Gallic pantheon will not be the worse for. Though professing herself a proselyte of the new poetic school, she is a mild judge of sentimen- tality ; 3 and in no case can immoral freedom in the thing represented excuse itself in her eyes, as perhaps it might in those of this same new school, by the art displayed in representing it. Hence comes her too narrow ill-will against Goethe’s Faust and Ottilie. Thus, also, she ex- tends her just anger against a faithlessly luxuriating love, in Goethe's Stella , to unjust anger against Jacobi’s Woldemar ; mistaking in this latter the hero’s struggle after a free disencumbered friendship, for the heart-luxury of weakness. Yet the accompanying passage 4 is a fine and true one : ‘ On ne doit pas se mettre par son choix dans une situation ou la mo- rale et la sensibilite ne sont pas d’aceord ; car ce qui est involontaire est si beau, qu’il est affreux d’etre condamne a se commander toutes ses actions, et a vivre avec soi-meme comme avec sa victime.’ She dwells so much in the heart, as the bee in the flower-cup, that, like this honey-maker, she sometimes lets the tulip-leaves overshadow 1 Tom. v. p. 100. 2 Ibid. p. 101. 3 Ibid. v. ch. 18. * Ibid. p. 180. 126 APPENDIX. 'lier and shut her in. Thus she not only declares against the learning (that is, the harmonics and inharmonics) in our German music, hut also against our German parallelism between tone and word, — our Ger- man individuation of tones and words. Instrumental music of itself is too much for her ; mere reflection, letter and science : she wants only voices, not words . 1 But the sort of souls which take-in the pure im- pression of tones without knowledge of speech, dwell in the inferior animals. Do we not always furnish the tones we hear with secret texts of our own, nay with secret scenery, that their echo within us may he stronger than their voice without ? And can our heart feel by other means than being spoken to and answering ? Thus pictures, during music, are seen into more deeply and warmly by spectators ; nay many masters have, in creating them, acknowledged help from music. All beauties serve each other without jealousy ; for to conquer man’s heart is the common purpose of all. As it was for France that our Authoress wrote and shaped her Ger- many, one does not at first see how, with her depth of feeling, she could expect to prosper much there. But Keviewer - answereth : The female half she will please at once and immediately ; the male, again, by the twofold mediation of art and mockery. First, by art. Indif- ferent as the Parisian is to religion and deep feeling on the firm ground of the household floor, he likes mightily to see them bedded on the soft fluctuating clouds of art ; as court-people like peasants on the stage, Dutch dairies in pictures, and Swiss scenes on the plate at dinner ; nay they want gods more than they do God, whom, indeed, it is art that first raises to the rank of the gods. High sentiments and deep emotions, which the court at supper must scruple to express as real, can speak out loud and frankly on the court-theatre a little while before. Besides, what is not to be slighted, by a moderated indifference and aversion to true feelings, there is opened the freer room and variety for the repre- sentation and show thereof ; as we may say, the Emperor Constantine first abolished the punishment of the cross, but on all hands loaded churches and statues with the figure of it. Here too is another advantage, which whoever likes can reckon in : That certain higher -and purer emotions do service to the true earthly 1 Tom. 17. pp. 123-125. 2 The imperial ‘ we ’ is unknown in German reviewing : the 1 Recement 1 must there speak in his own poor third person singular; nay stingy printers are in the habit of cur- tailing him into mere 4 Rez.,' and without any article: '"Res. thinks,’ ‘ Rez. says,’ as if the unhappy man were uttering affidavits, in a tremulous half-guilty attitude, not criti- cisms ex cathedra , and oftentimes" inflatis buccis ! The German reviewer, too, is expected, in many cases, to understand something of his subject : and, at all events, to have read his book. Happy England ! Were there a bridge built hither, not only all the women in the world, as a wit has said, but faster than they, all the reviewers in the world, would hasten over to us, to exchange their toilsome mud-shovels for light kingly sceptres: and English Literature were 'one boundless, self-devouring Review, and (as in London routs) you had to do nothing, but only to see others do nothing. — T. APPENDIX. 127 ones in the way of foil ; as haply,— if a similitude much fitter for a satire than for a review may be permitted, — the thick ham by its tender flowers, or the boar’s-head by the citrons in its snout, rather gains than loses. And though all this went for nothing, still must the religious enthu- siasm of our Authoress affect the Parisian and man of the world with a second charm ; namely, with the genuine material which lies therein, as well as in any tragedy, for conversational parody. Indeed, those same religious, oldfashioned, sentimental dispositions must, as the per- sificuje thereof has already grown somewhat threadbare and meritless,— they must, if jesting on them is to betoken spirit, be from time to time warmed up anew by some writer, or, still better, by some writeress, of genius. AVith the charm of sensibility our gifted eulogist combines, as hinted above, another advantage which may well gain the Parisians for her ; namely, the advantage of a true French, — not German, — taste in poetry. She must, the Reviewer hopes, have satisfied the impartial Parisian by this general sentence, were there nothing more. 1 ‘ Le grand avantage qu’on peut tirer de l’etude de la litterature alle- mande, c’est le mouvement d’emulation qu’elle donne ; il faut y clier- cher des forces pour composer soi-meme plutot que des ouvrages tout fait, qu’on puisse transporter ailleurs. This thought, which 2 she has more briefly expressed : ‘ Ce sera presque toujours un chef-d’oeuvre qu’une invention etrangere arrangee par un Francais,’ — she demonstrates 3 by the words : ‘ On ne sait pas faire un livre en Allemagne ; rarement on y met l’ordre et la methode qui classent les idees dans la tete du lecteur ; et ce n’est point parceque les Francais sont impatiens, mais parcequ’ils out l’esprit juste, qu’ils se fatiguent de ce defaut : les fictions ne sont pas dessinees dans les poesies allemandes avec ces contours fermes et precis qui en assurent l’effet ; et le vague de l’imagination correspond a l’obscurite de la pensee.’ In short, our Muses’-hill, as also the other Muses’ -hills, the English, the Greek, the Roman, the Spanish, are simply, — what no Frenchman can question, — so many mountain-stairs and terraces, fashioned on vari- ous slopes, whereby the Gallic Olympus-Parnassus may, from this side and that, be conveniently reached. As to us Germans in particular, she might express herself so : German works of art can be employed as colour-sheds, and German poets as colour-grinders, by the French pic- 1 Tom. iv. p. 8ti. 2 Page 45. 3 Page 11. 128 APPENDIX. torial school ; as, indeed, from of old our learned lights have heen hy the French, not adored like light-stars, hut stuck into like light-chaf- ers, as people carry those of Surinam, spitted through, for lighting of roads. Frankly will the Frenchman forgive our Authoress her German or British heart, when he finds, in the chapters on the ‘ classical ’ and ‘ romantic ’ art of poetry, how little this has corrupted or cooled her taste, to the prejudice of the Gallic art of writing. After simply say- ing,' ‘ La nation francaise, la plus cultivee des nations latines, penche vers la poisie imitee des Grecs et des Romains,’ she expresses this 2 much better and more distictly in these words : ‘ La poesie francaise etant la plus classique de toutes les poesies mo- dernes, elle est la seule qui ne soit pas repandue parmi le peuple.’ Now Tasso, Calderon, Camoens, Shakspeare, Goethe, continues she, are sung hy their respective peoples, even hy the lowest classes ; where- as it is to be lamented that, indeed, ‘Nos poetes fran5ais sont admires par tout ce qu’il y a d’esprits cul- tives cliez nous et dans le restk de l’Europe ; mais ils sont tout-a-fait inconnus aux gens de peuple, et aux bourgeois meme des villes, parce- que les arts en France ne sont pas, comme ailleurs, uatifs du pays meme or leurs beautes se developpent. And there is no Frenchman but will readily subscribe this confession. The Reviewer too, tliougli. a German, allows the French a similarity to the Greek and Latin classics ; nay a greater than any existing people can exhibit ; and recognises them willingly as the newest Ancients. He even goes so far, that he equals their Li'erature, using a quite peculiar and inverse principle of precedency among the classical ages, to the best age of Greek and Latin Literature, namely, to the iron. For as the figurative names, ‘golden,’ ‘iron age,’ of themselves signify, consider- ing that gold, a very ductile rather than a useful metal, is found every- where, and on the surface, even in rivers and without labour ; where- as the firm iron, serviceable not as a sj'mhol and for its splendour, is rare in gold countries, and gained only in depths and with toil, and seldom ill a metallic state : so likewise, among literary ages, an iron one designates the practical utility and laborious nature of the work done, as well as the cunning workmanship bestowed on it; whereby it is clear, that not till the golden and silver ages are done, can the iron one come to maturity. Always one age produces and fashions the next : 1 Tom. ii. p. 60. 2 Page 63, APPENDIX. 129 on the golden stands the silver ; this forms the brass ; and on the shoulders of all stands the iron. Thus too, our Authoress 1 testifies that the elder French, Montaigne and the rest, were so very like the present Germans , 2 while the younger had not yet grown actually clas- sical ; as it were, the end-flourishes and cadences of the past. On which grounds the French classics cannot, without injustice, be paral- leled to any earlier Greek classics than to those of the Alexandrian school. Among the Latin classics their best prototypes may be such as Ovid, Pliny the younger, Martial, the two Senecas, Lucan, — though he, more by date than spirit, has been reckoned under our earlier periods ; inasmuch as these Romans do, as it were by anticipation, arm and adorn themselves with the brass and iron, not yet come into universal use. A Rousseau would sound in Latin as silvery as a Seneca ; Seneca would sound in French as golden as a Rousseau. Nevertheless, it is an almost universal error in persons who speak of Fiench critics, to imagine that a Geoffroy, or a Laharpe, in equalling his countrymen to the ancient classics, means the classics of the so-called golden age. But what real French classic would take it as praise if you told him that he wrote quite like Homer, like AEschylus, like Aristoph- anes, like Plato, like Cicero ? Without vanity, he might give you to understand, that some small difference would surely be found between those same golden classics and him, which, indeed, was to be referred lather to the higher culture of the time than to his own ; whereby he might hope that in regard to various longueurs, instances of tastelessness, coarseness, he had less to answer for than many an Ancient. A French tragedy-writer might say, for example, that he flattered himself, if he could not altogether equal the so-named tragic Seven Stars of Alexan- dria, he still differed a little from the Seven of AEschylus. Indeed, Vol- taire and others, in their letters, tell us plainly enough, that the writers of the ancient golden age are nowise like them, or specially to their mind. The genuine French taste of our Authoress displays itself also in de- tached manifestations ; for example, in the armed neutrality which in common with the French and people of the world, she maintains to- wards the middle ranks. Peasants and Swiss, indeed, make their ap- pearance, idyl-wise, in French Literature ; and a shepherd is as good as a shepherdess. Artists too are admitted by these people ; partly as the sort of undefined comets that gyrate equally through suns, earths and satellites ; partly as the individual servants of their luxury ; and an actress in person is often as dear to them as the part she plays. But as to the middle rank,— excepting perhaps the clergyman, who in the pul- pit belongs to the artist guild, and in Catholic countries, without rank 1 Tom. iv. p. 80. 2 The same thing Jean Paul had long ago remarked in his Vorschule, book iii. see. 379, of the Second Edition. 9 130 APPENDIX. of liis own, traverses all ranks, — not only are handicraftsmen incapable of poetic garniture, but the entire class of men of business, your Com- merc e-Baths, Legation, Justice, and other Baths , and two-thirds of the whole Address-calendar. In short, French human nature produces and sets forth, in its works of art, nothing worse than princes, heroes and nobility : no ground-work and side-work of people ; as the trees about Naples shade you, when sitting under them, simply with blossoms, not with leaves, because they have none. This air of pedigree, without which the French Parnassus receiveth no one, Madame de Stael also ap- pears to require, and, by her unfavourable sentence, to feel the want of in Yoss’s Luise, in his Idyls, in Goethe s Dorothea, in Meister and Faust. There is too little gentility in them. Tieck’s Sternbald finds favour, perhaps not less for its treating of artists, than by reason of its nnpoeti- cal yet pleasing generalities ; for the book is rather a tcish of art, than a work of art. The theatre is, as it were, the ichnography (ground-plan) of a people ; the prompter’s hole {souffieur) is the speaking-trumpet of its peculiari- ties. Our Authoress, in exalting the Gallic coulisses, and stage-curtains, and candle-snuffers, and souffleurs of tlieir tragic and comic ware, above all foreign theatres, gives the French another and gratifying proof of her taste being similar to theirs. After so many preliminaries, the reader will doubtless expect the con- clusion that our Authoress does prove the wished-for mediatrix between us and France, and in the end procures us a literary general pardon from the latter ; nay, that the French are even a little obliged to her for this approximation. But quite the contrary is the Reviewer’s opin- ion. On the whole, he cannot help sympathising with the French, whom such diluted, filtered extracts and versions from the German must de- lude into belief of a certain regularity in us, whereof there is no trace extant. Thus, for example, our Authoress begins Faust with this pas- sage : ‘ C’est a nous de nous plonger dans le tumulte de l’activite, dans ees vagues eternelles de la vie, que la naissanee et la mort elevent et precipi- tent, repoussent et ramenent : nous sommes faits pour travailler a l’oeuvre que Dieu nous recommande, et dont le terns accomplit. la frame. Mais toi, qui ne peux concevoir que toi-m'me, toi, qui trembles on approfon- dissant ta destinee, et que mon souffle fait tressaillir, laisse-moi, ne mo rappelle plus.’ How shall a Frenchman, persuaded perhaps by such smooth samples to study German, guess,- that before this passage could become arable, the following tangle grew on it : APPENDIX. 131 ‘ DER GEIST. In Lebensfluthen, in Thatensturm Wall’ ich auf und ab, Welie hin und her ! Geburt und Grab Ein ewiges Meer, Ein wechsclnd Weben, . Ein gluhend Leben, So schaff’ ich am sausenden Webstuhl der Zeit, Und wirke der Gottlieit lebendiges Kleid. FAUST. Der du die weite Welt umschweifst, Geschiiftiger Geist, wie nah’ f uhl’ich mich dir. DER GEIST. Du gleichst dem Geist, den du begreifst, Niclit mir ! ’ 1 So, indeed, is the whole Faust of Madame de Stael ; all fire- colour bleached out of it ; giant masses and groups, for example the IV’aZ- purgisnacht (Mayday Night), altogether cut away. The followiug passage ( SiebenJcas ,- book i. sec. 7) occurs in ‘ the Speech of the dead Christ from the Universe ’ (Songe, she more briefly translates the title of it), where Christ, after saying that there is no God, thus con- tinues : 1 Here is an English version, as literal as we can make it : ‘ THE SPIRIT. In Existence' floods, in Action's storm, I walk and work, above, beneath, Work and weave, in endless motion 1 Birth and death, An infinite ocean, A seizing and giving The fire of living : 'Tis thus at the roaring Loom of Time I ply, And weave for God the Garment thou seest him by. FAUST. Thou who the wide world round outflowest, Unresting Spirit, how I resemble thee 1 THE SPIRIT. Thou canst resemble spirits whom thou knoweflt, Not me ! T. 2 By Jean Paul himself. — T. 132 APPENDIX. 1 1 travelled through the worlds, I mounted into the suns, and flew with the galaxies through wastes of heaven ; hut there is no God. I descended as 'far as being casts its shadow, and looked into the Ab} T ss and cried : Father, where art thou ? but I heard only the eternal storm, which no one guides ; and the gleaming Rainbow from the west, without a Sun that made it, stood over the Abyss, and trickled down. And when I looked up towards the immeasurable world for the Divine eye, it glared down on me with an empty, black, bottomless eye-socket ; and Eternity lay upon Chaos, eating it, and re-eating it. Cry on, ye dis- cords ! cry away the shadows, for He is not ! ’ These barbaresque sentences have, like all the rest, grown into the following cultivated ones : ‘ J'ai parcouru les mondes, je me suis eleve au-dessus de soleils, et la aussi il n’est point de Dieu ; je suis descendu jusqu aux dernieres limites de 1 univers, j’ai regard, dans l’ablme, et je me suis eerie: lire, oil es-tu ? mais je n’ai entendu que la pluie qui tombait gontte a goutte dans I’ab'me, et l’eternelle temp&te, que nul ordre ne r : git, m’a seule repoudu. Relevant ensuite mes regards vers la voute des cieax, je n’y ai trouve qu’une orbite vide, noire, et sans fond. LVternite reposait sur le chaos, et le rongeait, et se devorait lentement elle-meme : redou- blez vos plaintes ameres et dechirantes ; que des cris aigus dispersent les ombres, car e’en est fait.’ He that loves the French must lament that people should decoy them over to us with beauties which are merely painted on with rouge ; and should hide not only our fungous excrescences, but our whole adiposity in wide Gallic court clothes. For, as Goethe’s Faust actually stands, every good Frenchman, outdoing our Authoress, who wishes no second, must wish the first — at Mephistopbeles ; and look upon this written hell-journey as an acted Empedocles one into the crater of the German Muse-volcano. To our Authoress he might even say: “ Madame, you had too much sense to lend your Germans any of those traits, pointes, sentences, that esprit , wherewith our writers have so long enchanted us and Europe. You showed us, in the German works, their brightest side, their sensibilite , the depth of their feelings. Tou have quite allured us with it. All that offended your taste, you have softened or sup- pressed, and given us yourself instead of the poem : tant rnieux! But who will give us you, when we read these German works in the origi- nal ? Jean Jacques says, Let science come, and not the deceiving doc- tor. We invert it, and say, Let the healing doctoress come, and not the sick poem, till she have healed it.” The Reviewer observes here, that in the foregoing apostrophe there is as cramp a eulogy as that 1 with which Madame de Stael concludes hers on Schiller : Tom. iii. p. 97. APPENDIX. 133 ‘ Pen de terns apres la premiere representation de Guillaume Tell, le trait mortel atteignit aussi le digne auteur de ce bel ouvrage. Gesler perit au moment ou les desseins les plus cruels l’occupaient : Schiller n’avait dans son ame que de genereuses pensees. Ces deux volontes si contraires, la mort, ennemie de tous les projets de l’homme, les a de merne brisees.’ This comparison of the shot Gesler with the deceased Schiller, wherein the similarity of the two men turns on their resembling other men in dying, and thereby having their plans interrupted, seems a delicate imitation of Captain Fluellen, who (in Henry V.) struggles to prove that Alexander of Macedon and Henry Monmouth are in more than one point like each other. But to return. Were this castrated edition of the German Hercules, or Poetic God, which Madame de Stael has edited of us, desirable, and of real use for any reader, it would be for German courts, and courtiers themselves : who knows but such a thing might prove the light little flame 1 to indicate the heavy treasure of their native country ; which treasure, as they, unlike the French, have all learned German first, they could find no difficulty in digging out. But with such shows of possible union between two altogether different churches, or temples of taste, never let the good, too-credulous French be lured and balked ! Nay, the cunning among them may hit our Authoress with her own hand ; for she has written : 2 ‘ Les auteurs francais de l’ancien terns ont en general plus de rapports avec les Allemands que les ecrivains du siecle de Louis XIV. ; car c’est depuis ce tems-la que la litterature fran§aise a pris une direction clas- sique.’ And shall w now, he may say, again grow to similarity in culture with those whom we resembled when we had a less degree of it ? A German may, indeed, prefer the elder French poetry to the newer French verse ; but uo Frenchman can leave his holy temple for an anti- quated tabernacle of testimony, much less for a mere modern synagogue. The clear water of their poetry will ever exclude, as buoyant and un- mixable, the dark fire-holding oil of ours. Or to take it otherwise : as with them the eye is everywhere the ruling organ, and with us the ear ; so they, hard f hearing, will retain their poet-peacock, with his glith r- ing tail- mirrors 3 and tail-eyes, drawn back fan -like to the wings, his poor tones and f et notwithstanding ; and we, short of sight, will think 1 The ‘ little blue flame,’ the ‘ Springwurzel ’ (start-root), &zc. &c., are well-known phe- nomena in miners’ magic. — T. a Tom. iv. p. 80. 3 In French poetry, you must always, like the Christian, consider the latter end or the last verse : and there, as in life, according to the maxim of the Greek sage, you cannot before the end be called happy. 134 APPENDIX. our unshowy poet-larks and nightingales, with their songs in the clouds and the blossoms, the preferable blessing. Perhaps in the whole of Goethe there are not to be found so many antitheses and witty reflexes as in one moving act of Voltaire ; and in all, even the finest cantos of the Messias , the Frenchman seeks in vain for such pointes as in the Henriade exalt every canto, every page, into a perfect holly -bush. And now, the Reviewer begs to know of any impartial man, What joy shall a Frenchman have in literatures and arts of poetry which ad- vance on him as naked as unfallen Eves or Graces, — he, who is just come from a poet -assemblee, where every one has his communion-coat, his mourning-coat, pay, his winding-sheet, trimmed with tassels and tags, and properly perfumed ? What will a Fabre d’Olivet 1 say to such eulogising of a foreign literature ? he who has so pointedly and dis- tinctly declared : ‘ Oui, messieurs, ee que l’lndostan fut pour l’Asie, la France le doit etre pour l’Europe. La langue francaise, comme la Sanscrite, doit tendre a l’universalite, elle doit s’enrichir de toutes les connaissances acquises dans les siecles passes, afin de les transmettre aux siecles f uturs ; destinee a surnoyer sur les debris de cent idiomes diverses, elle doit pouvoir sauver du naufrage des temps toutes leurs beautes, et toutes leurs pro- ductions remarquables.’ When even a De Stael, with all her knowledge of our language and authors, and with a heart inclined to us, continues nevertheless Gallic in tongue and taste, what blossom crop are we to look for from the dry timber ? For, on the whole, the taste of a people is altogether to be discriminated from the taste of a period : the latter, not the former, easily changes. The taste of a people, rooted down, through centuries, iu the nature of the country, in its history, in the whole soul of the body politic, withstands, though under new forms of resistance, all alterations and attacks from without. For this taste is, in its highest sense, nothing other than the outcome and utterance of the inward com- bination of the man, revealing itself most readily by act and judgment in art, as in that which speaks with all the faculties of man, and to all the faculties of man. Thus poetical taste belongs to the ligart: the un- derstanding possesses only the small domain of rhetorical taste, which can be learned and proved, and gives its verdict on correctness, language, congruity of images, and the like. For the rest, if a foreign literature is really to be made a saline man- ure. and fertilising compost for the withered French literature, some altogether different path must be fallen upon than this ridiculous cir- cuit of clipping the Germans into Frenchmen, that these may take pat- tern by them ; of first fashioning us down to the French, that they may 1 His Zes Ver* Dnres du Fythagore expliques, dec., precedes d'un Discours sur r Es- sence de Fuesie , lSlt. APPENDIX. 135 fashion themselves up to us. Place, and plant down, and encamp, the Germans with all their stout limbs and full arteries, like dying gladia- tors, fairly before them ; — let them then study these figures as an acad- emy, or refuse to do it. Even to the Gallic speech, in this transference, let utmost boldness be recommended. How else, if not in a similar way, have we Germans worked our former national taste into a free taste ; so that by our skill in languages, or our translations, we have welcomed a Homer, Shakspeare, Dante, Calderon, Tasso, with all their peculiarities, repugnant enough to ours, and introduced them undisarmed into the midst of us ? Our national taste meanwhile was not lost in this process : in the German, with all its pliability, there is still something indecli- nable for other nations ; Goethe, and Herder, and Klopstock, and Les- sing, can be enjoyed to perfection in no tongue but the German ; and not only our aesthetic cosmopolitism (universal friendship), but also our popular individuality, distinguishes us from all other peoples. If, one day, we are to be presented to foreign countries, — and every German, proud as he may be, will desire it, if he is a bookseller, — the Reviewer could wish much for an Author like our Authoress, to trans- port us, in such a Cleopatra’s ship as her’s, into England. Schiller, Goethe, Klinger, Hippel, Liclitenberg, Haller, Kleist, might, simply as they were, in their naturalibm and ponttfisalibus, disembark in that Island, without danger of becoming hermits, except in so far as hermits may be worshipped there. On the romantic ' 1 side, however, we could not wish the Briton to cast his first glance at us : for the Briton, — to whom nothing is So poetical as the commonweal, — requires (being used to the weight of gold),, even for a golden age of poetry, the thick golden wing-covers of his epithet- poets ; not the transparent gossamer wings of the Romanticists ; no many-coloured butterfly-dust ; but, at lowest, flower-dust that 'will grow to something. But though this gifted Inspectress of Germany has done us little furtherance with the French, nay perhaps hindrance, inasmuch as she has spoken forth our praise needlessly in mere comparisons with the French, instead of speaking it without offensive allusions, — the better service can she do us with another people, namely, with the Germans themselves. In this respect, not only in the first place may the critic, but also in the second place the patriot, return her his thanks. It is not the out- ward man, but the inward, that needs mirrors. We cannot wholly see ourselves, except in the eye of a foreign seer The Reviewer would be happy to see and enter a mirror-gallery, or rather picture-gallery, in which our faces, limned by quite different nations, by Portuguese, by Scotchmen, by Russians, Corsicans, were hanging up, and where we 1 Romantisch, ‘ romantic,’ it will be observed, is here nsed in a scientific sense, and has no concern with the writing or reading (or acting) of ‘romances.’ — T. 130 APPENDIX. might learn how differently we looked to eyes that were different. By comparison with foreign peculiarity, our own peculiarity discerns and ennobles itself. Thus, for. example, our Authoress, profitably for us, holds up and reflects our German longueurs (interminabilities), our dull jesting, our fanaticism, and our German indifference tb the file. Against the last error, — against the rule-of-thumb style ol these days, — reviewers collectively ought really to fire and slash with an especial fury. There was a time, in Germany, when a Lessing, a Winkelmann, filed tlieir periods like Plato or Cicero, and Klopstock and Schiller their verses like Virgil or Horace ; when, as Tacitus, we thought more of dis- leafing than of covering with leaves ; in short, of a disleafing, which, as in the vine, ripens and incites the grapes. There was such a time, but the present has had it ; and we now write, and paint, and patch straight- forward, as it comes to hand, and study readers and writers not much, but appear in print. Corrections, at present, seem as costly to us, as if, like Count Alfieri, we had them to make on printing-paper, at the charges of our printer and purse. The public book-market is to be our bleach- green ; and the public, instead of us, is to correct ; and then, in the second edition, we can pare off somewhat, and clap on somewhat. But it is precisely this late correction, when the former author, with his former mood and love, is no longer forthcoming, that works with dubious issue. Thus Schiller justly left his Robbers unaltered. On the other hand, the same sun- warmth of creation can, in a second hour, return as a sun-warmth of ripening. Writers who mean to pay the world only in plated coins can offer no shadow of reason for preferring first thoughts ; since the very thought they write -down must, in their heads, during that minute’s space, have already gone through several improved editions. Still deeper thanks than those of the critic to our Authoress, let the patriot give her. Through the whole work there runs a veiled sorrow that Germany should be found kneeling, and, like the camel, raise it- self still bent and heavy-laden. Hence her complaints 1 that the present Germans have only a philosophical and no political character ; — farther, that the German , 2 even through his moderate climate, in which he has not the extremes of heat and cold to encounter, but without acquire- ment of hardiness easily secures himself against evils of an equable nature, should be softening into unwarlike effeminacy ; — farther, those other complaints , 3 about our division of ranks, our deficiency in diplo- matic craft and lying ; about the German great, who, to the tedium of the French themselves, still take an interest in Louis Fourteenth’s mistresses and anecdotes . 4 Thus she says , 5 1 Les Allemands out besoin de dedaigner pour devenir les plus forts ; ’ and two lines lower, . 1 Tom. v. ch. 11. 2 Tom. i. p. 20. 3 Ibid. i. ch. 2. 1 Ibid. i. ch. 9. 5 Tom. v. p. 200. APPENDIX. 137 1 Ce sont les seuls hommes, peut-etre, auxquels on pouvait conseiller l’orgueil comme un moyen de devenir meilleurs.’ She is almost right. Not as if, one towards another, and in words, we did not set ourselves forward, and take airs enough, on printed paper ; — each stands beside the others with a ready-plaited garland for him in his hand ; — but in actions, and towards foreigners and persons in authority, it is still to be lamented that we possess but two cheeks for the receiving of cuffs, in place of four, like the Janushead , although, in this cheek-deficiency, we do mend matters a little, wlieu * we — turn round, and get the remainder. During the French war, and in the peace before it, there were many statesmen, if not states also, that considered themselves mere half-stuff, as rags in the paper-mill are called, when they are not cut small enough, — till once they were en- nobled into whole-stuff , when the devil (so, in miller-speech, let Na- poleon’s sceptre be named) had altogether hacked them into finest shreds. In vol. v. p. 123, is a long harsh passage, where the German sub- serviency is rated worse than the Italian ; because our physiognomies and manners and philosophical systems promise nothing but heart and courage — and yet produce it not. Here, and in other passages regarding Prussia, where 1 she says, ‘ La capitale de la Prusse ressemble a la Prusse elle-meme : les edifices et les institutions out age d’homme, et rien de plus, parcequ’un seul liomme en est hauteur,’ — one willingly forgives her the exaggeration of her complaints ; not only because time has confuted them, and defended us and re-exalted us to our ancient princedoms, hut also because her tears of anger over us are only warmer tears of love, with which she sees, in the Germans, falling angels at war with fallen. * The Preface gives a letter from Police-minister and General Savary to Madame, wherein, with much sense, he asserts that the work is not of a French spirit, and that she did well to leave out the name of the Empemur, seeing there was no worthy place for him. ‘ 11 n'y pouvait trouver de place qui fut digue de lui.’ says the General ; meaning, that among so many great poets and philosophers, of various ages and countries, the Elbese would not have cut the best figure, or looked digne (worshipful) enough. The gallant Police-minister deserves here to he discriminated from the vulgar class of lickspittles, who so nimbly pick up and praise whatever falls from princes, especially whatever good, without imitating it ; hut rather to be ranked among the second and higher class (so to speak) who lick up any rabid saliva of their superior, and thereby run off as mad and fiery as himself. Only thus, and not other- > Tom. i. p. 103. 138 APPENDIX. wise, could tlie General, from those detached portions which the censor had cut out, have divined, as from outpost victories, that the entire field was to be attacked and taken. Accordingly, the whole printed Edition was laid hold of, and, as it were, under a second paper-mill devil, hacked anew into beautiful pulp. Nor is that delicate feeling of the whilom censors and clippers to be contemned, whereby these men, by the faintest allusion, smell out the crown-debts of their crown-robber (usurper), and thereby proclaim them. The Sphinx in Elba, who, un- like the ancient one, spared only him that could not rede his riddle, — (a riddle consisting in this, to make Europe like the Turkish grammar, wherein there is but one conjugation, one declension, no gender, and no exception), — could not but reckon a description of the Germans, making themselves a power within a power, to be ticklish matter. And does not the issue itself testify the sound sense of these upper and under censors ? Forasmuch as they had to do with a most deep and polished enemy, whom they could nowise have had understanding enough to see through, were it not that, in such cases, suspicion sees farther than your half-understanding. She may often (might they say), under that patient nun-veil of liers, be as diplomatically mischievous as any nun- prioress. But, not to forget the Work itself, in speaking of its fortunes, the Reviewer now proceeds to some particular observations on certain chap- ters ; first, however, making a general one or two. No foreigner has yet, with so wide a glance and so wide a heart, apprehended and repre- sented our German style of poetry, as this foreign lady. She sees French poetry, — which is a computable glittering crystal, compared with the immeasurable organisation of the German, — really in its true form, though with preference to that form, when she describes it as a poesie de societe. In the Vorschule der Aesthetik, 1 it was, years ago, described even so, though with less affection ; and in general terms, still earlier, •by Herder. The Germans, again, our Authoress has meted and painted chiefly on the side of their comparability and dissimilarity to the French ; and hereby our own self-subsistence and peculiar life has much less clearly disclosed itself to her. In a comparison of Nations, one may skip gaily along, among perfect truths, as along radii, and skip wer the centre too, and miss it. Concerning the chapters in the First Volume, one might say of our Authoress in her absence almost the same thing as before her face. For generalities, such as nations, countries, cities, are seized and judged of by her wide traveller-glance, better than specialities and poets, by her Gallic, narrow, female taste ; as, indeed, in general, large masses, by the free scope they yield for allusions, are, in the hands of a gifted writer, the most productive. However, it is chiefly polite Germany, and most of all literary Germany, that has sat to her on this occasion ; 1 B. iii. k. 2. APPENDIX. 139 and of tlie middle class, nothing bnt the literary heights have come into view. Moreover, she attributes to climate what she should have looked for in history : thus 1 she finds the temperate regions more favourable to sociality than to poetry, ‘ ce sont les delices du midi oil les rigveurs du nord qui ebranlent fortement l' imagination therefore, South Ger- many, that is, Franconia, Swabia, Bavaria and Austria. Now, to say nothing of the circumstance that, in the first three of these countries, the alternation between the flower-splendour of spring and the cloudy cold of winter raises both the temperate Warmth and the temperate cold- ness to the poetical degree, thereby giving them tico chances, the opin- ion of our Authoress stands contradicted by mild Saxony, mild Branden- burg, England, Greece, on the one hand, and by warm Naples and cold Russia on the other. Nay, rather extreme frost and extreme heat may he said to oppress and exhaust the poet ; and the Castalian. fountain either evaporates or freezes. On the other hand, regions lying inter- mediate between these temperatures are those where mind and poetry are met with unshackled. In chap, ii., de Vesprit de conversation, she describes very justly the art of talking (different from the art of speaking ) : 2 ‘ Le genre de bien-etre que fait eprouver une conversation animee ne consiste precisement dans le sujet de conversation ; les idees ni les con- naissances qu’on peut y developper n’en sont pas le principal interet ; c’est une certaine maniere d’agir les uns sur les autres, de se faire plaisir reciproquement et avec rapidite, de parler aussitot qu’on pense, de jouir a l’instant de soi-meme, d’etre applaudi (applaudie) sans travail, de mani- fester son esprit dans toutes les nuances par l’accent, le geste, le regard, enfin de produire a volonte comme une sorte d’electricite, que fait jaillir des etincelles. ’ The passage 3 where she counsels the Germans to acquire social cult- ure and resignation in respect of social refinement, merits German at- tention. It is true, she should not, before denying us and prescribing us the French art of talking, have said : 4 ‘ L ’ esprit de conversation a quelquefois Vinconvenient d’alterer la sin- cerite du caract&re ; ce n’est pas une tromperie combinee, mais improvi- see, si l’on peut s’exprimer ainsi : ’ which, in plain language, signifies, in this art there is one unpleasant circumstance, that sometimes your honesty of heart suffers thereby ; and you play the real, literal knave, though only on the spur of the moment, and without special preparation. For the rest, it must he such passages as this, where she denies us these moral and jesthetic Gallicisms, allowing us, for compensation, nothing but learning, depth 1 Tom. i. c. 5. 2 Page 68. 3 Page 81. * Page 70. 140 APPENDIX. of heart and thought ; such passages it must he by light of which the Journal de Paris, finding us denied not only the tromperie corribinee, but now even the improcisee, has discovered that our Authoress is a secret enemy of the Germans ; who will surely (hopes the Journal) get into anger with her, though, as always, not till late. For sharply as she at- tacks the French, she does it only on the moral side, which these for- give the more easily and feel the more faintly, the more she is in the right ; but we again are assaulted in graver wise, and with other conse- quence, namely on the side of our understanding, which, as compared with the Gallic, in regard to business, to knowledge of the world, nay to combining and arranging works of art, she everywhere pronounces inferior. ‘ Les Allemands mettent tres-rarement en scene dans leurs comedies des ridicules tires de leur propre pays ; ils n’observent pas les autres ; encore moins sont-ils capables de l’examiner eux-m mes sous les rap- ports exterieurs, ils croiraient presque manquer a la loyauts qu’ils se doivent.’ To form the plan, to order the whole scenes towards one focus of im- pression (effet), this, says she, is the part of Frenchmen ; but the Ger- man, out of sheer honesty, cannot do it. Nevertheless, our Lessing vowed that he could remodel every tragedy of Corneille into more cun- ning and more regular shape ; and his criticisms, as well as his Emilia Galotti, to say nothing of Schiller and all the better German critics, are answer enough to Madame de Stacks reproach. Three times, and in as many ways, she accounts for our deficiency in the art of witty speech. First, from our language : but had she for- gotten her German when she wrote concerning it, ‘ La construction ne permetpas toujours de terminer une phrase par V expression la plus pi- quante ? ’ 1 For does not directly, on the contrary, our language, alone among all the modern ones, reserve any word it pleases, any part of speech without exception — nay sometimes a half-word,'- naturally and without constraint, for a dessert-wine of conclusion ? Madame de Stall should also, to inform herself, have read at least a few dozen vol- umes of our epigram-anthologies with their thousand end-stings. What do Lessing’s dialogues want, or our translations from the French, in re- gard to pliancy of language ? But, on the whole, we always, — this is her second theory of our conversational maladroitness, — wish too much to say something or other, and not, like the French, nothing : a Ger- man wishes to express not only himself, but also something else ; and under this something we frequently include sentiment, principle, truth, 1 Tom. i. p. 84. 3 Paul has made this very sentence an exa mple of his doctrine ; one half of the word ‘ reserve ’ ( heben ) occurring at the commencement, the other half ( auf ) not till the end. — T. APPENDIX. 141 instruction. A sort of disgust comes over us to see a man stand speak- ing on, and quite coolly determined to sliovv us nothing but himself : for even the narrator of a story is expected to propose rather our enjoy- ment in it than his own selfish praise for telling it. In the third place, we are too destitute, complains our Authoress, of wit, consequently of bon-mots, and so forth. Reviewer complains, on the other hand, that the French are too destitute thereof. A Hippel, a Lichtenberg, like a Young or Pope, has more and better wit. than a whole French decade will produce. French wit, reflection-wit (Re- viewer here perfectly coincides with Jean Paul in his divisions of wit), surprises with one light resemblance, and with its prompt visibility, like a French garden, only once : British and German wit treats us with the comparison of resemblances reflecting one another, and with the continuous enjoyment of an English garden. For the reperusal of Lichtenberg, Reviewer commonly waits a year ; for the reperusal of Voltaire ten years ; for the reperusal of French Journalists sixty years ; for that of Hamann as many minutes. The German of spirit is almost ashamed to be so light-witted as a Frenchman ; and must make an effort not to make an effort. If he do not grudge the labour, he can heap up, like Weisse in his Satires, more antitheses in a page than a Frenchman in a book. Men of the world, who in German are merely smooth and correct, glitter in French with witty turns ; it is will, therefore, that chooses here, not inability. One may say, not this and that French- man, but the whole French people, has wit : but so common a wit can, even for that reason, be no deep one. What farther was to be said against our want of French skill in talk- ing, Reviewer leaves to the English, Spaniards, Italians, who all share it with us. The following passage 1 may reconcile the French with our Author- ess : ‘ En France la plupart cles lecteurs ne veulent jamais etre emus, ni ‘ meme s’amuser aux depens de leur conscience litteraire ; le scrupule s'est l rifugie Id.’’ In p. 13, she makes Hans Sachs compose before the Refor- mation ; and in p. 14, Luther translate the Psalms and the Bible. This to a Frenchman, who would show literary, may be detrimental, if he repeats it. In p. 17, she finds a likeness between Wieland’s prose and Voltaire’s. Give her or give him Voltaire’s wit, conciseness, lightness, pliancy, there can be nothing liker. Reviewer has a comfort in having Wieland called at once, by this class of admirers, the German Voltaire, and by that other, the German Greek : he needs not, in that case, re- flect and confute, but simply leaves the speakers to their reciprocal an- nihilation. For the rest, the whole of this chapter, as well as the twelfth, lends and robs the good Wieland so lavishly, that we rather beg to omit it altogether. His Comic Tales are, in her view, 2 imitees du Grec ; so that most of the French painters, their subjects being myth- > Tom. jj. 2, 2 Page 67. 142 APPENDIX. ological, must also lie imitators of the Greeks. In p. 02, she must either have misunderstood some Germans, or these must have misun derstood the Greeks, when she says of Fate, in contradistinction to Providence, ‘ Le sort (the Greek Fate) ne compte pour lien les sentimens des hommes.' Sophocles seven times says no to this ; and as often .ZEschylus. Nay, so inexorably does Fate pursue every immorality, especially audacious immorality, that (unlike Providence) it inflicts the punishment, even under repentance and reform. In p. 90, she calls Klopstock’s Ode to his Future Love a sujet maniere : 1 Klopstock est moins lieureux quand il ecrit sur l’amour : il a, comme Dorat, adresse des vers a sa maitresse future, et ce sujet maniere n’a pas bien inspire sa muse : il faut n’avoir pas souffert, pour se jouer avec le sentiment ; et quand une personne serieuse essaie un semblable jeu tou- jours une contrainte secrete l’empeclie de s’y montrer naturelle.’ How could her soul, that elsewhere responds to all pure-toned chords of love, mistake the yet unloved longing, wherewith the unloved and yet loving youth looks into his future heart, as with a coming home- sickness ? Does even the prosaic young man paint him an ideal, why shall not the poetical incorporate and draw nearer to him the dear form that is glancing for him, though as yet unseen ? It is true, this holds only of the first love ; for a poem on a second, third and future love, would doubtless merit the blame, which, indeed, she probably so meant. The long passage from Voss’s Louise 1 seems introduced to bring even the German reader, by the bald translation, into a state of yawning ; and the happier French one into snoring and even snorting. Quite as unexpectedly has she extracted from Maria Stuart , instead of bright lyric altar-fire, the long farewell of Maria, too long even for German readers, and only for the epos not too short ; and rendered it moreover in prose. To Goethe she does justice where she admires him, hut less where she estimates him. His poems she judges more justly than she does his plays. Everywhere, indeed, her taste borders more on the German when applied to short pieces than to long ones ; above all, than to theatrical ones ; for here the French curtain shrouds up every foreign one. With her opinion of Goethe as a literary man, the Germans, since the appearauce of his Autobiograpy, may readily enough dispense. Of ch. 15, de I’art dramatique , Reviewer could undertake to say noth- ing, except something ill, did time permit. Shakspeare, in whose child-like and poetic serene soul (as it were a poetic Christ-child) she celebrates an ironic presque MachiaveUiqae in de- lineating character, she ought to praise less on hearsay, since neither hearsay nor her own feeling can teach her how to praise Goethe’s Faust. It is probable she knows only the French (un-souled and un-hearted) 1 Tom. ii: p. S2. APPENDIX. 143 Shakspeare, and so values tlie man ; but for Goethe’s Faust too, slie should have waited for a French version and perversion to give him somewhat better commendation than that she sends him to France with. If a translation is always but an inverted, pale, secondary rainbow of the original splendour, Madame de Stael’s, as in general any French translation of Faust , is but a gray, cold, mock-sun to Goethe’s real flam- ing Sun in Leo. At times, in place of a pallid translation, she gives a quite new speech; for example, 1 she makes the Devil say of Faust, ‘ Cet homme ne sera jamais qu'd demi per vers, et c'est en vain qu’il seflatte de paroenir d Vetre entierement. ’ In the original appears no word of this, but merely the long, good, quite different passage, * Verachte nur Ver- nunft und Wissensehaft,' de. That weighty omissions have prevented light translations in her work, is happj- for the work of Goethe. This (like Dante’s Dicine Comedy) Diabolic Tragedy, in which whole spirit- ual universes act and fall, she has contracted and extracted into a love- tale. Of this sole and last zodiacal light which the set sun of Shak- speare has cast up over Germany, our lady Authoress wishes heartily 2 that another such, or more such, may not be written. Reviewer vent- ures to give her hope of fulfilment herein, and pledges himself for all Frenchmen. Consider only : 3 ‘ II ne faut y clierclier ni le goht, ni la mesure, ni l’art qui clioisit et qui termine ; mais si l’imagination pouvait se figurer un chaos intel- lectuel tel qu’on a sonvent decrit le chaos materiel, le Faust de Goethe devrait avoir <5te compose a cette epoque.’ Readeresses, why will every one of you insist on thinking herself a reader V Her hard judgment on Faust, Madame had beforehand softened 4 by the praise she bestowed on Gdtz ton BerlieJungen : ‘ ily a des traits de genie ca et Id,' not only here but there also, 'dans son drained Less warm- ly 5 does she praise the Natural Daughter ; because the personages there- in, like shades in Odin’s Palace, lead only an imaged life ; inasmuch as they hear no real Christian Directory-names, but are merely designated as King, Father, Daughter, &c. As for this last defect, Reviewer fan- cies he could remedy it, were he but to turn up his French history and pick out at random the words, Louis, Orleans, &c. and therewith christen the general titles, father, daughter ; for in the structure of the work, Madame de Stael will confess there are as firm, determinate, beheading machines, arsenic-hats, poison-pills, steel traps, oubliettes, spring-guns, introduced, as could be required of any court, whither the scene of the piece might be transferred. There is one censure from our Authoress, however, which Reviewer ' Tom. iii. p. 137. 3 Page 127. 3 Pagel80. 4 Tom. iii. p. 402. 5 Page 126. 144 APPENDIX. himself must countersign, though it touches the sweet orange-flower gar- land, Goethe’s Tasso. Reviewer had been pleased to notice, in this piece, which cannot he acted in any larger space than within the cham- bers of the brain, no downcome, save the outcome, or end ; where the moral knot, which can only be loosed in Tasso’s heart, is, by cutting of the material knot, by banishment from court, left unloosed to accom- pany him in exile ; and can at any hour raise up a second fifth-act. This want, indeed, is not felt in reading the work so much as after reading it. Our Authoress, however, points out 1 another want, which, in the piece itself, has a cooling, at least a shadowing influence : that, namely, in the first place, Princess Leonora is drawn not according to the warm climate, but rather as a German maiden ; and so thinks and ponders about her love, instead of either sacrificing herself to it or it to herself ; and that, secondly, the Poet Tasso acts not like an Italian ac- customed to outward movement and business, but like a solitary Ger- man, and unskilfully entangles himself in the perplexities of life. For the rest, her whole praise of Goethe will, in the sour head of a Frenchman, run to sheer censure ; and her censure again will remain censure, and get a little sourer, moreover. Perhaps the kindliest and justest of all her portraitures is that of Schiller. Not only is she, in her poetry, many times a sister of Schil- ler ; but he also, in his intellectual pomp and reflex splendour, is now and then a distant though beatified relation of Corneille and Crebillon. Hence his half -fortune with the French : for, in consideration of a certain likeness to themselves, some unlikeness and greatness will be pardoned. If Gallic tragedy is often a centaur, begotten by an Ixion with a cloud, Schiller also, at times, has confounded a sun-horse and tliunder-horse with the horse of the Muses, and mounted and driven the one instead of the other. The Donau-Nymphe (Nymph of the Danube) obtains 5 the honour of an extract, and the praise, ‘Le sujet de cette piece semble plus ingenieux que populaire ; mais les scenes merveilleuses y sont melees et variees avec tant d’art, qu’elle amuse egalement tous les spectateurs.’ Reviewer has heard Herder, more in earnest than in jest, call the Zau- berflote the only good opera the Germans had. After sufficiently misunderstanding, and faint-praising Goethe’s Clus- ter and Ottilie , 3 she ventures, though a lady, and a French one, to let 1 Tom. iii. p. 122. 2 Tom. iv. p. 36. 3 She finds Ottilie not moving enough ; the Reviewer again finds that Ottilie not only moves the heart, but crushes it. This more than female Werter excites deeper interest for her love than the male one ; and, in an earlier time, would have intoxicated all hearts with tears. But what always obstructs a heroine with the female-reading world, is the circumstance that she is not the hero. APPENDIX. 145 fall this and the other remark about humeur ; and, as it were, to utter a judgment (here Reviewer founds on the printed words) concerning S\vift and Sterne. Sterne’s humour, in Tristram, she imputes to phrase- ology ; 1 nay, to phrases, not to ideas; and infers that Sterne is not translatable, and Swift is. Nevertheless, both of them have found very pretty lodgings in this country with Bode and Waser. Thereafter, in the same chapter on Romances, she makes Asmus, who has written no romance, the drawbridge for a sally against Jean Paul. Her shallow sentence, as one more passed on him, may, among so many, — some friendlier, some more hostile, — pass on with the rest ; till the right one appear, which shall exaggerate neither praise nor blame ; for hitherto, as well the various pricking-girdles (cilices) in which he was to do penance, have been so wide for his body that they slipped to his feet, as in likewise the laurel-wreaths so large for his head that they fell upon his shoulders. Our Authoress dexterously unites both ; and every period consists, in front, of a pleasant commendation, and behind of a fatal mats ; and the left hand of the conclusion never knows what the right hand of the premises doeth. Reviewer can figure this jester comically enough, when he thinks how his face must, above fifteen times, have cheerfully thawed at the first clauses, and then sud- denly frozen again at the latter. Those mais are his bitterest enemies. Our Authoress blames him for overdoing the pathetic ; which blame she herself unduly shares with him in her Corinne, as Reviewer, in his long-past critique thereof, in these very Jalirb'dclier, hopes to have proved ; and, it may be, had that review of Corinne met her eye, she would rather have left various things against J. P. unsaid. In p. 79, she writes, that he knows the human heart only from little German towns, and (hence) ‘ II y a souvent clans la peinlure de ces mcmvs quelque chose de trop innocent pournotre steeled Now, it is a question whether J. P. could not, if not altogether disprove, yet uncommonly weaken, this charge of innocence, — by stating that many of his works were written in Leipzig, Weimar, Berlin, &c. ; and that, consequently, his alleged innocence was not his blame, but that of those cities. He might also set forth how, in Titan , he has collected so much polished court- corruption, recklessness, and refined sin of all sorts, that it is a hard- ship for him, — saying nothing of those capital cities, — to be implicated in any such guilt as that of innocence. However, to excuse her half and quarter judgment, let it not be con- cealed that scarcely have two of his works ( Hesperus and Siebencas) been gone through by her ; nay one of them, Hesperus , has not so much as been fairly gone into ; for, after introducing a not very important scene from Hesperus, the couching of a father’s eyes by a son, properly a thing which every century does to the other, she tables some shreds of a second incident in this same Hesperus , but with a statement that it is 0 1 Tom, iv, p. 79, 10 146 APPENDIX. from a different romance. Of the Rede des todten Christm (Speech of the dead Christ), she has indeed omitted the superfluous commence- ment, hut also more than half of the unsuperfluous conclusion, -which closes those wounds. Reviewer willingly excuses her, since this author, a comet of moderate nucleus, carries so excessive a comet-train of vol- umes along with him, that even up to the minute when he writes this, such train has not yet got altogether above the horizon. Oil the whole, she usually passes long judgments only on few-volumed writers, — for instance, Tieck, Werner; and short on many-volumed, — for instance, the rich Herder, whom she accommodates in a pretty bow- erlet of four sides, of pages. The New Poetic School, at least August Schlegel, whom she saw act in Werner’s Twenty-fourth of February, might have helped her out a little with instructions and opinions about Herder (nay, even about Jean Paul) as well as about Tieck ; the more, as she seems so open to such communications that they often come back from her as mere echoes: for, strictly considered, it is the New, much more than the Old School, that really stands in opposition to the French. The thirty-second chapter (des Beaux Arts en Allemagne ) does not re- quire seventeen pages, as Faust did, to receive sentence ; but only seven, to describe German painting, statuary aud music, — not so much com- pressedly as compressingly. Nevertheless, Reviewer willingly gives up even these seven pages for the sake of the following beautiful remark ‘ La musique des Allemands est plus variee que celle des Italiens, et e’est en cela peut-. tre qu’elle est moins bonne : 1’ esprit est condamn j a la variete, — e’est sa mis i re qui en est la cause ; mais les arts, comme le sentiment, ont une admirable monotonie, celle dont on voudrait faire un moment eternel. ’ The Fifth Volume treats of Philosophies — the French, the English, the old and new and newest German, and what else from ancient Greece has to do with philosophies. Concerning this volume,, a German re- viewer can offer his German readers nothing new, except perhaps whim- sicalities. While men, — for example, Jacobi, — after long studying and re-studying of great philosophers, so often fall into anxiety lest they may not have understood them, finding the confutation look so easy, women of talent and breeding, simply from their gift of saving No, in- fer at once that they have seen through them. Reviewer is acquainted with intellectual ladies, who, in the hardest philosophical works, — for instance, Fichte’s, — have found nothing but light and ease. Not what is thought, only what is learned, can women fancy as beyond their ho- rizon From Love they have acquired a boldness, foreign to us, of passing sentence on great men. Besides, they can always, instead of the conception, the idea, substitute a feeling. In p. 78, Madame de Stael says quite naively, she does not see why philosophers have striven 1 Tom. iv. p. 125. APPENDIX. 147 so much to reduce all things to one principle, he it matter or spirit ; one or a pair, it makes little difference, and explains the all no better. In p. 55, she imparts to the Parisians several categories of Kant’s with an et-eatera ; as it were an Alphabet, with an and-so-forth. If jesting is admissible in a review, the following passage on Schelling 1 may properly stand here : 1 L'ideal et le reel tiennent, dans son langage, la place de l’intelli- gence et de la matmre, de L’lMA&NATibK et de l’experience ; et c’est dans la reunion de ces deux puissances en une liarmonie complete, que oonsiste, selon lui. le principe unique et absolu de l’univers organise. Cette liarmonie, dont les deux poles et le centre sont l’image, et qui est renferme dans le nombre de trois, de tout temps si mysterieux, four- nit a, Schelling des applications les plus ingeniuses. ’ But we return to earnest. Consider, now, what degree of spirit these three philosophic spirits can be expected to retain, when they have been passed off, and in, and carried through, three heads, as if by distillation ascending, distillation middle and distillation descending : for the three heads are, namely,— the head of the Authoress, who does not half un- derstand the philosophers; the head of the Parisian, who again half understands our Authoress ; and finally, the head of the Parisianess, who again half understands the Parisian. Through such a series of in- termediate glasses the light in the last may readily refract itself into darkness. Meanwhile, let the former praise remain to her unimpaired, that she still seizes in our philosophy the sunny side, which holds of the heart, to exliibitand illuminate the mossy nor£li side of the French philosophy. Striking expressions of noblest sentiments and views are uncovered, like pearl-muscles, in this philosophic ebb and flow. Precious also, in itself, is the nineteenth chapter, on Marriage Love, though for this topic, for- eign in philosophy, it were hard to find any right conductor into such a discussion, except, indeed, the philosophers Crates and Socrates furnish one. As the Sixth and last Volume treats of Religion aAd Enthusiam, — a French juxtaposition, — it is almost her heart alone that speaks, and the language of this is always a pure and rich one. The separate pearls, from the philosophic ebb, here collect themselves into a pearl necklace. She speaks nobly on Nature, and Man, and Eternity ; - so likewise on Enthusiasm. 3 Individual baldnesses it were easy for Reviewer to ex- tract, — for they are short ; but individual splendours difficult, — for they are too long. To one who loves not only Germany but mankind, or rather both in each other, her praise and high preference of the German religious temper, in this volume, almost grows to pain: for, as we Germans our- 1 Tom. v. p. S3. 2 Tom. vi. pp. TS-86. 3 Chap. x. 148 APPENDIX. selves complain of our coldness, she could have found a temperate climate here only by contrast with the French ice-field of irreligion from which she comes. Truly, she is in the right. The French, in these very days, have accepted their Sunday as crabbedly as the Ger- mans parted with their Second Sundays, or Holidays, when forced to do it. Thus does the poisonous meadow-saffron of the Eevolution, after its autumn-flowers have been left solitary and withered, still keep under ground its narcotic bulb for the awakened spring ; almost as if the spirit of Freedom in this Revolution, like the spirit of Christianity, should construct and remodel every foreign people — only not the Jewish, where were the Nativity and Crucifixion. The bitterness of the Parisian journal-corps, who have charged against this Work of the Baroness more fiercely than against all her Romances, shows us that it is something else than difference of taste that they strike and fire at : their hearts have been doubly provoked by this comparison, and trebly by this discordance in their own most inward feeling, which loves not to expose itself as an outward one. In romances, they took all manner of religion as it came ; they could charge it on the characters, and absolve the poetess : but here she herself, — not with foreign lips, but with her own, — has spoken out for religion, and against the country where religion is yet no remigree. A special Pamphlet, published in Paris, on this Work, enlists the method of question and answer in the service of delusion, to exhibit bold beauties, by distorting them from their accompaniments, in the character of bombast. It is but seldom that our Authoress sins, and, in German fashion, against German taste, as where she says, 1 • ‘ Tons les moutons du mcrne troupeau viennent donner, les uns apres les autres, leurs coups-de-tete aux idees, qui n’en restent moins ce qu’elles sont.’ In presence of a descriptive power that delights foreign nations, one might hope the existing French would modestly sink mute — they whose eulogistic manndr, in the Moniteur, in the senate and everywhere, towards the throne, has at all times been as strained, windy and faded as its object ; and in whom, as in men dying the wrong way (while, in common cases, in the cooling of the outward limbs, the heart continues to give heat), nothing remains warm but the members from which the frozen heart lies farthest. It is difficult, amid so many bright passages, which, like polished gold, not only glitter, but image and exhibit, to select the best. For example, the description of the Alps by night, and of the whole festival of Interlaken ; - — the remark 3 that both the excess of heat in the east, and of cold in the north, incline the mind to idealism and visuality ; — 1 Tom. vi. p. 11. 3 Tom. i. ch. xx. 3 Tom. v. p. S7. APPENDIX. 149 or this, ‘ Ce qui manque en France, en tout genre, c'est le sentiment et Vhabitude du respect .' 1 2 Still more than we admire the Work, is the Authoress, considering also her sex and her nation, to be admired. Probably she is the only woman in Europe, and still more probably the only French person in France, that could have written such a book on Germany. Had Ger- many been her cradle and school, she might have written a still better work, namely, on France. And so we shall wish this spiritual Amazon strength and heart for new campaigns and victories ; and then, should she again prove the revieweress of a reviewer, let no one undertake that matrimonial relation but Frip.* 1 Tom. v. p. 27. So likewise, tom. v. pp. 11. 97, 109, 125, 207. 2 Frip is the anagram of J. P. F, R., and his common signature in such cases.— T. CRITICAL ANT) MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS COLLECTED AND REP UBLLSH ED BY THOMAS CARLYLE COUNT CAGLIOSTRO.— DEATH OF EDWARD IRVING.— APPENDLX. NEW YORK: JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER, 1885. ' TROWS MINTING AND EOOKBINOINS COMPANY, nr# > ORK. COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. FLIGHT FIRST. The life of every man a most indubitable Poem, and Revelation of In- finity : All named and unnamable sorts, from the highest heroic Strophe, to the lowest ribald Pasquil and libel on Humanity, (p. 8). — The grand sacred Epos, or Bible of World-History : All working and knowing, a faint interpreting and showing-forth of the infinite Mystery of Life. Different manner of reading and uttering : The earnest Hebrew Readers ; whose reading is still sacred, still true : Gorgeous semi-sensual Grandeurs and Splendours of the early Oriental Magi : Greek Consecration of the Flesh, and revelation of the Infinite. Weari- some iteration and reiteration, grown obsolete, of our modern readings. (10). — Even the biography of an utter Scoundrel at times worth read- ing : The only thing at once wholly despicable and forgetable, your half- knave, he who is neither true nor false. If we cannot have a Speaker and Doer of Truth, let us have the melancholy pleasure of beholding a decided Liar. Cagliostro, really a Liar of the first magnitude ; thorough- paced in all provinces, heights and depths of lying. Scientific interest in his manner of life, and singularly prosperous career. Inacessibility of much accurate knowledge : As in life, so now in History, astonish- ment, mystification and uncertainty still encircle the Quack of Quacks. (17). — Birth and Boyhood of the future Prince of Scoundrels : Poverty, idleness and hopeful impudence of young Beppo. Not seeing his way to be ‘a gentleman,’ he decides to be ‘ an Ecclesiastic.’ Intrusted to the keeping of a Convent- Apothecary : First elements o! medico-chemical conjurorship. Short roads to Enjoyment, and consequent afflictions and sore contradictions. A touch of grim Humour unfolds itself in the youth: He had now outgrown their monk-discipline, and quits itfoi- ever. (22). — Returns home to Palermo, and tries Painting and general Scoundrelism. Wheresoever a stroke of mischief is to be done, a slush of enjoyment to be swallowed, there is he with all ebullient impulses ready. Finds a profitable and lasting resource in Forgery. Of a brawl- ing, choleric temper: Visibly rising to a perfected Professor of Swind- lery. A Treasure-digging dodge, and its catastrophe. The young Raven is now fledged for flying, and soars off. Quits Palermo, and seeks his fortune in the wide World. (26). 6 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. FLIGHT LAST. Old Feudal Europe fallen a-dozing to die. Her next awakening, the stern Avatar of Democracy , and new-birth into a new Industrial Age. (p. 27). — Portentous extent and variety of Quackery and Quacks in that stertorous fever-sleep of our European world. Putrescence not more tlie scene of unclean creatures in the world physical, than Social Decay is of quacks in the world moral. National suffering ever preceded by national Crime. Dishonesty the raw material not of Quacks only, but also of Dupes. Irreversible death doom. (28).— Beppo's adventur- ous haps and mishaps in that wide-weltering life-in-death. Gift of Fore-knowledge wisely denied. Small beginnings : Forges pen-draw- ings out of engravings. Marries, in a country too prone to celibacy, the beautiful Lorenza Feliciani : Domestic privations. In the charms of his Lorenza, * a Future confused and immense : ’ They traffic accordingly, with much dexterity. The Count, as he now styles himself, on his own side not idle. Faded gentlemen of quality, and faded dames of ditto. Potions, washes, charms and love-philtres : The Greatest Happiness of the greatest number. (32).— As one luxuriant branch of industry withers and drops off, others must be pushed into budding. Cagliostro in Eng- land : Successes and tribulations. Freemasonry; Grand-Cophtaship ; Renovator of the Universe ; Spirit-Mediums, and Phosphoric Manifesta- tions unutterable. The dog pockets money enough, and can seem to despise money. Cagliostro’s Gift of Tongue. Generic difference betweeen speaking and public-speaking : How to acquire the miraculous gift of long-eared eloquence. Power of Belief however infinitesimal. The Cagliostric nimbus of Enchantment : Even the good Lavater could not quite see through him. (39) . — Successes and reverses : Yisits Peters- burg, but quickly decamps. Mephistopheles’s mortifying experience with Margaret renewed for Cagliostro : ‘Count M.’ and his Cagliostro Unmasked : Such reverses but specks in the blaze of the meridian Sun. What the brilliant -looking Count and Countess were to themselves, and to each other : Cagliostro’s Portrait : His probable Soliloquy, and spirit- ual salve for his own sores. At Strasburg, in fullest blossom and proud- est radiance : The Prince Cardinal de Rohan, the inflammablest, most open-handed Dupe he ever snared. Tragedy of the Diamond Necklace suddenly intervenes, and Dupe and Duper are flung to the dogs. (54). — Cagliostro again in England, living as he can : A touch of his old mocking Humour. Goethe’s visit to his Family at Palermo. Count Cagliostro now rapidly proceeds with his Fifth Act : Destiny has her nets around him ; they are straitening, straitening : He is gained. Caglios- tro’s Workday ended ; only his account remains to be settled. — To me also a Capability has been intrusted ; shall I work it out, manlike, into Faithfulness, and Doing ; or, quacklike, into Eatableness, and Simili- tude of Doing ? (65). COUNT CAGLIOSTRO: m TWO FLIGHTS . 1 [ 1833 .] FLIGHT FIRST. ‘ The life of every man, ’ says our friend Herr Sauerteig, ‘ the ‘ life even of the meanest man, it were good to remember, is ‘ a Poem ; perfect in all manner of Aristotelean requisites ; ‘ with beginning, middle and end ; with perplexities, and so- ‘ lutions ; with its Will-strength ( Willenkrafl ) and warfare ‘ against Fate, its elegy and battle-singing, courage marred ‘ by crime, everywhere the two tragic elements of Pity and ‘ Fear ; above all, with supernatural machinery enough, — for * was not the man born out of Nonentity ; did he not die, and ‘ miraculously vanishing return thither ? The most indubit- ‘ able Poem ! Nay, whoso will, may he not name it a Prophecy, ‘ or whatever else is highest in his vocabulary ; since only in ‘ Eeality lies the essence and foundation of all that was ever ‘ fabled, visioned, sung, spoken, or babbled by the human ‘ species ; and the actual Life of Man includes in it all Revela- ‘ tions, true and false, that have been, are, or are to be. Man ! ‘ I say therefore, reverence thy fellow-man. He too issued from ‘ Above ; is mystical and supernatural (as thou namest it) : ‘ this know thou of a truth. Seeing also that we ourselves ‘ are of so high Authorship, is not that, in very deed, “the ‘highest Reverence,” and most needful for us : “Reverence ‘ for oneself ? ” 1 Fraser’s Magazine, Nos. 43, 44 (July and August). 8 COUNT C AG L IOSTRO. e Thus, to my view, is every Life, more properly is every ‘ Man that has life to lead, a small strophe, or occasional verse, £ composed by the Supernal Powers ; and published, in such ‘ type and shape, with such embellishments, emblematic head- ‘ piece and tail-piece as thou seest, to the thinking orunthink- ‘ ing universe. Heroic strophes some few are ; full of force and ‘ a sacred fire, so that to latest ages the hearts of those that read ‘ therein are made to tingle Jeremiads others seem ; mere weep- ‘ ing laments, harmonious or disharmonious Remonstrances ‘against Destiny ; whereat we too may sometimes profitably ‘ weep. Again, have we not flesh-and-blood strophes of the idyl- ‘ lie sort, — though in these days rarely, owing to Poor-Laws, ‘ Game-Laws, Population-Theories and the like ! Farther, of ‘ the comic laughter-loving sort ; yet ever with an unfathom- ‘ able earnestness, as is fit, lying underneath : for, bethink thee, ‘ Avhat is the mirthfullest grinning face of any Grimaldi, but ‘ a transitory mash, behind which quite otherwise grins — the 1 most indubitable death’s-head ! However, I say farther, there ‘ are strophes of the pastoral sort (as in Ettrick, Afghanistan, £ and elsewhere) ; of the farcic-tragic, melodramatic, of all ‘ named and a thousand unnamable sorts there are poetic ‘ strophes, written, as was said, in Heaven, printed on Earth, ‘ and published (bound in woollen cloth, or clothes) for the use ‘ of the studious. Finally, a small number seem utter Pas- ‘ quils, mere ribald libels on Humanity : these too, however, ‘ are at times worth reading. ‘ In this wise,’ continues our too obscure friend, £ out of all ‘ imaginable elements, awakening all imaginable moods of ‘ heart and soul, “ barbarous enough to excite, tender enough ‘ to assuage,” ever contradictory yet ever coalescing, is that ‘ mighty world-old Rhapsodia of Existence page after page ‘ (generation after generation), and chapter (or epoch) af- 1 ter chapter, poetically put together ! This is what some ‘ one names “the grand sacred Epos, or Bible of "World-His- ‘ tory ; infinite in meaning as the Divine Mind it emblems ; ‘ wherein he is wise that can read here a line and there a ‘ line.” ‘ Remark too, under another aspeci, whether it is not in COUNT CAGLIOSTBO. 9 * this same Bible of World-History that all men, in all times, ‘ with or without clear consciousness, hare been unwearied to £ read, what we may cal] read ; and again to write, or rather ‘ to be written! What is all History, and all Poesy, but a ‘ deciphering somewhat thereof, out of that mystic heaven- ‘ written Sanscrit ; and rendering it into the speech of men ? 1 Know thyself, value thyself, is a moralist’s commandment ‘ (which I only half approve of) ; but Know others, value ‘ others, is the hest of Nature herself. Or again, Work while ‘ it is called To-day : is not that also the irreversible law of ‘ being for mortal man ? And now, what is all working, what ‘ is all knowing, but a faint interpreting and a faint showing- ‘ forth of that same Mystery of Life, which ever remains in- ‘ finite, — heaven-written mystic Sanscrit ? View it as we will, ‘ to him that lives, Life is a divine matter ; felt to be of quite ‘ sacred significance. Consider the wretchedest “ straddling ‘ biped that wears breeches ” of tliy acquaintance ; into whose ‘ wool-head, Thought, as thou rashly supposes!, never entered ; ‘ who, in froth-element of business, pleasure, or what else he ‘ names it, walks forever in a vain show ; asking not Whence, ‘ or Why, or Whither ; looking up to the Heaven above as if ‘ some upholsterer had made it, and down to the Hell beneath * as if he had neither part nor lot there : yet tell me, does not ‘ he too, over and above his five finite senses, acknowledge ‘ some sixth infinite sense, were it only that of Vanity ? For, ‘ sate him in the other five as you may, will this sixth sense ‘ leave him rest ? Does he not rise early and sit late, and ‘ study impromptus and (in constitutional countries) parlia- ‘ mentary motions, and bursts of eloquence, and gird himself ‘ in whalebone, and pad himself and perk himself, and. in all ‘ ways painfully take heed to his goings ; feeling (if we must 1 admit it) that an altogether infinite endowment has been in- ‘ trusted him also, namely, a Life to lead ? Thus does he too, ‘ with his whole force, in his own way, proclaim that the world - ‘ old Rhapsodia of Existence is divine, and an inspired Bible ; ‘ and, himself a wondrous verse therein (be it heroic, be it ‘ pasquillic), study with his whole soul, as we said, both to * read and to be written ! 10 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. ‘ Here also I will observe, that tlie manner in which men ‘ read this same Bible is, like all else, proportionate to their c stage of culture, to the circumstances of their environment. ‘ First, and among the earnest Oriental nations, it was read £ wholly like a Sacred Book ; most clearly by the most ear- ‘ nest, those wondrous Hebrew Headers ; whose reading ac- ‘ cordingly was itself sacred, has meaning for all tribes of c mortal men ; since ever, to the latest generation of the 5 world, a true utterance from the innermost of man’s being £ will speak significantly to man. But, again, in how differ- ‘ ent a style was that other Oriental reading of the Magi ; of ‘ Zerdusht, or whoever it was that first so opened the matter ? ‘ Gorgeous semi-sensual Grandeurs and Splendours : on in- ‘ finite darkness, brightest-glowing light and fire ; — of which, ‘ all defaced by Time, and turned mostly into lies, a quite late c reflex, in those Arabian Tales and the like, still leads cap- ; tive every heart. Look, thirdly, at the earnest West, and 4 that Consecration of the Flesh, which stept forth life-lusty, ‘ radiant, smiling-earnest, in immortal grace, from under the £ chisel and the stylus of old Greece. Here too was the Infi- £ nite intelligibly proclaimed as infinite : and the antique man ‘ walked between a Tartarus and an Elysium, his brilliant £ Paphos-islet of Existence embraced by boundless oceans £ of sadness and'fateful gloom. — Of which three antique man- £ ners of reading, our modern manner, you will remark, has ‘ been little more than imitation : for always, indeed, the ‘ West has been lifer of doers than of speakers. The Hebrew £ manner has had its echo in our Pulpits and choral aisles ; £ the Ethnic Greek and Arabian in numberless mountains of £ Fiction, rhymed, rhymeless, published by subsciiption, by £ puffery, in periodicals, or by money of your own ( durch eigne* £ Geld). Till now at last, by dint of iteration and reiteration ‘ through some ten centuries, all these manners have grown £ obsolete, wearisome, meaningless ; listened to only as the £ monotonous moaning wind, while there is nothing else to ‘ listen to : — and so now, wellnigh in total oblivion of the In- ‘ finitude of Life (except what small unconscious recognition ‘ the “ straddling biped ” above argued of may have), we wait, COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 11 ‘ iu liope and patience, for some fourth manner of anew oon- ‘ vincingly announcing it,’ These singular sentences from the JEsthetische Springwurzel we have thought right to translate and quote, by way of proem and apology. We are here about to give some critical account of what Herr Sauerteig would call a ‘ flesh-and-blood Poem of the purest Pasquil sort ; ’ in plain words, to examine the biography of the most perfect scoundrel that in these lat- ter ages has marked the world’s history. Pasquils too, says Sauerteig, ‘ are at times worth reading.’ Or quitting that mystic dialect of his, may we not assert in our own way, that the history of an Original Man is always worth knowing ? So magnificent a thing is Will incarnated iu a creature of like fashion with ourselves, we run to witness all manifestations thereof : what man soever has marked out a peculiar path of life for himself, let it lead this way or that way, and success- fully travelled the same, of him we specially inquire, How he travelled ; What befell him on the journey? Though the man were a knave of the first water, this hinders not the question, How he managed his knavery ? Nay it rather en- courages such question ; for nothing properly is wholly des- picable, at once detestable and forgetable, but your half -knave, he who is neither true nor false ; who never in his existence once spoke or did any true thing (for indeed his mind lives in twilight, with cat-vision, incapable of discerning truth) ; and yet had not the manfulness to speak or act any decided lie ; but spent his whole life in plastering together the True and the False, and therefrom manufacturing the Plausible. Such a one our Transcendentals have defined as a moral Hybrid and chimera ; therefore, under the moral point of vie-w, as an Impossibility, and mere deceptive Nonentity,- — put together for commercial purposes. Of 'which sort, nevertheless, how many millions, through all manner of gradations, from the wielder of kings’ sceptres to the vender of brimstone matches, at tea- tables, council-tables, behind shop-counters, in priests’ pulpits, incessantly and everywhere, do now, in this world of ours, in this Isle of ours, offer themselves to view ! From such, at least from this intolerable over-proportion of such, might the CO TINT CA GLIOSTRO. 12 merciful Heavens one day deliver us. Glorious, heroic, fruit- ful for his own Time, and for all Time and all Eternity, is the constant Speaker and Doer of Truth ! If no such again, in the present generation, is to be vouchsafed us, let us have at least the melancholy pleasure of beholding a decided Liar. Wretched mortal, who with a single eye to be ‘ respectable ’ forever sittest cobbling together two Inconsistencies, which stick not for an hour, but require ever new gluten and labour, • — will it, by no length of experience, no bounty of Time or Chance, be revealed to thee that Truth is of Heaven, and Falsehood is of Hell ; that if thou cast not from thee the one or the other, thy existence is wholly an Illusion and optical and tactual Phantasm ; that properly thou existest not at all ? Respectable ! What, in the Devil’s name, is the use of Re- spectability, with never so many gigs and silver spoons, if thou inwardly art the pitifullest of all men ? I would thou wert either cold or hot. One such desirable second-best, perhaps the chief of all such, we have here found in the Count Alessandro di Cagli- ostro, Pupil of the Sage Altkotas, Foster-child of the Scherif of Mecca, probable Son of the last King of Trebisond ; named also Acharat, an unfortunate child of Nature ; by profession healer of diseases, abolisher of wrinkles, friend of the poor and impotent, grand-master of the Egyptian Mason-lodge of High Science, Spirit-summoner, Gold-cook, Grand Cophta, Prophet, Priest, and thaumaturgic moralist and swindler ; really a Liar of the first magnitude, thorough-paced in all provinces of lying, what one may call the King of Liars. Mendez Pinto, Baron Munchausen and others are celebrated in this art, and not without some colour of justice ; yet must it in candour remain doubtful whether any of these compara- tively w r ere much more than liars from the teeth onwards : a perfect character of the species in question, who lied not in word only, nor in act and word only, but continually, in thought, word and act ; and, so to speak, lived wholly in an element of lying, and from birth to death did nothing but lie, — was still a desideratum. Of which desideratum Count Alessandro offers, we say, if not the fulfilment, perhaps as COUNT CA GLIOSTItO. 13 near an approach to it as the limited human faculties permit. Not in the modern ages, probably not in the ancient (though these had their Autolycus, their Apollonius, and enoug'h else), did any completer figure of this sort issue out of Chaos and Old Night : a sublime hind of figure, presenting himself with ‘ the air of calm strength,’ of sure perfection in his art ; whom the heart opens itself to, with wonder and a sort of welcome. ‘ The only vice I know,’ says one, ‘ is Inconsistency.’ At lowest, answer we, he that does his work shall have his work judged of. Indeed, if Satan himself has in these days be- come a poetic hero, why should not Cagliostro, for some short hour, be a prose one ? ‘ One first question,’ says a great Phil- osopher, ‘ I ask of erery man : Has he an aim, which with un- ‘ divided soul he follows, and adyances towards? Whether ‘ his aim is a right one or a wrong one, forms but my second ‘ question.’ Here then is a small ‘ human Pasquil,’ not with- out poetic interest. However, be this as it may, we apprehend the eye of science at least cannot view him with indifference. Doubtful, false as much is in Cagliostro’s manner of being, of this there is no doubt, that starting from the lowest point of Fortune’s wheel, he rose to a height universally notable ; that without external furtherance, money, beauty, bravery, almost without common sense, or any discernible worth whatever, he sumptuously supported, for a long course of 3 r ears, the wants and digestion of one of the greediest bodies, and one of the greediest minds ; outwardly in his five senses, inwardly in his ‘ sixth sense, that of vanity,’ nothing straitened. Clear enough it is, however much may be supposititious, that this japanned Chariot, rushing through the world, with dust-clouds and loud noise, at the speed of four swift horses, and topheavy with luggage, has an existence. The six Beef-eaters too, that ride prosperously heralding his advent, honourably escorting, menially waiting on him, are they not realities? Ever must the purse open, paying turnpikes, tavern-bills, drink-moneys, and the thousandfold tear and wear of such a team ; yet ever, like a korn-of-plenty, does it pour ; and after brief rest, the chariot ceases not to roll. Whereupon rather pressingly 14 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. arises the scientific question : How ? "Within that wonderful machinery, of horses, w r heels, top-luggage, beaf-eaters, sits only a gross, thickset Individual, evincing dulness enough; and by his side a Seraphina, with a look of doubtful reputa- tion : how comes it that means still meet ends, that the whole Engine, like a steam-coach wanting fuel, does not stagnate, go silent, and fall to pieces in the ditch ? Such question did the scientific curiosity of the present winter often put ; and for many a day in vain. Neither, indeed, as Book-readers know, was he peculiar herein. The great Schiller, for example, struck both with the poetic and the scientific phases of the matter, admitted the influences of the former to shape themselves anew within him ; and strove with his usual impetuosity to burst (since unlocking was impossible) the secrets of the latter : and so his unfinished Novel, the Geisterseher, saw the light. Still more renowned is Goethe's Drama of the Gross-Kophla ; which, as himself informs us, delivered him from a state of mind that had become alarming to certain friends ; so deep was the hold this business, at one of its epochs, had taken of him. A dramatic Fiction, that of his, based on the strictest possible historical study and inquiiy ; wherein perhaps the faithfullest image of the historical Fact, as yet extant in any shape, lies in artistic miniature curiously unfolded. Nay mere Newspaper-readers, of a certain age, can bethink them of our Eondon Egyptian Lodges of High Science ; of the Countess Seraphima's dazzling jewelleries, nocturnal brillian- cies, sibjdlic ministrations and revelations ; of Miss Fry and Milord Scott, and Messrs. Priddle and the other shark bailiffs ; and Lord Mansfield’s judgment-seat ; the Comte d’Adhemar, the Diamond Necklace, and Lord George Gordon. For Cagliostro, hovering through unknown space, twice (per- haps thrice) lighted on our London, and did business in the great chaos there. Unparalleled Cagliostro ! Looking at thy so attractively decorated private theatre, wherein thou actedst and livedst, what hand but itches to draw aside thy curtain ; over-haul thy pasteboards, paint-pots, paper-mantles, stage-lamps, and COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 15 turning the whole inside out, find thee in the middle there- of ! For there of a truth wert thou : though the rest was all foam and sham, there sattest thou, as large as life, and as esurient ; warring against the world, and indeed conquering the world, for it remained thy tributary, and yielded daily ra- tions. Innumerable Sheriff’ s-officers, Exempts, Sbirri, Algua- zils, of every European climate, were prowling on thy traces, their intents hostile enough ; thyself wert single against them all ; in the whole earth thou hadst no friend. What say we, in the whole earth ? In the whole universe thou hadst no friend ! Heaven knew nothing of thee ; could in charity know nothing of thee ; and as for Beelzebub, his friendship, it is as- certained, cannot count for much. But to proceed with business. The present inquirer, in obstinate investigation of a phenomenon so noteworthy, has searched through the whole not inconsiderable circle which his tether (of circumstances, geographical position, trade, health, extent of money-capital) enables him to describe : and, sad to say, with the most imperfect results. He has read Books in various languages and jargons : feared not to soil his fingers, hunting through ancient dusty Magazines, to sicken his heart in any labyrinth of iniquity and imbecility ; nay he had not grudged to dive even into the infectious Memoires de Casanova, fora hint or two, — could he have found that work, which, however, most British Librarians make a point of denying that they possess. A painful search, as through some spiritual pest-house ; and then with such issue ! The quantity of discoverable Printing about Cagliostro (so much being burnt) is now not great ; nevertheless in frightful proportion to the quantity of information given. Except vague Newspaper rumours and surmises, the things found written of this Quack are little more than temporary Manifestos, by him- self, by gulled or gulling disciples of his : not true therefore ; at best only certain fractions of what he wished or expected the blinder Public to reckon true ; misty, embroiled, for most part highly stupid ; perplexing, even provoking ; which can only be believed — to be, under such and such conditions, Lies. Of this sort emphatically is the English ‘ Life of the Count 16 COUNT CA GLIOSTIIO. (Jaglioai.ro, price three shillings and sixpence : ’ a Book indeed which one might hold (so fatuous, inane is itj to he some mere dream-vision and unreal eidolon, did it not now stand palpably there, as £ Sold by T. Hookham, Bond Street, 1787 ; ’ and bear to be handled, spurned at and torn into pipe-matches. Some human creature doubtless was at the writing of it ; but of what kind, country, trade, character or gender, you will in vain strive to fancy. Of like fabulous stamp are the Memoires pour le Comte cle Cagliostro, emitted, with Requete d joindre, from the Bastille, during that sorrowful business of the Dia- mond Necklace, in 1786 ; no less the Lettre du Comte de Cag- liostro au Peuple Anglais, which followed shortly after, at Lon- don ; from which two indeed, that fatuous inexplicable English Life has perhaps been mainly manufactured. Next come the Memoires authentique s pour servir d VHistoire du Comte de Cagliostro, twice printed in the same year 1786, at Strasburg and at Paris ; a swaggering, lascivious Novellette, without talent, without truth or worth, happily of small size. So fares it with us : alas, all this is but the outside decorations of the private-theatre, or the sounding of catcalls and applauses from the stupid audience ; nowise the interior bare walls and dress-room which we wanted to see ! Almost our sole even half-genuine documents are a small barren Pamphlet, Cagli- ostro demasque d Varsovie, en 1780 ; and a small barren Vol- ume purporting to be his Life, written at Borne, of which latter we have a French version, dated 1791. It is on this Vie de Joseph Balsamo, connu sous le Xom de Comte Cagliostro, that our main dependence must be placed ; of which Work, meanwhile, whether it is wholly or only half-genuine, the reader may judge by one fact : that it comes to us through the medium of the Boman Inquisition, and the proofs to sub- stantiate it lie in the Holy Office there. Alas, this reporting Familiar of the Inquisition was too probably something of a Liar ; and he reports lying Confessions of one who was not so much a Liar as a Lie ! In such enigmatic duskiness, and thrice-folded involution, after all inquiries, does the matter yet hang. Nevertheless, by dint of meditation and comparison, light- COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 17 points that stand fixed, and abide scrutiny, do here and there disclose themselves ; diffusing a fainter light over what other- wise were dark, so that it is no longer invisible, but only dim. Nay after all, is there not in this same uncertainty a kind of fitness, of poetic congruity ? Much that would offend the eye stands discreetly lapped in shade. Here too Destiny has cared for her favourite : that a powder-nimbus of astonish- ment, mystification and uncertainty should still encircle the Quack of Quacks, is right and suitable ; such was by Nature and Art his chosen uniform and environment. Thus, as for- merly in Life, so now in History, it is in huge fluctuating smoke-whirlwinds, partially illumined into a most brazen glory, yet united, coalescing with the region of everlasting Darkness, in miraculous clear-obscure, that he works and rides. ‘ Stern Accuracy in inquiring, bold Imagination in expound- ‘ ing and filling up ; these,’ says friend Sauerteig, ‘ are the ‘ two pinions on which History soars,’ — or flutters and wabbles. To which two pinions let us and the readers of this Magazine now daringly commit ourselves. Or chiefly indeed to the latter pinion, of Imagination ; which, if it be the larger, will indeed make an unequal flight ! Meanwhile, the style at least shall if possible be equal to the subject. Know, then, that in the year 1748, in the city of Palermo, in Sicily, the family of Signor Pietro Balsamo, a shopkeeper, were exhilarated by the birth of a Boy. Such occurrences have now become so frequent that, miraculous as they are, they occasion little astonishment : old Balsamo for a space, indeed, laid down his ellwands and unjust balances ; but for the rest, met the event with equanimity. Of the possetings, junketings, gossipings, and other ceremonial rejoicings, trans- acted according to the custom of the country, for welcome to a New-comer, not the faintest tradition has survived ; enough, that the small New-comer, hitherto a mere ethnic or heathen, is in a few days made a Christian of, or as we vulgarly say, christened ; by the name Giuseppe. A fat, red, globular kind of fellow, not under nine pounds avoirdupois, the bold 2 13 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. Imagination can figure him to be : if not proofs, there are in- dications that sufficiently betoken as much. Of his teething and swaddling adventures, of his scaldings, squallings, pukings, purgings, the stiictest search into His- tory can discover nothing ; not so much as the epoch when he passed out of long- clothes stands noted in the fasti of Sicily. That same ‘ larger pinion ’ of Imagination, neverthe- less, conducts him from his native blind-alley, into the adja- cent street Casaro ; descries him, with certain contemporaries now unknown, essaying himself in small games of skill ; watching what phenomena, of carriage-transits, dog-battles, street- music, or such like, the neighbourhood might offer (in- tent above all on any windfall of chance provender) ; now, with incipient scientific spirit, puddling in the gutters ; now, as small poet (or maker), baking mud-pies. Thus does he tentatively coast along the outskirts of Existence, till once he shall be strong enough to land and make a footing there. Neither does it seem doubtful that with the earliest exercise of speech, the gifts of simulation and dissimulation began to manifest themselves ; Giuseppe, or Beppo as he was now called, could indeed speak the truth, —but only when he saw his advantage in it. Hungry also, as above hinted, he too, probably, often was : a keen faculty of digestion, a meagre larder within doors ; these two circumstances, so frequently conjoined in this world, reduced him to his inventions. As to the thing called Morals, and knowledge of Bight and Wrong, it seems pretty certain that such knowledge, the sad fruit of Man’s Fall, had hi great part been spared him ; if he ever heard the commandment, Thou shalt not .deal, he most prob- ably could not believe in it, therefore could not obey it. For the rest, though of quick temper, and a ready striker where clear prospect of victory showed itself, we fancy him vocifer- ous rather than bellicose, not prone to violence where strata- gem will serve ; almost pacific, indeed, had not his many wants necessitated him to many conquests. Above all things, a brazen impudence develops itself ; the crowning gift of one born to scoundrelism. In a word, the fat thickset Beppo, as he skulks about there, plundering, playing dog’s-tricks, with CO UNT CA GL10STR0. 19 his finger in every mischief, already gains character ; shrill housewives of the neighbourhood, whose sausages he has filched, whose weaker sons maltreated, name him Beppo Mal- detto, and indignantly prophesy that he will be hanged. A prediction which, as will be seen, the issue has signally fal- sified. We hinted that the household larder was in a leanish state ; in fact, the outlook of the Balsamo family was getting troubled ; old Balsamo had, during these things, been called away on his long journey. Poor man ! The future eminence and pre-eminence of his Beppo he foresaw not, or what a world’s-wonder he had thoughtlessly generated ; as indeed, which of us, by much calculating, can sum up the net-tota T (Utility, or Inutility) of any his most indifferent act, — a seed cast into the seedfield of Time, to grow there, producing fruits or poisons, forever ! Meanwhile Beppo himself gazed heavily into the matter ; hung his thick lips, while he saw his mother weeping ; and, for the rest, eating what fat or sweet thing he could come at, let Destiny take its course. The poor widow, ill-named Felicitd, spinning out a painful livelihood by such means as only the poor and forsaken kuow, could not but many times cast an impatient eye on her brass- faced, voracious Beppo ; and ask him, If he never meant to turn himself to anything? A maternal uncle, of the moneyed sort (for he has uncles not without influence), has already placed him in the Seminary of Saint Boch, to gain some tincture of schooling there : but Beppo feels himself mis- placed in that sphere ; 1 more than once runs away ; ’ is flogged, snubbed, tyrannically checked on all sides ; and finally, with such slender stock of schooling as had pleased to offer itself, returns to the street. The widow, as we said, urges him, the uncles urge : Beppo, wilt thou never turn thyself to anything ? Beppo, with such speculative faculty, from such low watch-tower, as he commands, is in truth, being forced to it, from time to time, looking abroad into the world ; surveying the conditions of mankind, therewith con- trasting his own wishes and capabilities. Mas, his wishes are manifold ; a most hot Hunger (in all kinds), as above 20 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. hinted ; but on the other hand, his leading capability seemed only the Power to Eat. What profession, or condition, then ? Choose ; for it is time. Of all the terrestrial professions, that of Gentleman, it seemed to Beppo, had, under these circum- stances, been most suited to his feelings : but then the outfit ? the apprentice-fee ? Failing which, he, with perhaps as much sagacity as one could expect, decides for the Eccle- siastical. Behold him then, once more by the uncle’s management, journeying, a chubby brass-faced boy of thirteen, beside the Keverend Father-General of the Benfratelli, to their neigh- bouring Convent of Cartegirone, with intent to enter himself novice there. He has donned the no vice -habit ; is ‘ intrusted to the keeping of the Convent- Apothecary,’ on whose galli- pots and crucibles he looks round with wonder. Were it by accident that he found himself Apothecary’s Famulus, were it by choice of his own — nay was it not, iu either case, by design of Destiny, intent on perfecting her work ? — enough, in this Cartegirone Laboratory there awaited him, though as yet he knew it not, life guidance and determination ; the great want of every genius, even of the scoundrel-genius. He himself confesses that he here learned some (or, as he calls it, the) ‘principles of chemistry and medicine.’ Natural enough : new books of the Chemists lay here, old books of the Alchemists ; distillations, sublimations visibly went on ; discussions there were, oral and written, of gold-making, salve-making, treasure-digging, divining-rods, projection, and the alcahest : besides, had he not among his fingers calxes, acids, Leyden-jars? Some first elements of medico-chemical conjurorship, so far as phosphorescent mixtures, aqua-toffana, ipecacuanha, cantharides tincture, and such like would go, were now attainable ; sufficient when the hour came, to set up any average Quack, much more the Quack of Quacks. It is here, in this unpromising environment, that the seeds thera- peutic, thaumaturgic, of the Grand Cophta’s stupendous workings and renown were sown. Meanwhile, as observed, the environment looked unprom- ising enough. Beppo with his two endowments, of Hunger COUNT CAGL10STR0. 21 and of Power to Eat, had made the best choice he could ; yet, as it soon proved, a rash and disappointing one. To his astonishment, he finds that even here he ‘ is*in a conditional world,’ and, if he will employ his capability of eating or en- joying, must first, in some measure, work and suffer. Con- tention enough hereupon : but now dimly arises, or repro- duces itself, the question, Whether there were not a shorter road, that of stealing ? Stealing — under wdiich, genetically taken, you may include the whole art of scoundrelism ; for what is Lying itself but a theft of my belief? — stealing, we say, is properly the North-West Passage to Enjoyment: w'hile common Navigators sail painfully along torrid shores, labo- riously doubling this or the other Cape of Hope, your adroit Thief-Parry, drawn on smooth dog-sledges, is already there and back again. The misfortune is, that stealing requires a talent ; and failure in that North-West voyage is more fatal than in any other. We hear that Beppo was ‘often pun- ished painful experiences of the fate of genius ; for all genius, by its nature, comes to disturb somebody in his ease, and your thief-genius more so than most ! Readers can now fancy the sensitive skin of Beppo morti- fied with prickly cilices, w^ealed by knotted thongs ; his soul afflicted by vigils and forced fasts ; no eye turned kindly on him ; everywhere the bent of his genius rudely contravened. However, it is the first property of geni.us to grow in spite of contradiction, and even by means thereof ; — as the vital germ pushes itself through the dull soil, and lives by what strove to bury it ! Beppo, waxing into strength of bone and char- acter, sets his face stiffly against persecution, and is not a whit disheartened. On such chastisements and chastisers he can look with a certain genial disdain. Beyond convent-walls, with their sour stupid shavelings, lies Palermo, lies the world ; here too is he, still alive, — though worse off than he wished ; and feels that the w T orld is his oyster, which he (by chemical or other means) will one day open. Nay, we find there is a touch of grim Humour unfolds itself in the youth ; the surest sign, as is often said, of a character naturally great. Witness, for example, how he acts on this to his ardent temperament 22 COUNT C A GLIOS Tit 0. so trying occasion. While the monks sit at meat, the impetu- ous voracious Beppo (that stupid Inquisition-Biographer re- cords it as a thing of course) is set not to eat with them, not to pick up the crumbs that fall from them, but to stand ‘ read- ing the Martyrology ’ for their pastime ! The brave adjusts himself to the inevitable. Beppo reads that dullest Martyr- ology of theirs ; but reads out of it not what is printed there, but what his own vivid brain on the spur of the moment de- vises : instead of the names of Saints, all heartily indifferent to him, he reads out the names of the most notable Palermo ‘un- fortunate-females,’ now beginning to interest him a little. What a * deep world-irony/ as the Germans call it, lies here ! The Monks, of course, felled him to the earth, and flayed him with scourges ; but what did it avail ? This only became ap- parent, to himself and them, that he had now outgrown their monk-discipline ; as the psyche does its chrysalis-shell, and bursts it. Giuseppe Balsamo bids farewell to Cartegirone for- ever and a day. So now, by consent or not of the ghostly BenfrateUi (Friars of Mercy, as they were named !), our Beppo has again re- turned to the maternal uncle at Palermo. The uncle natur- ally asked him, WTiat he next meant to do ? Beppo, after stammering and hesitating for some length of weeks, makes answer : Try Painting. W ell and good ! So Beppo gets him colours, brushes, fit tackle, and addicts himself for some space of time to the study of what is innocently called Design. Alas, if we consider Beppo’s great Hunger, now that new senses were unfolding in him, how inadequate are the exigu- ous resources of Design ; how necessary to attempt quite an- other deeper species of Design, of Designs ! It is true, he lives with his uncle, has culinary meat ; but where is the pocket-money for other costlier sorts of meats to come from ? As the Kaiser Joseph was wont to say : From my head alone (Be ma tete seule) ! The Roman Biographer, though a most wooden man, has incidentally thrown some light on Beppo’s position at this juncture : both on his wants and his resources. As to the first, it appears (using the wooden man’s phraseology) that he COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 23 kept the ‘ worst company,’ led tlie ‘loosest life was hand-in- glove with all the swindlers, gamblers, idle apprentices, un- fortunate-females, of Palermo : in the study and practice of Scoundrelism diligent beyond most. The genius which has burst asunder convent-walls, and other rubbish of impedi- ments, now flames upward towards its mature splendour. Wheresoever a stroke of mischief is to be done, a slush of so- called vicious enjoyment to be swallowed, there with hand and throat is Beppo Balsamo seen. He will be a Master, one day, in his profession. Not indeed that he has yet quitted Paint- ing, or even purposes so much : for the present, it is useful, indispensable, as a stalking-horse to the maternal uncle and neighbours ; nay to himself, — for with all the ebullient im- pulses of scoundrel-genius restlessly seething in him irrepres- sibly bursting through, he has the noble unconsciousness of genius ; guesses not, dare not guess, that he is a born scoun- drel, much less a born world-scoundrel. But as for the other question, of his resources, these we perceive were several-fold, and continually extending. Not to mention any pictorial exiguities, which indeed existed chiefly in expectance, — there had almost accidentally arisen for him, in the first place, the resource of Pandering. Pie has a fair cousin living in the house with him, and she again has a lover ; Beppo stations himself as go-between : delivers letters ; fails not to drop hints that a lady, to be won or kept, must be generously treated ; that such and such a pair of earrings, watch, necklace, or even sum of money would work wonders ; which valuables, adds the wooden Roman Biographer, ‘ he then appropriated furtively.’ Like enough ! Next, however, as another more lasting resource, he forges ; at first in a small way, and trying his apprentice-hand ; tickets for the theatre, and such trifles. Erelong, however, we see him fly at higher quarry ; by practice he has acquired perfection in the great art of counterfeiting hands ; and will exercise it on the large or on the narrow scale, for a consideration. Among his relatives is a Notary, with whom he can insinuate himself ; for purpose of study, or even of practice. In the presses of this Notary lies a Will, which Beppo contrives to come at, and 24 COUNT CAGL10STR0. falsify ‘for the benefit of a certain Religious House.’ Much good may it do them ! Many years afterwards the fraud was detected ; but Beppo’s benefit in it was spent and safe long before. Thus again the stolid Biographer expresses horror or wonder that he should have forged leave-of-absence for a monk, ‘counterfeiting the signature of the Superior.’ Why not? A forger must forge what is wanted of him ; the Lion truly preys not on mice ; yet shall he refuse such if they jump into his mouth ? Enough, the indefatigable Beppo has here opened a quite boundless mine ; wherein through his whole life he will, as occasion calls, dig, at his convenience. Finally, he can predict fortunes and show visions, — by phosphorus and legerdemain. This, however, only as a dilettanteism ; to take up the earnest profession of Magician does not yet enter into his views. Thus perfecting himself in all branches of his art, does our Balsamo live and grow. Stupid, pudding- faced as he looks and is, there is a vulpine astucity in him ; and then a wholeness, a heartiness, a kind of blubbery impet- uosity, an oiliness so plausible-looking : give him only length of life, he will rise to the top of his profession. Consistent enough with such blubbery impetuosity in Beppo is another fact we find recorded of him, that at this time he was found ‘ in most brawls,’ whether in street or tavern. The way of his business led him into liability to such : neither as yet had he learned prudence by age. Of choleric temper, with all his obesity ; a square-built, burly, vociferous fellow ; ever ready with his stroke (if victory seemed sure) ; nay, at bottom, not without a certain pig-like defensive-ferocity, perhaps even something more. Thus, when you find him making a point to attack, if possible, ‘ all officers of justice,’ and deforce them ; delivering the wretched from their talons : was not this, we say, a kind of dog-faith- fulness, and public spirit, either of the mastiff or of the cur species ? Pex-haps too there was a touch of that old Humour and ‘ world-irony ’ in it. One still more unquestionable feat he is recorded (we fear, on imperfect evidence) to have done : ‘assassinated a canon.’ COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 25 Bemonstrances from growling maternal uncles could not fail ; threats, disdains from ill-affected neighbours ; tears from an expostulating widowed mother : these he shakes from him like dewdrops from the lion’s mane. Still less could the Police neglect him ; him the visibly rising Professor of Swin- dlery ; the swashbuckler, to boot, and deforcer of bailiffs : he has often been captured, haled to their bar ; yet hitherto, by defect of evidence, by good luck, intercession of friends, been dismissed wdth admonition. Two things, nevertheless, might now be growing clear : first, that the die w y as cast with Beppo, and he a scoundrel for life ; second, that such a mixed, com- posite, crypto-scoundrel life could not endure, but must unfold itself into a pure, declared one. The Tree that is planted stands not still ; must pass through all its stages and phases, from the state of acorn to that of green leafy oak, of withered leafless oak ; to the state of felled timber, finally to that of firewood and ashes. Not less (though less visibly to dull eyes) the Act that is done, the condition that has realised it- self ; above all things, the Man, with his Fortunes, that has been born. Beppo, everyway in vigorous vitality, cannot continue half-painting half-swindling in Palermo ; must de- velop himself into whole swindler ; and, unless hanged there, seek his bread elsewhere. What the proximate cause, or sig- nal, of such crisis and development might be, no man could say ; yet most men would have confidently guessed. The Police. Nevertheless it proved otherwise ; not by the flam- ing sword of Justice, but by the rusty dirk of a foolish private individual, is Beppo driven forth. Walking one day in the fields (as the bold historic Imag- ination will figure) with a certain ninny of a ‘ Goldsmith named Marano,’ as they pass one of those rock-chasms fre- quent in the fair Island of Sicily, Beppo begins, in his oily, voluble way, to hint, That treasures often lay hid ; that a Treasure lay hid there, as he knew by some pricking of his thumbs, divining-rod, or other talismanic monition : which Treasure might, by aid of science, courage, secrecy and a small judicious advance of money, be fortunately lifted. The gudgeon takes ; advances, by degrees, to the length of ‘ sixty 26 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. gold Ounces ; ’ 1 sees magic circles drawn in the wane or in the full of the moon, blue (phosphorus) flames arise, split twigs auspiciously quiver ; and at length — demands peremp- torily that the Treasure be dug. A night is fixed on : the ninny Goldsmith, trembling with rapture and terror, breaks ground ; digs, with thick breath and cold sweat, fiercely down, down, Beppo relieving him : the work advances ; when, ah ! at a certain stage of it ( before fruition) hideous yells arise, a jingle like the emptying of Birmingham ; six Devils pounce upon the poor sheep Goldsmith, and beat him almost to mutton ; mercifully sparing Balsamo, — who indeed has himself summoned them thither, and as it were created them (with goatskins and burnt cork). Marano, though a ninny, now knew how it lay ; and furthermore that he had a stiletto. One of the grand drawbacks of swindler-genius ! You accom- plish the Problem ; and then — the Elementary Quantities, Algebraic Symbols you worked on, will fly in your face ! Hearing of stilettos, our Algebraist begins to look around him, and view his empire of Palermo in the concrete. An empire now much exhausted ; much infested too with sor- rows of all kinds, and every day the more ; nigh ruinous,* in short ; not worth being stabbed for. There is a world else- where. In any case, the young Raven has now shed his pens, and got fledged for flying. Shall he not spurn the whole from him, and soar off ? Resolved, performed ! Our Beppo quits Palermo ; and, as it proved, on a long voyage : or, as the Inquisition-Biographer has it, ‘lie fled from Palermo, and overran the whole Earth . 5 Here then ends the First Act of Count Alessandro Cagli- ostro’s Life-drama. Let the curtain drop ; and hang unrent, before an audience of mixed feeling, till the Fust of August. 1 The Sicilian Ounce ( Onza ) is worth about ten shillings sterling. COUNT CAGL10STB0. 27 FLIGHT LAST Before entering on tlie second Section of Count Beppo’s History, the Editor will indulge in a philosophical reflec- tion. This Beppic Hegira, or Flight from Palermo, we have now arrived at, brings us down, in European History, to somewhere about the epoch of the Peace of Paris. Old Feudal Europe, while Beppo flies forth into the whole Earth, has just finished the last of her ‘ tavern-brawls,’ or wars ; and lain down to doze, and yawn, and disconsolately wear off the headaches, bruises, nervous prostration and flaccidity con- sequent thereon : for the brawl has been a long one. Seven Years long ; and there had been many such, begotten, as is usual, of intoxication from Pride or other Devil's-drink, and foul humours in the constitution. Alas, it was not so much a disconsolate doze, after ebriety and quarrel, that poor old Feudal Europe had now to undergo, and then on awakening to drink anew, and quarrel anew : old Feudal Europe has fallen a-dozing to die ! Her next awakening will be with no tavern-brawl, at the King’s Head or Prime Minister tavern ; but with the stern Avatar of Democracy, hymning its world- thrilling birth- and battle-song in the distant West ; — there- from to go out conquering and to conquer, till it have made the circuit of all the Earth, and old dead Feudal Europe is born again (after infinite pangs !) into a new Industrial one. At Beppo’s Hegira, as w T e said, Europe was in the last languor and stertorous fever-sleep of Dissolution ; alas, with us, and with our sons for a generation or two, it is almost still worse, — were it not that in Birth-throes there is ever hope, in Death- throes the final departure of hope. Now the philosophic reflection we were to indulge in, was no other than this, most germane to .our subject : the porten- tous extent of Quackery, the multitudinous variety of Quacks 2S COUNT CAGLI0STRO. tliat, along with our Beppo, and under him each in his de- gree, overran all Europe during that same period, the latter half of last century. It was the very age of impostors, cut- purses, swindlers, double-goers, enthusiasts, ambiguous per- sons ; quacks simple, quacks compound ; crack-brained, or with deceit prepense ; quacks and quackeries of all colours and kinds. How many Mesmerists, Magicians, Cabalists, Swedenborgians, Illuminati, Crucified Nuns, and Devils of Loudun ! To which the Inquisition-Biographer adds Vam- pires, Sylphs, Rosicrucians, Freemasons, and an Etcetera. Consider your Schropfers, Cagliostros, Casanovas, Saint-Ger- mains, Dr. Grahams ; the Chevalier d'Eon, Psalmanazar, Abbe Paris and the Ghost of Cock-lane ! As if Bedlam had broken loose ; as if rather, in that ‘ spiritual Twelfth-hour of the night,’ the everlasting Pit had opened itself, and from its still blacker bosom had issued Madness and all manner of shapeless Misbirths, to masquerade and chatter there. But, indeed, if we consider, how could it be otherwise? In that stertorous last fever-sleep of our European world, must not Phantasms enough, born of the Pit, as all such are, flit past, in ghastly masquerading and chattering? A low scarce-audible moan (in Parliamentary Petitions, Meal- mobs, Popish Riots, Treatises on Atheism) struggles from the moribund sleeper ; frees him not from his hellish guests and saturnalia : Phantasms these ‘ of a dying brain.’ So too, when the old Roman world, the measure of its iniquities be- ing full, was to expire, and (in still bitterer agonies) be born again, had they not Veneficse, Mathematici, Apolloniuses with the Golden Thigh, Apollonius’ Asses, and False Christs enough —before a Redeemer arose ! For, in truth, and altogether apart from such half-figura- tive language, Putrescence is not more naturally the scene of unclean creatures in the world physical, than Social Decay is of quacks in the world moral. Nay, look at it with the eye of the mere Logician, of the Political Economist. In such periods of Social Decay, what is called an overflowing Population, that is a Population which, under the old Cap- tains of Industry (named Higher Classes, Ricos Hombres, COUNT CAGL10STR0. 29 Aristocracies and tlie like), can no longer find work and wages, increases the number of Unprofessionals, Lackalls, Social Nondescripts ; with appetite of utmost keenness, which there is no known method of satisfying. Nay more, and perversely enough, ever as Population augments, your Captains of Industry can and do dwindle more and more into Captains of Idleness ; whereby the more and more overflow- ing Population is worse and worse governed (shown what to do, for that is the only government) : thus is the candle lighted at both ends ; and the number of social Nondescripts increases in double-quick ratio. Whoso is alive, it is said, £ must live ; ’ at all events, will live ; a task which daily gets harder, reduces to stranger shifts. And now furthermore, with general economic distress, in such a Period, there is usually conjoined the utmost decay of moral principle : in- deed, so universal is this conjunction, many men" have seen it to be a concatenation and causation ; justly enough, except that such have very generally, ever since a certain religious- repentant feeling went out of date, committed one sore mis- take : what is vulgarly called putting the cart before the horse. Politico-economical benefactor of the species ! de- ceive not thyself with barren sophisms : National suffering is, if thou wilt understand the words, verily a ‘judgment of God ; ’ has ever been preceded by national crime. ‘ Be it here once more maintained before the world,’ cries Sauer- teig, in one of his Springwurzel, ‘ that temporal Distress, ‘ that Misery of any kind, is not the cause of Immorality, but ‘ the effect thereof ! Among individuals, it is true, so wide ‘ is the empire of Chance, poverty and wealth go all at hap- ‘ hazard ; a St. Paul is making tents at Corinth, while a ‘ Kaiser Nero fiddles, in ivory palaces, over a burning Rome. ‘Nevertheless here too, if nowise wealth and poverty, yet ‘well-being and ill-being, even in the temporal economic ‘ sense, go commonly in respective partnership with Wisdom ‘and with Folly : no man can, for a length of time, be wholly ‘wretched, if there is not a disharmony (a folly and wicked- ‘ness) within himself ; neither cau the richest Croesus, and ‘ never so eupeptic (for he too has his indigestions, and dies 30 COUNT CAGLIOSTliO. ‘at last of surfeit), be other than discontented, perplexed, ‘unhappy, if he be a Fool.’ — This we apprehend is true, O Sauerteig, yet not the whole truth : for there is more than day’s-work and day’s- wages in this world of ours : which, as thou knowest, is itself quite other than a ‘ Workshop and Fancy-Bazaar,’ is also a ‘ Mystic Temple and Hall of Doom.’ Thus we have heard of such things as good men struggling ■with adversity, and offering a spectacle for the very gods. — ‘ But with a nation,’ continues he, ‘ where the multitude of the ‘ chances covers, in great measure, the uncertainty of Chance, ‘ it may be said to hold always that general Suffering is the ‘ fruit of general Misbehaviour, general Dishonesty. Con- ‘ sider it well ; had all men stood faithfully to their posts, ‘ the Evil, when it first rose, had been manfully fronted, and ‘ abolished, not lazily blinked, and left to grow, with the foul ‘sluggard’s comfort: “It will last my time.” Thou foul ‘sluggard, and even thief (Faulenzer, ja Dieb) ! For art ‘ thou not a thief, to pocket thy day’s-wages (be they counted ‘ in groschen or in gold thousands) for this, if it be for any- ‘ thing, for watching on thy special watch-tower that God’s ‘ City (which this His World is, where His childi'en dwell) ‘ suffer no damage ; and, all the while, to watch only that thy ‘ own ease be not invaded, — let otherwise hard come to hard ‘ as it will and can ? Unhappy ! It will last thy time : thy ‘ worthless sham of an existence, wherein nothing but the ‘ Digestion was real, will have evaporated in the interim ; it ‘ will last thy time : but will it last thy Eternity ? Or what ‘ if it should not last thy time (mark that also, for that also ‘ will be the fate of some such lying sluggard) ; but take fire, * and explode, and consume thee like the moth ! ’ The sum of the matter, in any case, is, that national Pov- erty and national Dishonesty go together ; that continually increasing social Nondescripts get ever the hungrier, ever the falser. Now say, have we not here the very making of Quack- ery ; raw material, plastic-energy, both in full action? Dis- honesty the raw-material, Hunger the plastic-energy : what will not the two realise? Nay observe farther how Dishon- esty is the raw-material not of Quacks only, but also in great COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 31 part of Dupes. In Goodness, were it never so simple, there is the surest instinct for the Good ; the uneasiest unconquer- able repulsion for the False and Bad. The very Devil Me- phistopheles cannot deceive poor guileless Margaret : ‘ it stands written on his front that he never loved a living soul ! ’ The like too has many a human inferior Quack painfully ex- perienced ; the like lies in store for our hero Beppo. But now with such abundant raw-material not only to make Quacks of, but to feed and occupy them on, if the plastic-energy of Hun- ger fail not, what a world shall we have ! The wonder is not that the eighteenth century had very numerous Quacks, but rather that they were not innumerable. In that same French Revolution alone, which burnt up so much, what unmeasured masses of Quackism were set lire to ; nay, as foul mephitic fire-damp in that case, were made to flame in a fierce, sublime splendour ; coruscating, even illumi- nating ! The Count Saint-Germain, some twenty years later, had found a quite new element, of Fraternisation, Sacred right of Insurrection, Oratorship of the Human Species, wherefrom to body himself forth quite otherwise : Schropfer needed not now, as Blackguard undeterred, have solemnly shot himself in the Rosenthal ; might have solemnly sacrificed himself, as Jacobin half-heroic, in the Place de la Revolution. For your quack-genius is indeed born, but also made ; cir- cumstances shape him or stunt him. Beppo Balsamo, born British in these new days, could have conjured fewer Spirits ; yet had found a living and glory, as Castlereagh Spy, Irish Associationist, Blacking-Manufacturer, Book-Publisher, Able Editor. Withal too the reader will observe that Quacks, in every time, are of two sorts : the Declared Quack ; and the Undeclared, who, if you question him, will deny stormfully, both to others and to himself ; of which two quack-species the proportions vary with the varying capacity of the age. If Beppo’s was the age of the Declared, therein, after all French Revolutions, we will grant, lay one of its main distinctions from ours ; which is it not yet, and for a generation or two, the age of the Undeclared ? Alas, almort a still more detest- able age ; — -yet now (by God’s grace), with Prophecy, with 32 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. irreversible Enactment, registered in Heaven’s chancery, — -where thou too, if thou wilt look, inavst read and know, That its death-doom shall not linger. Be it speedy, be it sure ! — And so herewith were our philosophical reflection, on the nature, causes, prevalence, decline and expected temporary destruction of Quackery, concluded ; and now the Beppic poetic Narrative can once more take its course. Beppo then, like a Noah’s Baven, is out upon that watery waste of dissolute, beduped, distracted European Life, to see if there is any carrion there. One unguided little Raven, in the wide-weltering ‘ Mother of dead Dogs : ’ will he not come to hai’in ; Avill he not be snapt up, drowned, starved and washed to the Devil there ? No fear of him, — for a time. His eye (or scientific judgment), it is true, as yet takes-in only a small section of it ; but then his scent (instinct of genius) is prodigious : several endowments, forgery and others, he has unfolded into talents ; the two sources of all quack talent, Cunning and Impudence, are his in richest measure. As to his immediate course of action and adventure, the foolish Inquisition-Biographer, it must be owned, shows him- self a fool, and can give us next to no insight. Like enough, Beppo ‘ fled to Messina ; ’ simply as to the nearest city, and to get across to the mainland : but as to this ‘certain Althotas’ whom he met there, and voyaged with to Alexandria in Egypt, and how they made hemp into silk, and realised much money, and came to Malta, and studied in the Laboratory there, and then the certain Althotas died, — of all this what shall be said ? The foolish Inquisition-Biographer is uncertain whether the certain Althotas was a Greek or a Spaniard ; but unhappily the prior question is not settled, whether he ivas at all. Superfluous it seems to put down Beppo’s own account of his procedure ; he gave multifarious accounts, as the exigencies of the case demanded ; this of the * certain Althotas, ’ and hemp made it false silk, is as verisimilar as that other of the ‘ sage Althotas,’ the heirship apparent of Trebisond, and the Sherif of Mecca’s “Adieu, unfortunate Child of Nature.” Nay the guesses of the ignorant world ; COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 33 how Count Cagliostro had been traveling-tutor to a Prince (name not given), whom he murdered and took the money from ; with others of the like, — were perhaps still more ab- surd. Beppo, we can see, was out and away, — the Devil knew whither. Far, variegated, painful might his roamings be. A plausible-looking shadow of him shows itself hovering- over Naples and Calabria ; thither, as to a famed high-school of Laziness and Scoundrelism, he may likely enough have gone to graduate. Of the Malta Laboratory, and Alexandrian hemp-silk, the less we say the better. This only is clear : That Beppo dived deep down into the lugubrious-obscure regions of Rascaldom ; like a Knight to the palace of his Fairy ; remained unseen there, and returned thence armed at all points. If we fancy, meanwhile, that Beppo already meditated be- coming Grand Cophta, and riding at Strasburg in the Cardi- nal’s carriage, we mistake much. Gift of Prophecy has been wisely denied to man. Did a man foresee his life, and not merely hope it, and grope it, and so, by Necessity and Free- will, make and fabricate it into a reality, he were no man, but some other kind of creature, superhuman or subterhuman. No man sees far ; the most see no farther than their noses. From the quite dim uncertain- mass of the future, ‘ which lies ‘ there, ’ says a Scottish Humorist, ‘ uncombed, uncarded, like ‘ a mass of tarry wool proverbially ill to spin, ’ they spin out, better or w r orse, their rumply, infirm thread of Existence, and wind it up, up, — till the spool is full ; seeing but some little half-yard of it at once ; exclaiming, as they look into the betarred entangled mass of Futurity, We shall see ! The first authentic fact with regard to Beppo is, that his swart squat figure becomes visible in the Corso and Campo Vacciuo of Rome ; that he ‘lodges at the Sign of the Sun in the Rotunda, ’ and sells pen-drawings there. Properly they are not pen-drawings ; but printed engravings or etchings, to' which Beppo, w r ith a pen and a little Indian ink, has added the degree of scratching to give them the air of such. Thereby mainly does he realise a thin livelihood. From which we infer that his transactions in Naples and Calabria, with Al- 3 34 COUNT (JAG LIGHT RO. thotas and hemp-silk, or whatever else, had not turned to much. Forged pen-drawings are no mine of wealth : neither was Beppo Balsamo anything of an Adonis ; on the contrary, a most dusky, bull-necked, mastiff-faced, sinister-looking indi- vidual : nevertheless, on applying for the favour of the hand of Lorenza Feliciani, a beautiful Roman donzella, ‘ dwelling near the Trinity of the Pilgrims, ’ the unfortunate child of Nature prospers beyond our hopes. Authorities differ as to the rank and status of this fair Lorenza : one account says, she was the daughter of a Girdle maker ; but adds erroneously that it was in Calabria. The matter must remain suspended. Certain enough, she was a handsome buxom creature ; * both pretty and lady-like,’ it is presumable ; but having no offer, in a country too prone to celibacy, took-up with the bull- necked forger of pen-drawings, whose suit too was doubtless pressed with the most flowing rhetoric. She gave herself in marriage to him ; and the parents admitted him to quarter in their house, till it should appear what was next to be done. Two kitchen-fires, says the Proverb, burn not on one hearth : here, moreover, might be quite special causes of discord. Pen-drawing, at best a hungry concern, has now exhausted itself, and must be given up ; but Beppo’s household pros- pects brighten, on the other side : in the charms of his Lo- renza he sees before him what the French call 1 a Future con- fused and immense.’ The hint was given ; and, with reluctance, or without reluctance (for the evidence leans both ways), was taken and reduced to practice : Signor and Signora Balsamo are forth from the old Girdler’s house, into the wide world, seeking and finding adventures. The foolish Inquisition-Biographer, with painful scientific accuracy, furnishes a descriptive catalogue of all the succes- sive Cullies (Italian Counts, French Envoys, Spanish Mar- quises, Dukes and Drakes) in various quarters of the known world, whom this accomplished pah - took-in ; with the sums each yielded, and the methods employed to bewitch him. Into which descriptive catalogue, why should we here so much as cast a glance ? Cullies, the easy cushions on which knave>s COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 35 and knavesses repose and fatten, have at all times existed, in considerable profusion : neither can the fact of a clothed ani- mal, Marquis or other, having acted in that capacity to never such lengths, entitle him to mention in History. We pass over these. Beppo, or as we must now learn to call him, the Count, appears at Venice, at Marseilles, at Madrid, Cadiz, Lis- bon, Brussels ; makes scientific pilgrimage to Quack Saint-Ger- main in Westphalia, religious-commercial to Saint Saint-James in Compostello, to Our Lady in Loretto : south, north, east-, west, he shows himself ; finds everywhere Lubricity and Stu- pidity (better or worse provided with cash), the two elements on which he thaumaturgically can work and live. Practice makes perfection ; Beppo too was an apt scholar. By all methods he can waken the stagnant imagination ; cast mad- dening powder in the eyes. Already in Borne he has culti- vated whiskers, and put-on the uniform of a Prussian Colonel : dame Lorenza is fair to look upon ; but how much fairer, if by the air of distance and dignity you lend enchantment to her ! In other places, the Count appears as real Count ; as Marquis Pellegrini (lately from foreign parts) ; as Count this and Count that, Count Proteus-Incognito ; finally as Count Alessandro Cagliostro . 1 Figure him shooting through the world with utmost rapidity ; ducking under here, when the sword-fishes of Justice make a dart at him ; ducking up yon- der, in new shape, at the distance of a thousand miles ; not unprovided with forged vouchers of respectability ; above all, with that best voucher of respectability, a four-horse carriage, beef-eaters, and open purse, for Count Cagliostro has ready- money and pays his way. At some Hotel of the Sun, Hotel of the Angel, Gold Lion, or Green Goose, or whatever Hotel it is, in whatever world-famous capital City, his chariot-wheels have rested ; sleep and food have refreshed his live-stock,' chiefly the pearl and soul thereof, his indispensable Lorenza, now no longer Dame Lorenza, but Countess Seraphina, look- ing seraphic enough ! Moneyed Donothings, whereof in this 1 Not altogether an intention this last ; for his grand-uncle (a bell- founder at Messina ?) was actually surnamed Cagliostro , as well as named Giuseppe. — 0. Y. 36 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. vexed Earth there are many, ever lounging about such places, scan, and comment on the foreign coat-of-arms ; ogle the fair foreign woman ; who timidly recoils from their gaze, timidly responds to their reverences, as in halls and passages, they obsequiously throw themselves in her way : erelong one moneyed Donothing, from amid his tags and tassels, sword belts, fop-tackle, frizzled hail’ without brains beneath it, is heard speaking to another : “ Seen the Countess ? — Divine creature that ! ” — and so the game is begun. Let not the too sanguine reader, meanwhile, fancy that it is all holiday and heyday with his Lordship. The course of scoundrelism, any more than that of true love, never did run smooth. Seasons there may be when Count Proteus-Incognito has his epaulettes torn from his shoulders ; his garment-skirts dipt close by the buttocks ; and is bid sternly tarry at Jericho till his beard be grown. Harpies of Law defile his solemn feasts ; his light burns languid ; for a space seems utterly snuffed out, and dead in malodorous vapour. Dead only to blaze up the brighter ! There is scoundrel-life in Beppo Cag- liostro ; cast him among the mud, tread him out of sight there, the miasmata do but stimulate and refresh him, he rises sneez- ing, is strong and young again. Behold him, for example, again in Palermo, after having seen many men and many lands ; and how he again escapes thence. Why did he return to Palermo? Perhaps to aston- ish old friends by new grandeur ; or for temporary shelter, if the Continent were getting hot for him ; or perhaps in the mere way of general trade. He is seized there, and clapt in prison, for those foolish old businesses of the treasure-digging Goldsmith, of the forged Will. • ‘ The manner of his escape,’ says one, whose few words on this obscure matter are so many light-points for us, ‘ deserves to be described. The Son of one of the first Sicilian Princes, and great landed Proprietors (who moreover had tilled impor- tant stations at the Neapolitan Court), was a person that united with a strong body and ungovernable temper all the tyranni- cal caprice, which the rich and great, without cultivation, think themselves entitled to exhibit. COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 37 1 Donna Lorenza had contrived to gain this man ; and on him the fictitious Marchese Pellegrini founded his security. The Prince testified openly that he was the protector of this stranger pair : but what was his fury when Joseph Balsamo, at the instance of those whom he had cheated, was cast into prison ! He tried various means to deliver him ; and as these would not prosper, he publicly, in the President’s antecham- ber, threatened the plaintiffs’ Advocate with the frightfullest misusage if the suit were not clropt, and Balsamo forthwith set at liberty. As the Advocate declined such proposal, he clutched him, beat him, threw him on the floor, trampled him with his feet, and could hardly be restrained from still farther outrages, when the President himself came running out, at the tumult, and commanded peace. 1 This latter, a w r eak, dependent man, made no attempt to punish the injurer ; the plaintiffs and their Advocate grew fainthearted ; and Balsamo was let go ; not so much as a reg- istration in the Court-Books specifying his dismissal, who oc- casioned it, or how it took place.’ * Thus sometimes, a friend in the court is better than a penny in the purse ! Marchese Pellegrini ‘ quickly there- ‘ after left Palermo, and performed various travels, whereof ‘ my author could impart no clear information.’ Whether, or how far, the Game-chicken Prince went with him is not hinted. So it might, at times, be quite otherwise than in coack-and- four that our Cagliostro journeyed. Occasionally we find him as outrider journeying on horseback ; only Serapkina and her sop (whom she is to suck and eat) lolhng on carriage- cushions ; the hardy Count glad that hereby he can have the shot paid. Nay sometimes he looks utterly poverty-struck, and must journey one knows not how. Thus one briefest but authentic-looking glimpse of him presents itself in England, in the year 1772 : no Count is he here, but mere Signor Balsamo again ; engaged in house-painting, for which he has a most peculiar talent. Was it true that he painted the country-house of ‘ a Doctor Benemore ; ’ and having not painted, but only smeared it, was refused payment, and got 1 Goetlie’s WerTcc, h. xxviii. 132. 38 CO UNT CA GL1 0S1 liO. a lawsuit with expenses instead ? If Doctor Benemore have left any representatives in this Earth, they are desired to speak out. We add only, that if young Beppo had one of the pret- tiest wives, old Benemore had one of the ugliest daughters ; and so, putting one thing to another, matters might not be so bad. For it is to be observed, that the Count, on his own side, even in his days of highest splendour, is not idle. Faded dames of quality have many wants : the Count has not stud- ied in the convent Laboratory, or pilgrimed to the Count Saint-Germain, in Westphalia, to no purpose. With loftiest condescension he stoops to impart somewhat of his supernat- ural secrets, — for a consideration. Howland’s Kalydor is valuable ; but what to the Beautifying-water of Count Ales- sandro ! He that will undertake to smooth wrinkles, and make withered green parchment into a fair carnation skin, is he not one whom faded dames of quality will delight to hon- our ? Or again, let the Beautifying-water succeed or not, have not such dames, if calumny may be in aught believed, another want? This want too the indefatigable Cagliostro will supply, — for a consideration. For faded gentlemen of quality the Count likewise has help. Not a charming Countess alone ; but a ‘ Wine of Egypt 1 (cantharides not being unknown to him), sold in drops, more precious than nectar ; which what faded gentleman of quality would not purchase with anything short of life ? Consider now what may be done with potions, washes, charms, love-philtres, among a class of mortals, idle from the mother’s womb ; rejoicing to be taught the Ionic dances, and meditating of love from their tender nails ! Thus waxing, waning, broad-shining, or extinct, an incon- stant but unwearied Moon, rides on its course the Cagliostric star. Thus are Count and Countess busy in them vocation ; thus do they spend the golden season of their youth, — shall we say, ‘ for the Greatest Happiness of the greatest num- ber?’ Happy enough, had there been no sumptuary or adultery or swindlery Law-acts ; no Heaven above, no Hell be- neath ; no flight of Time, and gloomy land of Eld and Desti- COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 39 tution and Desperation, towards which, hy law of Fate, they see themselves, at all moments, with frightful regularity, un- aidably drifting. The prudent man provides against the inevitable. Al- ready Count Cagliostro, with his love-philtres, his canthar- idic Wine of Egypt ; nay far earlier, by his blue-tlames and divining-rods, as with the poor sheep Goldsmith of Palermo ; and ever since, by many a significant hint thrown out where the scene suited, — has dabbled in the Supernatural. As his seraphic Couutess gives signs of withering, and one luxuri- ant branch of industry will die and drop off, others must be pushed into budding. Whether it was in England during what he called his ‘first visit’ in the year 1776 (for the be- fore-first, house-smearing visit was, reason or none, to go for nothing) that he first thought of Prophecy as a trade, is un- known : certain enough, he had begun to practise it then ; and this indeed not without a glimpse of insight into the English national character. Various, truly, are the pursuits of mankind ; whereon they would fain, unfolding the future, take Destiny by surprise : with us, however, as a nation of shopkeepers, they may be all said to centre in this one, Put money in thy purse ! O for a Fortunatus’-Pocket, with its ever-new coined gold if, indeed, the true prayer were not rather : O for a Crassus’-Drink, of liquid gold, that so the accursed throat of Avarice might for once have enough and to spare ! Meanwhile whoso should engage, keeping clear of the gallows, to teach men the secret of making money, were not he a Professor sure of audience? Strong were the gen- eral Scepticism ; still stronger the general Need and Greed. Count Cagliostro, from his residence in Whitcombe Street, it is clear, had looked into the mysteries of the Littlego ; by occult science, knew the lucky number. Bish as yet was not ; but Lotteries were ; gulls also were. The Count has his Language-master, his Portuguese Jew, his nondescript Ex-Jesuits, whom he puts forth, as antennae, into coffee- houses, to stir-up the minds of men. ‘Lord’ Scott (a swin- dler swindled), and Miss Fry, and many others, were they here, could tell what it cost them : nay, the very Law-books, 40 CO TINT C'A GLIOSTRO. and Lord Mansfield and Mr. Howarth. speak of hundreds, and jewel-boxes, and quite handsome booties. Thus can the bustard pluck geese, and, if Law do get the carcass, live upon their giblets ; — now and then, however, finds a vulture, too tough to pluck. The attentive reader is no doubt curious to understand all the What and the How of Cagliostro’s procedure while Eng- land was the scene. As we too are, and have been ; but un- happily all in vain. To that English Life of uncertain gender none, as was said, need in their utmost extremity repair. Scarcely the very lodging of Cagliostro can be ascertained ; except incidentally that it was once in Wliitcombe Street ; for a few days, in Warwick Court, Holborn ; finally, for some space, in the King’s Bench Jail. Vain were it, meanwhile, for any reverencer of genius to pilgrim thither, seeking memorials of a great man. Cagliostro is clean gone : on the strictest search, no token never so faint discloses itself. He went, and left nothing behind him ; — except perhaps a few cast-clothes, and other inevitable exuviae, long since, not in- deed annihilated (this nothing can be), yet beaten into mud, and spread as new soil over the general surface of Middlesex and Surrey ; floated by the Thames into old Ocean ; or flit- ting, the gaseous parts of them, in the universal Atmosphere, borne thereby to remotest corners of the Earth, or beyond the limits of the Solar System ! So fleeting is the track and habitation of man ; so wondrous the stuff he builds of ; his house, his very house of houses (what we call his body), were he the first of geniuses, will evaporate in the strangest man- ner, and vanish even whither we have said. To us on our side, however, it is cheering to discover, for one thing, that Cagliostro found antagonists worthy of him : the bustard plucking geese, and living on their giblets, found not our whole Island peopled with geese, but here and there, as above hinted, with vultures, with hawks of still sharper quality than his. Priddle, • Aylett, Saunders, O’Reilly : let these stand forth as the vindicators of English national char- acter. By whom Count Alessandro Cagliostro, as in dim fluctuating outline, indubitably appears, was bewritted. ar- COUNT CAGL10STR0. 41 rested, fleeced, hatchelled, bewildered, and bedevilled, till the very Jail of King’s Bench seemed a refuge from them. A wholly obscure contest, as was natural ; wherein, however, to all candid eyes the vulturous and falconish character of our Isle fully asserts itself ; and the foreign Quack of Quacks, with all his thaumaturgic Hemp-silks, Lottery-numbers. Beauty-waters, Seductions, Phosphorus-boxes, and Wines of Egypt, is seen matched, and nigh throttled, by the natural unassisted cunning of English Attorneys. Whereupon the bustard, feeling himself so pecked and plucked, takes wing, and flies to foreign parts. One good thing he has carried with him, notwithstanding : initiation into some primary arcana of Freemasonry. The Quack of Quacks, with his primitive bias towards the super- natural-mystificatory, must long have bad his eye on Ma- sonry ; which, with its blazonry and mummery, sashes, drawn sabres, brothers Terrible, brothers Venerable (the whole so imposing by candle -light), offered the choicest element for him. All men profit by Union with men ; the quack as much as another ; nay in these two words, Sworn Secrec //, alone has he not found a very talisman ! Cagliostro, then, determines on Masonship. It was afterwards urged that the Lodge to which he and his Seraphina got admission, for she also was made a Mason, or Masoness, and had a riband- garter solemnly bound on, with order to sleep in it for n night, — was a Lodge of low rank in the social scale ; number- ing not a few of the pastry-cook and hairdresser species. To which it could only be replied, that these alone spoke French ; that a man and mason, though he cooked pastry, was still a man and mason. Be this as it might, the apt Recipien- dary is rapidly promoted through the three grades of Appren- tice, Companion, Master ; at the cost of five guineas. That of his being first raised into the air, by means of a rope and pully fixed in the ceiling, ‘ during which the heavy mass of his body must assuredly have caused him a dolorous sensation ; ’ and then being forced blindfold to shoot himself (though with privily disloaded pistol), in sign of courage and obedience : all this we can esteem an apocrypha, — palmed on the Roman 42 COUNT 'CAGL10STR0. Inquisition, otherwise prone to delusion. Five guineas, and some foolish froth-speeches, delivered over liquor and other- wise, was the cost. If you ask now, In what London Lodge was it ? Alas, we know not, and shall never know. Certain only that Count Alessandro is a master-mason ; that having once crossed the threshold, his plastic genius will not stop there. Behold, accordingly, he has bought from a ‘Bookseller’ certain manuscripts belonging to ‘ one George Cofton, a man absolutely unknown to him ’ and to us, which treat of the ‘ Egyptian Masonry ! ’ In other words. Count Alessandro will blow with his new five-guinea bellows ; having always oc- casion to raise the wind. With regard specially to that huge soap-bubble of an Egyp- tian Masonry w r hich he blew, and as conjuror caught many flies with, it is our painful duty to say a little ; not much. The Inquisition-Biographer, with deadly fear of heretical and democratical and blackmagical Freemasons before his eyes, has gone into the matter to boundless depths ; commenting, elucidating, even confuting : a certain expository masonic Order-Book of Cagliostro’s, which he has laid hand on, opens the whole mystery to him. The ideas he declares to be Cagli- ostro’s ; the composition all a Disciple’s, for the Count had no gift that way. What then does the Disciple set forth, — or, at lowest, the Inquisition-Biographer say that he sets forth? Much, much that is not to the point. Understand, however, that once inspired, by the absolutely unknown George Cofton, with the notion of Egyptian Masonry, wherein as yet lay much ‘ magic and superstition,’ Count Ales- sandro resolves to free it of these impious ingredients, and make it a kind of Last Evangel, or Renovator of the Universe, — which so needed renovation. * As he did not believe any- thing in matter of Faith,’ says our’ wooden Familiar, ‘nothing could arrest him.’ True enough : how did he move along then ; to what length did he go ? ‘ In his system he promises his followers to conduct them to joerfection, by means of a physical and moral regeneration ; to enable them by the former (or physical) to find the prune mat ■ COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 43 ter, or Philosopher's Stone, and the acacia which consolidates in man the forces of the most vigorous 3 r outh, and renders him immortal ; and by the latter (or moral) to procure them a Pentagon, which shall restore man to his primitive state of innocence, lost by original sin. The Founder supposes that this Egyptian Masonry was instituted by Enoch and Elias, who propagated it in different parts of the world : however, in time, it lost much of its purity and splendour. And so, by degrees, the Masonry of men had been reduced to pure buf- foonery ; and that of women been almost entirely destroyed, having now for most part no place in common Masonry. Till at last, the zeal of the Grand Cophta (so are the High-priests of Egypt named) had signalised itself by restoring the Masonry of both sexes to its pristine lustre.’ With regard to the great question of constructing this in- valuable Pentagon, which is to abolish Original Sin : how you have to choose a solitary mountain, and call it Sinai ; and build a Pavilion on it to be named Sion, with twelve sides, in every side a window, and three stories, one of which is named Ararat ; and there, with Twelve Masters, each at a window, yourself in the middle of them, to go through unspeakable formalities, vigils, removals, fasts, toils, distresses, and hardly get your Pentagon after all, — with regard to this great ques- tion and construction, we shall say nothing. As little con- cerning the still grander and painfuller process of Physical Regeneration, or growing young again ; a thing not to be ac- complished without a forty-days course of medicine, purga- tions, sweating-baths, fainting-fits, root-diet, phlebotomy, star- vation and desperation, more perhaps than it is all worth. Leaving these interior solemnities, and many high moral pre- cepts of union, virtue, wisdom, and doctrines of immortality and what not, will the reader care to cast an indifferent glance on certain esoteric ceremonial parts of this Egyptian Masonry, — as the Inquisition-Biographer, if we miscellaneously cull from him, may enable us ? ‘In all these ceremonial parts,’ huskily avers the wooden Biographer, ‘ you find as much sacrilege, profanation,, super- stition and idolatry, as in common Masonry : invocations of the holy Name, prosternations, adorations lavished on the 44 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. Venerable, or Lead of the Lodge ; aspirations, insufflations, incense-burnings, fumigations, exorcisms of the Candidates and the garments they are to take ; emblems of the sacrosanct Triad, of the Moon, of the Sun, of the Compass, Square, and a thousand-thousand other iniquities and ineptitudes, which are now well known in the world.’ ‘We above made mention of the Grand Cophta. By this title has been designated the founder or restorer of Egyptian Masonry. Cagliostro made no difficulty in admitting ’ (to me the Inquisitor) ‘that under such name he was himself' meant : now in this system the Grand Cophta is compared to the Highest : the most solemn acts of worship are paid him ; he has authority over the Angels ; he is invoked on all occasions ; everything is done in virtue of his power ; which you are as- sured he derives immediately from God. Nay more : among the various rites observed in this exercise of Masonry, you are ordered to recite the Veni Creator spiritus, the Te Deum , and some Psalms of David : to such an excess is impudence and audacity carried, that in the Psalm, Memento, 1) amine, David et omnis rnansuetudinis ejus, every time the name David oc- curs, that of the Grand Cophta is to be substituted. ‘ No Religion is excluded from the Egyptian Society : the Jew, the Calvinist, the Lutheran, can be admitted equally well with the Catholic, if so be they admit the existence of God and the immortality of the soul.’ ‘ The men elevated to the rank of master take the names of the ancient Prophets ; the women those of the Sibyls.’ * * ‘ Then the grand Mistress blows on the face of the female • Recipiendary, all along from brow to chin, and says : “ I give you this breath, to cause to germinate and be- come alive in your heart the Truth which we possess ; to for- tify in you. the ” &c. &c. “ Guardian of the new Knowledge which we prepare to make you partake of, by the sacred names of Helios, Mene, Tetragrammalon.” ‘ In the Essai sur les Illumines, printed at Pairs in 1789, I read that these latter words were suggested to Cagliostro as Arabic or Sacred ones by a Sleight-of-hand Man, who said that he was assisted by a spirit, and added that this spirit ■was the Soul of a Cabalist Jew, who by art-magic had killed his pig before the Christian Advent.’ * * ‘ They take a young, lad, or a girl who is in the state of innocence, such they call the Pupil or the Columb : the Venerable communicates to him the power he would have had before the Fall of Man ; which power consists mainly in COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 45 commanding the pure Spirits ; these Spirits are to the num- ber of seven : it is said they surround the Throne ; and that they govern the Seven Planets : their names are Anael, Michael, Baphael, Gabriel, Uriel, Zobiachel, Anachiel.’ Or would the reader wish to see this Columb in action ? She can act in two ways ; either behind a curtain, behind a liieroglyphically-painted Screen with ‘ table and three can- dles ; ’ or as here ‘before the Caraffe,’ and showing face. If the miracle fail, it can only be because she is not ‘in the state of innocence,’ — an accident much to be guarded against. This scene is at Mittau ; — we find, indeed, that it is a Pupil affair, not a Columb one ; but for the rest, that is perfectly indifferent : ‘ Cagliostro accordingly (it is his own story still) brought a little Boy into the Lodge ; son of a nobleman there. He placed him on his knees before a table, whereon stood a Bottle of pure water, and behind this some lighted candles : he made an exorcism round the Boy, put his hand on his head : and both, in this attitude, addressed their prayers to God for the happy accomplishment of the work. Haying then bid the child look into the Bottle, directly the child cried that he saw a garden. Knowing hereby that Heaven assisted him, Cagliostro took courage, and bade the child ask of God the grace to see the Angel Michael. At first the child said : “I see something white ; I know not what it is.” Then he began jumping, stamping like a possessed creature, and cried : “ There now ! I see a child, like myself, that seems to have something angelical.” All the assembly, and Caglios- tro himself, remained speechless with emotion. * * * The child being anew exorcised, with the hands of the Venera- ble on his head, and the customary prayers addressed to Heaven, he looked into the Bottle, and said, he saw his Sister at that moment coming down stairs, and embracing one of her brothers. That appeared impossible, the brother in ques- tion being then hundreds of miles off : however, Cagliostro felt not disconcerted ; said, they might send to the country- house where the sister was, and see .’ 1 1 Vie de Joseph Balsamo ; traduite d’apres Voriginal Italien, ch. ii. iii. (Paris, 1791.) 46 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. Wonderful enough. Here, however, a fact rather suddenly transpires, which, as the Inquisition-Biographer well urges, must serve to undeceive all believers in Cagliostro ; at least, call a blush into their cheeks. It seems : ‘ The Grand Cophta, ‘ the restorer, the propagator of Egyptian Masonry, Count ‘ Cagliostro himself, testifies, in most part of his System, the ‘ profoundest respect for the Patriarch Moses : and yet this ‘ same Cagliostro affirmed before his judges that he had always ‘ felt the insurmountablest antipathy to Moses ; and attributes ‘ this hatred to his constant opinion, that Moses was a thief ‘ for having carried off the Egyptian vessels ; which opinion, ‘ in spite of all the luminous arguments that were opposed to ‘ him to show how erroneous it was, he has continued to hold ‘ with an invincible obstinacy ! ’ How reconcile these two in- consistencies ? Ay, how? But to finish-off this Egyptian Masonic business, and bring it all to a focus, we shall now, for the first and for the last time, peep one moment through the spyglass of Monsieur de Luchet, in that Essai sur les Illumines of his. The whole mat- ter being so much of a chimera, how can it be painted other- wise than chimerically ? Of the following passage one thing is true, that a creature of the seed of Adam believed it to be true. List, list, then ; O list ! ‘ The Becipiendary is led by a darksome path, into an im- mense hall, the ceiling, the walls, the floor of which are cov- ered by a black cloth, sprinkled over with red flames and men- acing serpents : three sepulchral lamps emit, from time to time, a dying glimmer ; and the eye half distinguishes, in this lugubrious den, certain wrecks of mortality suspended by funeral crapes : a heap of skeletons forms in the centre a sort of altar ; on both sides of it are piled books ; some contain menaces against the perjured ; others the deadly narrative of the vengeances which the Invisible Spirit has exacted ; of the infernal evocations for a long time pronounced in vain. ‘ Eight hours elapse. Then Phantoms, trailing mortuary veils, slowly cross the hall, and sink in caverns, without au- dible noise of trap-doors or of falling. You notice only that they are gone, by a fetid odor exhaled from them. ‘ The Novice remains four-and-twenty hours in this gloomy COUNT CA GLIOtiTRO. 47 abode, in the midst of a freezing silence. A rigorous fast has already weakened his thinking faculties. Liquors, prepared for the purpose, first weary, and at length wear-out his senses. At his feet are placed three cups, filled with a drink of green- ish colour. Necessity^ lifts them towards his lips ; involuntary fear repels them. ‘ At last appear two men ; looked upon as the ministers of death. These gird the pale brow of the Recipiendary with an auroral-coloured riband, dipt in blood, and full of silvered characters mixed with the figure of Our Lady" of Loretto. He receives a copper crucifix, of two inches length ; to his neck are hung a sort of amulets, wrapped in violet cloth. He is stript of his clothes ; which two ministering brethren deposit on a funeral pile, erected at the other end of the hall. With blood, on his naked body, are traced crosses. In this state of suffering and humiliation, he sees approaching with large strides five Phantoms, armed with swords, and clad in gar- ments dropping blood. Their faces are veiled : they" spread a carpet on the floor ; kneel there ; pray ; and remain with out- stretched hands crossed on their breast, and face fixed on the ground, in deep silence. An hour passes in this painful atti- tude. After which fatiguing trial, plaintive cries are heard ; the funeral pile takes fire, yet casts only a pale light ; the gar- ments are thrown on it and burnt. A colossal and almost transparent Figure rises from the very bosom of the pile. At sight of it, the five prostrated men fall into convulsions insup- portable to look on ; the too faithful image of those foaming struggles wherein a mortal, at handgrips with a sudden pain, ends by sinking under it. ‘ Then a trembling voice pierces the vault, and articulates the formula of those execrable oaths that are to be sworn : my pen falters ; I think myself almost guilty to retrace them.’ O Luchet, what a taking ! Is there no hope left, thinkest thou ? Thy brain is all gone to addled albumen ; help seems none, if not in that last mother’s-bosom of all the ruined : Brandy-and-water ! — An unfeeling world may laugh ; but ought to recollect that, forty years ago, these things were sad realities, — in the heads of many" men. As to the execrable oaths, this seems the main one : ‘ Hon- ‘our and respect Aqua Toffana, as a sure, prompt and neces- ‘ sary means of purging the Globe, by the death or the hebe- 48 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. ‘ tation of such as endeavour to debase the Truth, or snatch it ‘ from our hands.’ And so the catastrophe ends by bathing our poor half-dead Recipiendary first in blood, then, after some genuflexions, in water ; and ‘ serving him a repast composed of roots,’ — we grieve to say, mere potatoes-and- point ! Figure now all this boundless, cunningly devised Agglom erate of royal-arches, death’s-heads, hieroglyphicaJly painted screens, Columbs in the state of innocence ; with spacious ma- sonic halls, dark, or in the favourablest theatrical light-and- dark ; Kircher’s magic-lantern, Belshazzar hand-writings, of phosphorus ; ‘ plaintive tones,’ gong-beatings ; hoary beard of a supernatural Grand Cophta emerging from the gloom ; — and how it acts, not only indirectly through the foolish senses of men, but directly on their Imagination ; connecting itself with Enoch and Elias, with Philanthropy, Immortality, Eleu- theromania, and Adam AVeissliaupt’s Illuminati, and so down- wards to the infinite Deep : figure all this ; and in the centre of it, sitting eager and alert, the skilfullest Panourgos, work- ing the mighty chaos, into a creation — of ready-money. In such a wide plastic ocean of sham and foam had the Archcpiaclc now happily begun to envelop himself. Accordingly he goes forth prospering and to prosper. Ar- rived in any City, he has but by masonic grip to accredit him- self with the Venerable of the place ; and, not by degrees as formerly, but in a single night, is introduced in Grand Lodge to all that is fattest and foolishest far or near ; and in the fit- test arena, a gilt-pasteboard Masonic hall. There between the two pillars of Jachin and Boaz, can the great Sheepstealer see Ins whole flock of Dupeables assembled in one penfold ; affec- tionately blatant, licking the hand they are to bleed by. A ic- torious Acharat-Beppo ! The genius of Amazement, moreover, has now shed her glory round him ; he is radiant-headed, a supernatural by his very gait. Behold him everywhere wel- comed with vivats, or in awestruck silence : gilt-pasteboard Freemasons receive him under the Steel Arch of crossed sabres ; he mounts to the Seat of the A T enerable ; holds high COUNT CAGLIOSTBO. 49 discourse hours long, on Masonry, Morality, Universal Science, Divinity, and Things in general, with ‘ a sublimity, an empha- sis and unction,’ proceeding, it appears, ‘ from the special in- spiration of the Holy Ofhost.’ Then there are Egyptian Lodges to be founded, corresponded with, — a thing involving expense ; elementary fractions of many a priceless arcanum, nay if the place will stand it, of the Pentagon itself, can be given to the purified in life : how gladly would he give them, but they have to be brought from the uttermost ends of the world, and cost money. Now too, with what tenfold impetuosity do all the old trades of Egyptian Drops, Beauty-waters, Secret-favours, expand themselves, and rise in price ! Life-w T eary moneyed Donothing, this seraphic Countess is Grand Priestess of the Egyptian Female Lodges ; has a touch of the supramundane Undine in her : among all thy intrigues, hadst thou ever yet Endymion-like an intrigue with the lunar Diana, — called also Hecate ? And thou, O antique, much-loving faded Dowager, this Squire-of-dames can, it appears probable, command the Seven Angels, Uriel, Anacliiel and Company ; at lowest, has the eyes of all Europe fixed on him ! — The dog pockets money enough, and can seem to despise money. To us, much meditating on the matter, it seemed perhaps strangest of all, how Count Cagliostro, received under the Steel Arch, could hold Discourses, of from one to three hours long, on Universal Science, of such unction, we do not say as to seem inspired by the Holy Spirit, but as not to get him lugged out of doors directly after his first head of method, and drowned in whole oceans of salt-and- water. The man could not speak ; only babble in long-winded diffusions, cha- otic circumvolutions tending nowhither. He had no thought for speaking with ; he had not even a language. His Sicilian Italian, and Laquais-de-place French, garnished with shreds from all European dialects, was •wholly intelligible to no mor- tal ; a Tower-of-Babel jargon, which made many think him a kind of Jew. But indeed, with the language of Greeks, or of Angels, what better were it ? The man, once for all, has no articulate utterance ; that tongue of his emits noises enough, but no speech. Let him begin the plainest story, his stream 4 50 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. stagnates at the first stage ; chafes, “ ahem ! ahem ! ” loses itself in the earth ; or, bursting over, flies abroad 'without bank or channel,- — into separate plashes. Not a stream, but a lake, a wide-spread indefinite marsh. His whole thought is confused, inextricable ; what thought, what resemblance of thought he has, cannot deliver itself, except in gasps, blustering gushes, spasmodic refluences, which make bad worse. Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble: how thou bubblest, foolish ‘ Bubbly jock ! ’ Hear him once, and on a dead-lift occasion, as the Inquisition Gurney reports it : ‘ “I mean and I wish to mean, that even as those who honour then’ father and mother, and respect the sovereign Pontiff, are blessed of God ; even so all that I did, I did it by the order of God, wuth the power which he vouchsafed me, and to the advantage of God and of Holy Church; and I mean to give the proofs of all that I have done and said, not only physically but morally, by showing that as I have served God for God and by the power of God, he has given me at last the counterpoison to confound and combat Hell ; for I know no other enemies than those that are in Hell, and if I am wrong, the Holy Father will punish me ; if I am right, he .will reward me; and if the Holy Father could get into his hands to-night these answers of mine, I predict to all breth- ren, believers and unbelievers, that I should be at liberty to- morrow morning.” Being desired to give these proofs then, he answered : “ To prove that I have been chosen of God as an apostle to defend, and propagate religion, I say that as the Holy Church has instituted pastors to demonstrate in face of the world that she is the true Catholic faith, even so, having operated with approbation and by the counsel of pastors of the Holy Church, I am, as I said, fully justified in regard to all my operations ; and these pastors have assured me that my Egyptian Order was divine, and deserved to be formed into an Order sanctioned by the Holy Father, as I said in another interrogatory.” ’ How then, in the name of wonder, said we, could such a babbling, bubbling Turkey-cock speak with ‘ unction ? Two things here are to be taken into account. First, the difference between speaking and public speaking ; a differ- ence altogether generic. Secondly, the wonderful power of CO TINT CA GL10S1R0. 51 a certain audacity, often named impudence. Was it never thy hard fortune, good Reader, to attend any Meeting con- vened for Public purposes ; any Bible-Society, Reform, Con- servative, Thatched-Tavern, Hogg Dinner, or other such Meeting? Thou hast seen some full-fed Long-ear by free determination, or on sweet constraint, start to his legs, and give voice. Well aware wert thou that there was not, had not been, could not be, in that entire ass-cranium of his any fraction of an idea : nevertheless mark him. If at first an ominous haze flit round, and nothing, not even nonsense, dwell in his recollection, — heed it not ; let him but plunge desperately on, the spell is broken. Commonplaces enough are at hand: ‘labour of love,’ ‘rights of suffering millions,’ ‘throne and altar,’ ‘divine gift of song,’ or what else it may be ; the Meeting, by its very name, has environed itself in a given element of Commonplace. But anon, behold how his talking-organs get heated, and the friction vanishes ; cheers, applauses, with the previous dinner and strong drink, raise him to height of noblest temper. And now, as for your vo- ciferous Dullard is easiest of all, let him keep on the soft, safe parallel course ; parallel to the Truth, or nearly so ; for Heaven’s sake, not in contact with it : no obstacle will meet him ; on the favouring given element of Commonplace he triumphantly careers. He is as the ass, whom you took and cast headlong into the water : the water at first threatens to swallow him ; but he finds, to his astonishment, that he can swim therein, that it is buoyant and bears him along. One sole condition is indispensable : audacity, vulgarly called im- pudence. Our ass must commit himself to his watery ‘ele- ment ; ’ in free daring, strike forth his four limbs from him : then shall he not drown and sink, but shoot gloriously for- ward, and swim, to the admiration of bystanders. The ass, safe lauded on the other bank, shakes his rough hide, won- derstruck himself at the faculty that lay in him, and waves joyfully his long ears : so too the public speaker. Caglios- tro, as we know r him of old, is not without a certain blub- bery oiliness of soul as of body, with vehemence lying under it ; has the volublest, noisiest tongue ; and in the audacity 52 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. vulgarly called impudence is without a fellow. The Common- places of such Steel-Arch Meetings are soon at his fiuger- euds : that same bhrbbery oiliness, and vehemence lying un- der it, once give them an element and stimulus, are the very gift of a fluent -public speaker — to Dupeables. Here too let us mention a circumstance, not insignificant, if true, which it may readily enough be. In younger years, Beppo Balsamo once, it is recorded, took some pains to pro- cure, ‘ from a country vicar,’ under quite false pretences, ‘ a bit of cotton steeped in holy oils.’ What could such bit of cotton steeped in holy oils do for him ? An Unbeliever from any basis of conviction the unbelieving Beppo could never be ; but solely from stupidity and bad morals. Might there not lie in that chaotic blubbery nature of his, at the bottom of all, a certain musk-grain of real Supersti tious Belief? How won- derfully such a musk-grain of Belief will flavour, and impreg- nate with seductive odour, a whole inward world of Quackery, so that every fibre thereof shall smell musk, is well known. No Quack can persuade like him who has himself some per- suasion. Nay, so wondrous is the act of Believing. Deception and Self-deception must, rigorously speaking, co-exist in all Quacks ; and he perhaps were definable as the best Quack, in whom the smallest musk-grain of the latter would sufficiently flavour the largest mass of the former. But indeed, as we know otherwise, was there not in Cagli- ostro a certain pinchbeck counterfeit of all that is golden and good in man, of somewhat even that is best ? Cheers, and illuminated hieroglyphs, and the ravishment of thronging audi- ences, can make him maudlin ; his very wickedness of practice will render him louder in eloquence of theory ; and ‘ philan- thropy,’ ‘divine science,’ ‘depth of unknown worlds,’ ‘finer feelings of the heart,’ and such like shall draw tears from most asses of sensibility. Neither, indeed, is it of moment how/eio his elementary Commonplaces are, how empty his head is, so he but agitate it well : thus a lead-drop or two, put into the emptiest dry-bladder, and jingled to and fro, will make noise enough ; and even, if skilfully jingled, a kind of martial music. Such is the Cagliostric palaver, that bewitches all manner COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 53 of believing souls. If the ancient Fathei’ was named Chrysos- tom, or Mouth-of-Golcl, be the modern Quack named Pinch* beckostom, or Mouth-of -Pinchbeck ; in an Age of Bronze such metal finds elective affinities. On the whole too, it is worth considering what element your Quack specially works in : the element of Wonder ! The Genuine, be he artist or artisan, works in the finitude of the Known ; the Quack in the infini- tude of the Unknown. And then how, in rapidest progression, he grows and advances, once start him ! Your name is up, says the adage ; you may lie in bed. A nimbus of renown and preternatural astonishment envelops Cagliostro ; enchants the general eye. The few reasoning mortals scattered here and there who see through him, deafened in the universal hub- bub, shut their lips in sorrowful disdain ; confident in the grand remedy, Time. The Enchanter meanwhile rolls on his way ; what boundless materials of Deceptibility, w'hat greedi- ness and ignorance, especially what prurient brute-minded- ness, exist over Europe in this the most deceivable of modern ages, are stirred up, fermenting in his behoof. He careers onward as a Comet ; his nucleus, of paying and praising Dupes, embraces, in long radius, what city and province he rests over ; his thinner tail, of wondering and curious Dupes, stretches into remotest lands. Good Lavater, from amid his Swiss Mountains, could say of him : ‘ Cagliostro, a ‘ man ; and a man such as few are ; in whom, however, I am ‘ not a believer. O that he were simple of heart and humble, ‘ like a child ; that he had feeling for the simplicity of the ‘ Gospel, and the majesty of the Lord [Hoheit des Herrn ) ! ‘ Who were so great as he ? Cagliostro often tells what is not ‘ true, and promises what he does not perform. Yet do I no- 1 wise hold his operations as deception, though they are not s what he calls them.’ 1 If good Lavater could so say of him, what must others have been saying ! Comet-wise, progressing with loud flourish of kettle-drums, everywhere under the Steel Arch, evoking spirits, transmuting metals (to such as could stand it), the Arch quack has trav- 1 Lettre du Comte Mirabeau sur Cagliostro et Lavater , p. 42. (Berlin, 1786.) 54 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. ersed Saxony ; at Leipzig has run athwart the hawser of a brother quack (poor Schropfer, here scarcely recognisable as ‘ Scieffert ’), and wrecked him. Through Eastern Germany, Prussian Poland, he progresses ; and so now at length, in the spring of 1780, has arrived at Petersburg. His pavilion is erected here, his flag prosperously hoisted : Mason-lodges have long ears ; he is distributing, as has now become his wont, Spagyric Food, medicine for the poor ; a train-oil Piince, Potemkin or something like him, for accounts are dubious, feels his chops water over a seraphic Seraphina : all goes merry, and promises the best. But in those despotic coun- tries, the Police is so arbitrary ! Cagliostro’s thaumaturgy must be overhauled by the Empress’s Physician (Mouncey, a hard Annandale Scot) ; is found naught, the Spagyric Food unfit for a dog : and so, the whole particulars of his Lordship’s conduct being put together, the result is, that he must leave Petersburg, in a given brief term of hour's. Happy for him that it was so brief : scarcely is he gone, till the Prussian Ambassa- dor appears with a complaint, that he has falsely assumed the Prussian uniform at Borne ; the Spanish Ambassador with a still graver complaint, that he has forged bills at Cadiz. How- ever, he is safe over the marches : let them complain their fill. In Courland, and in Poland, great things await him ; yet not unalloyed by two small reverses. The famed Countess von der Becke, a born Fair Saint, what the Germans call Schone Seele, as yet quite young in heart and experience, but broken down with grief for departed friends, — seeks to ques- tion the world-famous Spirit-summoner on the secrets of the Invisible Kingdoms ; whither, with fond strained eyes, she is incessantly looking. The galimatias of Pinchbeckostom can- not impose on this pure-minded simple woman : she recog. nises the Quack in him, and in a printed Book makes known the same : Mephisto’s mortifying experience with Margaret, as above foretold, renews itself for Cagliostro. 1 At Warsaw too, though he discourses on Egyptian Masonry, on Medical Philosophy, and the ignorance of Doctors, and performs sue- Zeitgenossen , No. 15. § Frau von der Recke. COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 55 cessfully with Pupil and Columb, a certain ‘Count M.' cher- ishes more than doubt ; which ends in certainty, in a written Cagliostro Unmasked. The Archquack, triumphant, sumptu- ously feasted in the city, has retired with a chosen set of be- lievers, with whom, however, was this unbelieving ‘M.’ into the country ; to transmute metals, to prepare perhaps the Pentagon itself. All that night, before leaving Warsaw, ‘ our dear Master ’ had spent conversing with spirits. Spirits ? cries ‘M. Not he ; but melting ducats : he has a melted mass of them in this crucible, which now, by sleight of hand, he would fain substitute for that other, filled, as you all. saw, with red-lead, carefully luted down, smelted, set to cool, smuggled from among our hands, and now (look at it, ye asses !) — found broken and hidden among these bushes ! Neither does the Pentagon, or Elixir of Life, or whatever it was, prosper better. ‘ Our sweet Master enters into expos- ‘ tulation : ’ ‘ swear’s by his great God, and his honour, that ‘ he will finish the work and make us happy. He carries his ‘ modesty so far as to propose that he shall work with chains ‘ on his feet ; and consents to lose his life, by the hands of his ‘ disciples, if before the end of the fourth passage, his word ‘ be not made good. He lays his hand on the ground, and ‘ kisses it ; holds it up to Heaven, and again takes God to ‘ -witness that he speaks true ; calls on Him to exterminate ‘ him if he lies.’ A vision of the hoary-bearded Grand Cophta himself makes night solemn. In vain ! The sherds of that broken red-lead crucible, which pretends to stand here unbroken half-full of silver, he there, before your eyes : that * resemblance of a sleeping child,’ grown visible in the magic cooking of our Elixir, proves to be an inserted rosemary-leaf ; the Grand Cophta cannot be gone too soon. Count ‘M.,’ balancing towards the opposite extreme, even thinks him inadequate ’as a Quack. ‘ Far from being modest,’ says this Unmasker, ‘ he brags beyond expression, in anybody’s presence, especially in women’s, of the grand faculties he possesses. Every word is an exaggeration, or a statement you feel to be improbable. The smallest contradiction puts him in fury : his vanity 56 COUNT CAGL10STR0. breaks through on all sides ; he lets you give him a festival that sets the whole city a-talking. Most impostors are supple, and endeavour to gain friends. This one, you might say, studies to appear arrogant, to make all men enemies, by his rude injurious speeches, by the squabbles and grudges he in- troduces "among friends.’ ! He quarrels with his coadjutors for' trifles ; fancies that a simple giving of the lie will persuade the public that they are liars.’ ‘ Schropfer at Leipzig was far cleverer.’ ‘ He should get some ventriloquist for assistant : should read some Books of Chemistiy ; study the tricks of Philadelphia and Comus .’ 1 Fair advices, good ‘ M. ; ’ but do not you yourself admit that he has a ‘ natural genius for deception ; ’ above all things, ‘ a forehead of brass ( front cVairairi), which nothing can dis- concert ? ’ To such a genius, and such a brow, Comus and Philadelphia, and all the ventriloquists in Nature, can add little. Give the Archquack his due. These arrogancies of his prove only that he is mounted on his high horse, and has now the world under him. Such reverses, which will occur in the lot of every man, are, for our Cagliostro, but as specks in the blaze of the meridian Sun. With undimmed lustre he is, as heretofore, handed over from this ‘Prince P.’ to that Prince Q. ; among which high believing potentates, what is an incredulous ‘Count M. ?’ His pockets are distended with ducats and diamonds : he is off to Vienna, to Frankfort, to Strasburg, by extra-post ; and there also -will work miracles. ‘ The train he commonly took with him,’ says the Inquisition-Biographer, ‘ corresponded to ‘ the rest ; he always travelled post, with a considerable suite : ‘ couriers, lackeys, body-servants, domestics of all sorts, surnp- ‘ tuously dressed, gave an ah of reality to the high birth he ‘ vaunted. The very liveries he got made at Paris cost ‘ twenty louis each. Apartments furnished in the height of ‘the mode; a magnificent table, open to numerous guests ; ‘ rich dresses for himself and his wife, corresponded to this lux- ‘ urious way of life. His feigned generosity likewise made a 1 Cagliostro demasque a Varsovie, en 1780, pp. 35 et seq (Vails, 178G.) CO LCX T CA GLIOSTRO. 57 ‘ gi'eat noise. Often lie gratuitously doctored the poor, and "even gave them alms.’ 1 In the inside of all this splendid travelling and lodging economy, are to be seen, as we know, two suspicious-looking rouged or unrouged figures, of a Count and a Countess ; loll- ing on their cushions there, with a jaded, haggard kind of as- pect ; they eye one another sullenly, in silence, with a scarce- suppressed indignation ; for each thinks the other does not work enough and eats too much. Whether Dame Lorenza followed her peculiar side of the business with reluctance or with free alacrity, is a moot-point among Biographers : not so that, with her choleric adipose Archquack, she had a sour life of it, and brawling- abounded. If we look still farther inwards, and try to penetrate the inmost self-consciousness, what in another man would be called the conscience, of the Archquack himself, the view gets most uncertain ; little or nothing to be seen but a thick fallacious haze. Which indeed was the main thing extant there. Much in the Count Front-d’airain remains dubious ; yet hardly this : his want of clear insight into any- thing, most of all into his own inner man. Cunning in the supreme degree he has ; intellect- next to none. Nay, is not cunning (couple it with an esurient character) the natural con- sequence of defective intellect ? It is properly the vehement exercise of a short, poor vision ; of an intellect sunk, bemired ; which can attain to no free vision, otherwise it would lead the esurient man to be honest. Meanwhile gleams of muddy light will occasionally visit all mortals ; every living creature (according to Milton, the very Devil) has some more or less faint resemblance of a Con- science ; must make inwardly certain auricular confessions, absolutions, professions of faith, — were it only that he does not yet quite loathe, and so proceed to hang himself. "What such a Porous as Cagliostro might specially feel, and think, and be, were difficult in any case to say ; much more when contradiction and mystification, designed and unavoidable, so involve the matter. One of the most authentic documents 1 Vie de Joseph Balsamo , p. 41. 58 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. preserved of liira is the Picture of his Visage. An Effigies once universally diffused ; in oil-paint, aquatint, marble, stucco, and perhaps gingerbread, decorating millions of apart- ments : of which remarkable Effigies one copy, engraved in the line-manner, happily still lies here. Fittest of visages ; worthy to be worn by the Quack of Quacks ! A most porten- tous face of scoundrelism : a fat, snub, abominable face ; dew- lapped, fiat-nosed, greasy, full of greediness, sensuality, ox- like obstinacy ; a forehead impudent, refusing to be ashamed ; and then two eyes turned up seraphically languishing, as in divine contemplation and adoration ; a touch of quiz too : on the whole, perhaps the most perfect quack-face produced by the eighteenth century. There he sits, and seraphically lan- guishes, with this epigraph : I)c V Ami cles Humains reconnaissez les traits : Tons ses jours sont marques 'par de nouteaux bienfaits, II prolongs la vie, il secourt V indigence ; Le plaisir d’etre utile est seul sa recompense. A probable conjecture were, that this same Theosophy, Theophilanthropy, Solacement of the Poor, to which our Archquack now more and more betook himself, might serve not only as birdlime for external game, but also half-uncon- sciously as salve for assuaging his own spiritual sores. Am not I a charitable man ? could the Archquack say : if I have erred myself, have I not, by theosophic unctuous discourses, removed much cause of error? The lying, the quackery, what are these but the method of accommodating yourself to the temper of men ; of getting their ear, them dull long ear, which Honesty had no chance to catch? Nay, at worst, is not this an unjust world ; full of nothing but beasts of prey, four- footed or two-footed ? Nature has commanded, saying ; Man, help thyself. Ought not the man of my genius, since he was not born a Prince, since in these scandalous times he has not been elected a Prince, to make himself one ? If not by open violence, for which he wants military force, then surely by superior science, — exercised in a private way. Heal the dis- eases of the Poor, the far deeper diseases of the Ignorant ; in COUNT CAGLTOSTRO. 59 a word, found Egyptian Lodges, and get the means of found- ing them. — By such soliloquies can Count Front-of-brass Pinchbeckostom, in rare atrabiliar hours of self- questioning, compose himself. For the rest, such hours are rare : the Count is a man of action and digestion, not of self-question- ing ; usually the day brings its abundant task ; there is no time for abstractions,- — of the metaphysical sort. Be this as it may, the Count has arrived at Strasburg ; is working higher wonders than ever. At Strasburg, indeed, in the year 1783, occurs his apotheosis ; what we can call the culmination and Fourth Act of his Life-clrama. He was here for a number of months; in full blossom and radiance, the envy and admiration of the world. In large hired hospitals, he -with open drug-bos containing ‘ Extract of Saturn,’ and even with open purse, relieves the suffering poor ; unfolds himself lamb-like, angelic to a believing few, of the rich classes ; turns a silent minatory lion-face to unbelievers, were they of the richest. Medical miracles have in all times been common : but what miracle is this of an Oriental or Occi- dental Serene-Excellence who, ‘regardless of expense,’ em- ploys himself not in preserving game, but in curing sickness, in illuminating ignorance ? Behold how he dives, at noonday, into the infectious hovels of the mean ; and on the equipages, haughtinesses, and even dinner-invitations of the great, turns only his negatory front-of-brass. The Prince Cardinal de Piohan, Archbishop of Strasburg, first-class Peer of France, of the Blood-royal of Brittany, intimates a wish to see him ; he answers : “ If Monseigneur the Cardinal is sick, let him come, and I will cure him ; if he is well, he has no need of me, I none of him.” 1 Heaven, meanwhile, has sent him a few disciples : by a nice tact, he knows his man ; to one speaks only of Spagyric Medicine, Downfall of Tyranny, and the Egyptian Lodge ; to another, of quite high matters, be- yond this diurnal sphere, of visits from the Angel of Light, visits from him of Darkness ; passing a Statue 1 of Christ, he will pause with a wondrously accented plaintive “ Ha ! ” as of recognition, as of thousand-years remembrance ; and when 1 Memoires de l’ Abbe Georcjd , ii. 48. 60 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. questioned, sink into mysterious silence. Is he the Wander ing Jew, then ? Heaven knows ! At Strasburg, in a word, Fortune not only smiles but laughs upon him : as crowning favour, he finds here the richest, inflammablest, most open- handed Dupe ever yet vouchsafed, him ; no other than this same many-titled Louis de Rohan ; strong in whose favour, he can laugh again at Fortune. Let the curious reader look at him, for an instant or two, through the eyes of two eye-witnesses : the Abbe Georgel, Prince Louis’s diplomatic Factotum, and Herr Meiners, the Gottingen Professor : ‘Admitted at length,’ says our too-prosing Jesuit Abbe, ‘to the sanctuary of this JEsculapius, Prince Louis saw, according to his own account, in the incommunicative man’s physiog- nomy, something so dignified, so imposing, that he felt pene- trated with a religious awe, and reverence dictated his ad- dress. Their interview, which was brief, excited more keenly than ever his desire of farther acquaintance. He attained it at length : and the crafty empiric graduated so cunningly his words and procedure, that he gained, without appearing to court it, the Cardinal's' entire confidence, and the greatest as- cendency over his will. “Your soul,” said he one day to the Prince, “ is worthy of mine ; you deserve to be made partici- pator of all my secrets.” Such an avowal captivated the whole faculties, intellectual and moral, of a man who at all times had hunted after secrets of alchymy and botany. From this mo- ment their union became intimate and public : Cagliostro went and established himself at Saverne, while his Eminency was residing there ; their solitary interviews were long and frequent.’ * * ‘I remember once, having learnt, by a sure Avay, that Baron de Planta (his Eminency’s man of affairs) had frequent, most expensive orgies, in the Archiepiscopal Palace, where Tokay wine ran like water, to regale Cagliostro and his pretended wife, I thought it my duty to inform the Cardinal : his answer was, “I know it; I have even authorised him to commit abuses, if he judge fit.” * * ‘ He came at last to have no other will than Cagliostro’s : and to such a length had it gone, that this sham Egyptian, finding it good to quit Stras- burg for a time, and retire into Switzerland, the Cardinal, ap- prised thereof, despatched his Secretary as well to attend him, as to obtain Predictions from him ; such were transmitted in COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 61 cipher to the Cardinal on every point he needed to consult of.’ 1 — ‘ Before ever I arrived in Strasburg ’ (hear now the as pros- ing Protestant Professor), ‘ I knew almost to a certainty that I should not see Count Cagliostro ; at least, not get to speak with him. From many persons I had heard that he, on no account, received visits from curious Travellers, in a state of health ; that such as, without being sick, appeared in liis audiences were sure to be treated by him, in the brutallest way, as spies.’ * * ‘ Nevertheless, though I saw not this new god of Physic near at hand and deliberately, but only for a moment as he rolled on in a rapid carriage, I fancy myself to be better acquainted with him than many that have lived in his society for months.’ ‘My unavoidable conviction is, that Count Cagliostro, from of old, has been more of a cheat than an enthusiast ; and also that he continues a cheat to ihis day- ‘As to his country I have ascertained nothing. Some make him a Spaniard, others a Jew, or an Italian, or a Bagusan ; or even an Arab, who had persuaded some Asiatic Prince to send his son to travel in Europe, and then murdered the youth, and taken possession of his treasures. As the self-styled Count speaks badly all the languages you hear from him, and has most likely spent the greater part of his life under feigned names far from home, it is probable enough no sure trace of his origin may ever be discovered.’ ‘ On his first appearance in Strasburg he connected himself with the Freemasons ; but only till he felt strong enough to stand on his own feet : he soon gained the favour of the Prm- tor and the Cardinal and through these the favour of the Court, to such a degree that his adversaries cannot so much as think of overthrowing him. With the Praetor and Cardinal he is said to demean himself as with persons who were under boundless obligation to him, to whom he was under none : the equipage of the Cardinal he seems to use as freely as his own. He pretends that he can recognise Atheists or Blasphemers by the smell ; that the vapour from such throws him into epileptic fits ; into which sacred disorder he, like a true juggler, has the art of falling when he likes. In public he no longer vaunts of rule over spirits, or other magical arts ; but I know, even as certainly, that he still pretends to evoke spirits, and by their 1 Georgel, ubi supra. 62 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. help and apparition to heal diseases, as I know this other fact, that he understands no more of the human system, or the nab ure of its diseases, or the use of the commonest therapeutic methods, than any other quack.’ ‘ According to the credi blest accounts of persons who have long observed him, he is a man to an inconceivable degree choleric ( heftig ), heedless, inconstant ; and therefore doubtless it was the happiest idea he ever in his whole life came upon, this of making himself inaccessible ; of raising the most ob- stinate reserve as a bulwark round him ; without which pre- caution he must long ago have been caught at fault.’ ‘ For his own labour he takes neither payment nor present : when presents are made him of such a sort as cannot without offence be refused, he forthwith returns some counter-present, of equal or still higher value. Nay he not only takes nothing from his patients, but frequently admits them, months long, to his house and his table, and will not consent to the small- est recompense. With all this disinterestedness (conspicuous enough, as you may suppose), he lives in an expensive way, plays deep, loses almost constantly to ladies ; so that, ac- cording to the very lowest estimate, he must require at least 20,000 livres a year. The darkness which Cagliostro has, an purpose, spread over the sources of his income and outlay, contributes even more than his munificence and miraculous cures to the notion that he is a divine extraordinary man, who has watched Nature in her deepest operations, and among other secrets stolen that of Gold-making from her. ’ * * ‘ With a mixture of sorrow and indignation over our age, I have to record that this man has found acceptance, not only among the great, who from of old have been the easiest be- witched by such, but also with many of the learned, and even physicians and naturalists.’ 1 Halcyon days ; only too good to continue ! All glory runs its course ; has its culmination, and then its often precipitous decline. Eminency Rohan, with fervid temper and small instruction, perhaps of dissolute, certainly of dishonest man- ners, in whom the faculty of Wonder had attained such prodigious development, was indeed the very stranded whale for jackals to feed on: unhappily, however, no one jackal could long be left in solitary possession of him. A sharper- 1 Meiners : Briefe uber die Schweiz (as quoted in Mirabeau). COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 03 toothed slie-jackal now strikes in ; bites infinitely deeper ; stranded whale and he-jackal both are like to become her prey. A young French Mantuamaker, ‘ Countess de La Motte- Yalois, descended from Henri H. by the bastard line,’ with- out Extract of Saturn, Egyptian Masonry, or any verbal con- ference with Dark Angels, — has genius enough to get her finger in the Archquack’s rich Hermetic Projection, appropri- ate the golden proceeds, and even finally break the crucible. Prince Cardinal Louis de Bohan is off to Paris, under her guidance, to see the long-invisible Queen, or Queen’s Appari- tion ; to pick up the Pose in the Garden of Trianon, dropt by her fair sham-royal hand ; and then — descend rapidly to the Devil, and drag Cagliostro along with him. The intelligent reader observes, we have now arrived at that stupendous business of the Diamond Necklace : into the dark complexities of which we need not here do more than glance : who knows but, next month, our Historical Chapter, written specially on this subject, may itself see the light? Enough, for the present, if we fancy vividly the poor whale Cardinal, so deep in the adventure that Grand-Cophtic ‘ pre- dictions transmitted in cipher’ will no longer illuminate him ; but the Grand Cophta must leave all masonic or other busi- ness, happily begun in Naples, Bourdeaux, Lyons, and come personally to Paris with predictions at first hand. ‘ The new ‘ Calchas,’ says poor Abbe Georgel, ‘ must have read the en- ‘ trails of his victim ill ; for, on issuing from these communi- ‘ cations with the Angel of Light and of Darkness, he proph- esied to the Cardinal that this happy correspondence,’ with the Queen’s Similitude, ‘ would place him at the highest ‘ point of favour ; that his influence in the Government w r ould ‘ soon become paramount ; that he would use it for the prop- ‘ agation of good principles, the glory of the Supreme Being, ‘ and the happiness of Frenchmen.’ The new Calchas was indeed at fault : but how could he be otherwise ? Let these high Queen’s favours, and all terrestrial shiftings of the wind, turn as they will, his reign, he can well see, is appointed to be temporary ; in the mean while, Tokay flows like water ; prophecies of good, not of evil, are the method to keep it 64 COUNT CAGL10STR0. flowing. Tlius if, for Circe de La Motte-Valois, the Egyptian Masonry is but a foolish enchanted cup wherewith to turn her fat Cardinal into a quadruped, she herself converse-wise, for the Grand Cophta, is one who must ever fodder said quadruped with Court Hopes, and stall-feed him fatter and fatter, — it is expected, for the knife of both parties. They are mutually useful ; live in peace, and Tokay festivity, though mutually suspicious, mutually contemptuous. So stand matters, through the spring and summer months of the year 1785. But fancy next that, — while Tokay is flowing within doors, and abroad Egyptian Lodges are getting founded, and gold and glory, from Paris, as from other cities, supematurally coming in, — the latter end of August has arrived, and with it Commissary Chesnon, to lodge the whole unholy Brother- hood, from Cardinal down to Sham-queen, in separate cells of the Bastille ! There, for nine long months, let them howl and wail, in bass or in treble ; and emit the falsest of false ill - moires ; among which that Memoire pour le Comte de CaglioStro, en presence des autres Co- Accuses, with its Trebisond Acharats, Scherifs of Mecca, and Nature’s unfortunate Child, all gravely printed with French types in the year 1786, may well bear the palm. Fancy that Necklace or Diamonds will nowhere unearth themselves ; that the Tuileries Palace sits struck with astonishment, and speechless chagrin ; that Paris, that all Europe, is ringing with the wonder. That Count Front-of- brass Pinchbeckostom, confronted, at the judgment-bar, with a shrill glib Circe de La Motte, has need of all his eloquence ; that nevertheless the Front-of-brass prevails, and exasperated Circe ‘ throws a candlestick at him.' Finally, that on the 31st of May 1786, the assembled Parliament of Paris, ‘at nine in the evening, after a sitting of eighteen hours,’ has solemnly pronounced judgment : and now that Cardinal Louis is gone ‘ to his estates ; ’ Countess de La Motte is shaven on the head, branded, with red-hot iron, ‘ Y ’ ( Voleuse ) on both shoulders, and confined for life to the Salpstriere ; her Count wandering uncertain, with diamonds for sale, over the British Empire ; that the Sieur de Villette, for handling a queen's pen. is ban- COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 05 iskecl forever ; the too queenlike Demoiselle Gay d’Oliva (with her unfathered infant) ‘ put out of Court ; ’ — and Grand Copkta Cagliostro liberated, indeed, but pillaged, and ordered forthwith to take himself away. His disciples illuminate their windows ; but what does that avail ? Commissary Cliesnon, Bastille-Governor De Launay cannot recollect the least par- ticular of those priceless effects, those gold-rouleaus, repeat- ing watches of his : he must even retire to Passy that very night ; and two days afterwards, sees nothing for it but Bou- logne and England. Thus does the miserable pickleherring tragedy of the Diamond Necklace wind itself up, and wind Cagliostro once more to inhospitable shores. Arrived here, and lodged tolerably in ‘ Sloan Street, Knights- bridge,’ by the aid of a certain Mr. Swinton, whilom broken Wine-merchant, now Apothecary, to whom he carries intro- ductions, he can drive a small trade in Egyptian pills, such as one e sells in Paris at thirty-shillings the dram ; ’ in unctuously discoursing to Egyptian Lodges ; in ‘ giving public audiences as at Strasburg,’ — if so be any one will bite. At all events, he can, by the aid of amanuensis-disciples, compose and pub- lish his Letlre au Peuple Anglais ; setting forth his unheard-of generosities, unheard-of injustices suffered, in a world not worthy of him, at the hands of English. Lawyers, Bastille- Governors, French Counts, and others ; his Leltre aux Fran- pais, singing to the same tune, predicting too, what many in- spired Editors had already boded, that ‘ the Bastille would be ‘ destroyed,’ and ‘a King would come w r ho should govern by ‘ States-Geueral.’ But, alas, the shafts of Criticism are busy with him ; so many hostile eyes look towards him : the world, in short, is getting too hot for him. Mark, nevertheless, how the brow of brass quails not ; nay a touch of his old poetic Humour, even in this sad crisis, unexpectedly unfolds itself. One de Morande, Editor of a Gourrier de V Europe published here at that period, has for some time made it his distinction to be the foremost of Cagliostro’s enemies. Cagliostro, en- during much in silence, happens once, in some ‘ public audi- ence,’ to mention a practice he had •witnessed in Arabia the Stony : the people there, it seems, are in the habit of fatten- 66 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. ing a few pigs annually, on provender mixed with arsenic ; whereby the whole pig-carcass by and by becomes, so to speak, arsenical ; the arsenical pigs are then let loose into the woods ; eaten by lions, leopards and other ferocious creatures ; which latter naturally all die in consequence, and so the woods are cleared of them. This adroit practice the Sieur Morande thought a proper subject for banter ; and accordingly, in his Seventeenth and two following Numbers, made merry enough with it. Whereupon Count Front-of-brass, whose patience has limits, writes as Advertisement (still to be read in old files of the Public Advertiser, under date September 3, 1786), a French Letter, not without causticity and aristocratic dis- dain ; challenging the witty Sieur to breakfast with him, for the 9th of November next, in the face of the world, on an actual Sucking Pig, fattened by Cagliostro, but cooked, carved and selected from by the Sieur Morande, — under bet of Five Thousand Guineas sterling that, next morning thereafter, he the Sieur Morande shall be dead, and Count Cagliostro be alive ! The poor Sieur durst not cry, Done ; and backed-out of the transaction, making wry faces. Thus does a kind of red coppery splendour encircle our Archquack’s decline ; thus with brow of brass, grim smiling, does he meet his destiny. But suppose we should now, from these foreign scenes turn homewards, for a moment, into the native alley in Palermo ! Palermo, with its dinginess, its mud or dust, the old black Balsamo House, the very beds and chairs, all are still standing there ; and Beppo has altered so strangely, has wandered so far away. Let us look ; for happily we have the fairest opportunity. In April 1787, Palermo contained a Traveller of a thou- sand ; no other than the great Goethe from Weimar. At his Table-d’hote he heard much of Cagliostro ; at length also of a certain Palermo Lawyer, who had been engaged by the French Government to draw up an authentic gene- alogy and memoir of him. This Lawyer, and even the rude draft of his Memoir, he with little difficulty gets to see ; in- quires next whether it were not possible to see the actual Balsamo Family, whereof it appears the mother and a wid- COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 67 owed sister still survive. For tliis matter, however, the Lawyer can do nothing ; only refer him to his Clerk ; who again starts difficulties : To get at those genealogic Docu- ments he has been obliged to invent some story of a Govern- ment-Pension being in the wind for those poor Balsamos ; and now that the whole matter is finished, and the Paper sent off to France, has nothing so much at heart as to keep out of their w r ay : * So said the Clerk. However, as I could not abandon my purpose, we after some study concerted that I should give myself out for an Englishman, and bring the family news of Cagliostro, who had lately got out of the Bastille, and gone to London. ‘ At the appointed hour, it might be three in the afternoon, we set forth. The house lay in the corner of an Alley, not far from the main-street named II Casaro. We ascended a miserable staircase, and came straight into the kitchen. A woman of middle stature broad and stout, yet not corpulent, stood busy washing the kitchen dishes. She was decently dressed ; and, on our entrance, turned up the one end of her apron, to hide the soiled side from us. She joyfully recog- nised my conductor, and said : “ Signor Giovanni, do you bring us good news ? Have you made out anything ? ” ‘He answered : “In our affair, nothing yet ; but here is a Stranger that brings a salutation from your Brother, and can tell you how he is at present.” * The salutation I was to bring stood not in our agreement : meanwhile, one w r ay or other, the introduction w 7 as accom- plished. “You know my Brother?” inquired she. — “All Europe knows him,” answered I; “and I fancied it would gratify you to hear that he is now in safety and well ; as, of late, no doubt you have been anxious about him.”— “ Step in,” said she, “ I will follow you directly ; ” and with the Clerk I entered the room. ‘ It was large and high ; and might, with us, have passed for a saloon ; it seemed, indeed, to be almost the sole lodging of the family. A single window lighted the large walls, which had once had colour ; and on which were black pictures of saints, in gilt frames, hanging round. Two large beds, with- out curtains, stood at one wall ; a brown press, in the form of a writing-desk, at the other. Old rush-bottomed chairs, the 68 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. backs of which had once been gilt, stood by ; and the tiles of the floor were in many places worn deep into hollows. For the rest, all was cleanly ; and we approached the family, which sat assembled at the one window, in the other end of the apartment. ‘ Whilst my guide was explaining, to the old Widow Balsa- mo, the purpose of our visit, and by reason of her deafness had to repeat his words several times aloud, I had time to observe the chamber and the other persons in it. A girl of about sixteen, well formed, whose features had become un- certain by small-pox, stood at the window ; beside her a young man, whose disagreeable look, deformed by the same disease, also struck me. In an easy-chair, right before, the window, sat or rather lay a sick, much disshapen person, who appeared to labour under a sort of lethargy. ‘ My guide having made himself understood, we were in- vited to take seats. The old woman put some questions to me ; which, however, I had to get interpreted before I could answer them, the Sicilian dialect not being quite at my command. ‘ Meanwhile I looked at the aged widow with satisfaction.. She was of middle stature, but well shaped ; over her regular features, which age had not deformed, lay that sort of peace usual with people that have lost their hearing ; the tone of her voice was soft and agreeable. ‘ I answered her questions ; and m3' answers also had again to be interpreted for her. ‘ The slowness of our conversation gave me leisure to measure my words. I told her that her son had been acquit- ted in France, and was at present in England, where he met with good reception. Her joy, which she testified at these tidings, was mixed with expressions of a heartfelt piety ; and as she now spoke a little louder and slower, I could the better understand her. ‘ In the mean time, the daughter had entered ; and taken her seat beside my conductor, who repeated to her faithfully what I had been narrating. She had put on a clean apron ; had set her hair in order under the net-cap. The more I looked at her, and compared her with her mother, the more striking became the difference of the two figures. A vivacious, healthy Sensualism (Sinnlichlceit) beamed forth from the whole structure of the daughter : she might be a woman of about forty. With brisk blue eyes, she looked sharply round ; yet in her look I could trace no suspicion. When she sat, her figure promised more height than it showed when she rose : her COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 69 posture was determinate, sire sat with, her body leaned for- wards, the hands resting on the knees. For the rest, her physiognomy, more of the snubby than the sharp sort, remind- ed me of her Brother’s Portrait, familiar to us in engravings. She asked me several things about my journey, my purpose to see Sicily ; and was sure I would come back, and celebrate the Feast of Saint Rosalia with them. ‘ As the grandmother, meanwhile, had again put some ques- tions to me, and I was busy answering her, the daughter kept speaking to my companion half-aloud, yet so that I could take occasion to ask what it was. He answered : Signora Capitum- rnino was telling him that her Brother owed her fourteen gold Ounces ; on his sudden departure from Palermo, she had re- deemed several things for him that were in pawn ; but never since that day had either heard from him, or got money or any other help, though it was said he had great riches, and made a princely outlay. Now would not I perhaps undertake on my return, to remind him, in a handsome way, of the debt, and procure, some assistance for her ; nay would I not carry a Letter with me, or at- all events get it carried ? I offered to do so. She asked where I lodged, whither she must send the Letter to me ? I avoided naming my abode, and offered to call next day towards night, and receive the Letter myself. ‘ She thereupon described to me her untoward situation: how-she was a widow with three children, of whom the one girl was getting educated in a convent, the other was here present, and her son just gone out to his lesson. How, be- side these three children, she had her mother to maintain ; and moreover out of Christian love had taken the unhappy sick person there to her house, whereby the burden was heavier : how all her industry would scarcely suffice to get necessaries for herself and hers. She knew indeed that God did not leave good works unrewarded ; yet must sigh very sore under the load she had long borne. ‘ The young people mixed in the dialogue, and our conver- sation grew livelier. While speaking with the others, I could hear the good old widow ask her daughter : If I belonged, then, to their holy Religion ? I remarked also that the daugh- ter strove, in a prudent way, to avoid an answer ; signifying to her mother, so far as I could take it up : That the Stranger seemed to have a kind feeling towards them ; and that it was not well-bred to question any one straightway on that point. ‘ As they heard that I was soon to leave Palermo, they be- came more pressing, and importuned me to come back ; es* 70 COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. pecially vaunting the paradisiac days of the Rosalia Festival, the like of which was not to be seen and tasted in all the world. ‘ My attendant, who had long been anxious to get off, at last put an end to the interview by his gestures ; and I prom- ised to return on the morrow evening, and take the Letter. My attendant, expressed his joy that all had gone off so well, and we parted mutually content. ‘ You may fancy the impression this poor and pious, well- dispositioned family had made on me. My curiosity was sat- isfied ; but their natural and worthy bearing had raised an interest in me, Avhich reflection did but increase. ‘ Forthwith, however, there arose for me anxieties about the following day. It was natural that this appearance of mine, which, at the first moment had taken them by surprise, should, after my departure, awaken many reflections. By the Gene- alogy I knew that several others of the family were in life : it was natural that they should call their friends together, and in the presence of all, get those things repeated which, the day before, they had heard from me with admiration. My object was attained; there remained nothing more than, in some good fashion, to end the adventure. I accordingly re- paired next day, directly after dinner, alone to their house. They expressed surprise as I entered. The Letter was not ready yet, they said ; and some of their relations "wished to make my acquaintance, who towards night would be there. ‘ I answered, that Laving to set off to-morrow morning, and visits still to pay, and packing to transact, I had thought it better to come early than not at all. ‘Meanwhile the son entered, whom yesterday I had not seen. He resembled his sister in size and figure. He brought the Iietter they were to give me ; he had, as is common in those parts, got it written out of doors, by one of their No- taries that sit publicly to do such things. The young man had a still, melancholy and modest aspect ; inquired after his Uncle, asked about his riches and outlays, and added sorrow- fully, Why had he so forgotten his kindred ? “ It were our greatest fortune,” continued he, “should he once return hither, and take notice of us : but,” continued he, “how came he to let you know that he had relatives in Palermo ? It is said, he everywhere denies us, and gives himself out for a man of great birth.” I answered this question, which had now arisen by the imprudence of my Guide at our first en- trance, in such sort as to make it seem that the Uncle, though COUNT CAGLIOSTBO. 71 be might have reasons for concealing his birth from the pub- lic, did yet, towards his friends and acquaintance, keep it no secret. ‘ The sister, who had come up during this dialogue, and by the presence of her brother, perhaps also by the absence of her yesterday’s friend, had got more courage, began also to speak with much grace and liveliness. They begged me ear- nestly to recommend them to their Uncle, if I wrote to him ; and not less earnestly, when once I should have made this journey through the Island, to come back and pass the Ro- salia Festival with them. ‘ The mother spoke in accordance with her children. “Sir,” said she, “ though it is not seemly, as I have a grown daugh- ter, to see stranger gentlemen in my house, and one has cause to guard against both danger and evil-speaking, yet shall you ever be welcome to us, when you return to this city.” ‘“O yes,” answered the young ones, “we will lead the Gentleman all round the Festival ; we will show him. every- thing, get a place on the scaffolds, where the grand sights are seen best. What will he say to the great Chariot, and more than all, to the glorious Illumination ! ” ‘ Meanwhile the Grandmother had read the Letter and again read it. Hearing that I was about to take leave, she arose, and gave me the folded sheet. “Tell my son,” began she with a noble vivacity, nay with a sort of inspiration, “Tell my son how happy the news have made me, which you brought from him ! Tell him that I clasp him to my heart — here she stretched out her arms asunder, and pressed them again to- gether on her breast — “that I daily beseech God and our Holy Virgin for him in prayer ; that I give him and his wife my blessing ; and that I wish before my end to see him again, with these eyes, which have shed so many tears for him.” ‘The peculiar grace of the Italian tongue favoured the choice and noble arrangement of these words, which more- over were accompanied with lively gestures, wherewith that nation can add such a charm to spoken words. ‘ I took my leave, not without emotion. They all gave me their hands ; the children showed me out ; and as I went down-stairs, they jumped to the balcony of the kitchen-win- dow, which projected over the street ; called after me, threw me salutes, and repeated, that I must in nowise forget to come back. I saw them still on the balcony, when I turned the comer .’ 1 1 Goetlie’s Werke ( ItalidniscJie Beise), xxviii. 146. 72 COUNT CAGL10STR0. Poor old Felicita, and must thy pious prayers, thy motherly blessings, and so many tears shed by those old eyes, be ail in vain ! To thyself, in any case, they were blessed. — As for the Signor Capitummino, with her three fatherless children, shall we not hope at least, that the fourteen gold Ounces were paid, by a sure hand, and so her heavy burden, for some space, lightened a little ? Alas, no, it would seem ; owing to acci- dents, not even that ! 1 Count Cagliostro, all this while, is rapidly proceeding with his Fifth Act ; the red coppery splendour darkens more and more into final gloom. Some boiling muddleheads of a dupe- able sort there still are in England : Popish-Riot Lord George, for instance, will walk with him to Count Barthelemy’s, or d’Adhemar’s ; and, in bad French and worse rhetoric, abuse the Queen of France : but what does it profit ? Lord George must one day (after noise enough) revisit Newgate for it ; and in the mean while, hard words pay no scores. Apothecary Swinton begins to get wearisome ; French spies look omin- ously in ; Egyptian Pills are slack of sale ; the old vulturous Attorney-host anew scents carrion, is bestirring itself anew : Count Cagliostro, in the May of 1787, must once more leave England. But whither ? Ah, whither ! At Bale, at Bienne, over Switzerland, the game is up. At Aix in Savoy, there are baths, but no gudgeons in them : At Turin, his Majesty of Sardinia meets you with an order to begone on the instant. A like fate from the Emperor Joseph at Rover edo ; — before the Liber memorialis de Caleostro dam esset Robor.etti could ex- tend to many pages ! Count Front-of -brass begins confessing himself to priests : yet ‘ at -Trent paints a new hieroglyphic Screen,’ — touching last flicker of a light that once brunt so high ! He pawns diamond buckles ; wanders necessitous hither and thither ; repents, unrepents ; knows not what to do. For Destiny has her nets round him ; they are straitening, straitening ; too soon he will be ginned ! Di'iven out from Trent, what shall he make of the new hie- roglyphic Screen, what of himself? The wayworn Grand- Cophtess has begun to blab family secrets ; she longs to be in 1 Goethe’s Werke ( Italidnische Reive), xxviii. 146. COUNT C AG J NOSTRO. 73 Rome by her mother’s hearth, by her mother’s grave ; in any nook, where so much as the shadow of refuge waits her. To the desperate Count Front-of -brass all places are nearly .alike : urged by female babble, he will go to Rome then ; why not ? On a May-day, of the year 1789 (when such glorious work had just begun in France, to him all forbidden !), he enters the Eternal City ; it was his doom-summons that called him thither. On the 29th of next December, the Holy Inquisi- tion, long watchful enough, detects him founding some feeble moneyless ghost of an Egyptian Lodge; ‘ picks him off,’ as the military say, and locks him hard and fast in the Castle of St, Angelo : Lasciate ogni speranzci , mi die 'ntrate ! Count Cagliostro did not lose all hope : nevertheless a few words will now suffice for him. In vain, with his mouth of pinchbeck and his front of brass, does he heap chimera on chimera ; demand religious Books (which are freely given him) ; -demand clean Linen, and an interview with his Wife (which are refused him) ; assert now that the Egyptian Ma- sonry is a divine system, accommodated to erring and gullible men, which the Holy Father, when he knows it, will patron- ise ; anon that there are some four millions of Freemasons, spread over Europe, all sworn to exterminate Priest and King, wherever met with : in vain ! they will not acquit him, as mis- understood Theophilanthropist ; will not emit him, in Pope’s pay, as renegade Masonic Spy: ‘he ean’t get out.’ Donna Lorenza languishes, invisible to him, in a neighbouring cell ; begins at length to confess ! Whereupon he too, in torrents, will emit confessions and forestall her : these the Inquisi- tion pocket and sift (whence this Life of Balsamo) ; but will not let him out. In fine, after some eighteen months of the weariest hounding, doubling, worrying, and standing at bay, His Holiness gives sentence : The Manuscript of Egyp- tian Masonry is to be burnt by hand of the common Hang- man, and all that intermeddle with such Masonry are ac- cursed ; Giuseppe Balsamo, justly forfeited of life for being a Freemason, shall nevertheless in mercy be forgiven ; in- 74 COUNT CAGLIOSTBO. structed in the duties of penitence, and even kept safe thence- forth and till death, — in ward of Holy Church. Ill-starred Acharat, must it so end with thee ? This was in April 1791. He addressed (how vainly !) an appeal to the French Con- stitutent Assembly. As was said, in Heaven, in Earth, or in Hell there was no Assembly that could well take his pail- For four years more, spent one knows not how, — most prob- ably in the furor of edacity, with insufficient cookery, and the stupor of indigestion, — the curtain lazily falls. There rotted and gave way the cordage of a tough heart. One summer morning of the year 1795, the Body of Cagliostro is still found in the prison of St. Leo ; but Cagliostro’s Self has es- caped, — whither no man yet knows. The brow of brass, be- hold how it has got all unlackered ; these pinchbeck bps can lie no more : Cagliostro’s work is ended, and now only his ac- count to present. As the Scherif of Mecca said, “ Nature’s un- fortunate child, adieu ! ” Such, according to our comprehension thereof, is the rise, progress, grandeur and decadence of the Quack of Quack’s. Does the reader ask, What good was in it ; Why occupy his time and hours with the biography of. such a miscreant? We answer, It was stated on the very threshold of this matter, in the loftiest terms, by Herr Sauerteig, that the Lives of all Eminent Persons, miscreant or creant, ought to be written. Thus has not the very Devil his Life, deservedly written not by Daniel Defoe only, but by quite other hands than Dan- iel’s ? For the rest., the Thing represented on these pages is no Sham, but a Beality ; thou hast it, O reader, as we have it : Nature was pleased to produce even such a man, even so, not otherwise ; and the Editor of this Magazine is here mainly to record, in an adequate manner, what she, of her thousand- fold mysterious richness and greatness, produces. But the moral lesson ? Where is the moral lesson ? Fool- ish reader, in every Beality, nay in every genuine Shadow of a Beality (what we call Poem), there lie a hundred such, or a million such, according as thou hast the eye to read them ! Of which hundred or million lying here in the present Beality, CO UNT CA GLIOSTRO. 75 couldst not tliou, for example, be advised to take this one, to thee worth all the rest : Behold, I too have attained that im- measurable, mysterious glory of being alive; to me also a Capability has been intrusted ; shall I strive to work it out, manlike, into Faithfulness, and Doing ; or, quacklike, into Eatableness, and Similitude of Doing ? Or why not rather, gigman-like, and following the ‘ respectable ’ countless multi- tude, — into both ? The decision is of quite infinite moment ; see thou make it aright. But in fine, look at this matter of Cagliostro, as at all mat- ters, with thy heart, with thy whole mind ; no longer merely squint at it with the poor side-glance of thy calculative fac- ulty. Look at it not logically only, but mystically. Thou shalt in sober truth see it, (as Sauerteig asserted) to be a Pas- quillant verse, of most inspired writing in its kind, in that same ‘ Grand Bible of Universal History;’ wondrously and even indispensably connected with the Heroic portions that stand there ; even as the all-showing Light is with the Dark- ness wherein nothing can be seen ; as the hideous taloned roots are with the fair boughs, and their leaves and flowers and fruit ; both of which, and not one of which, make the Tree. Think also whether thou hast known no Public Quacks, on far higher scale than this, whom a Castle of St. Angelo never could get hold of ; and how, as Emperors, Chancellors (hav- ing found much fitter machinery), they could run their Quack- career ; and make whole kingdoms, whole continents, into one huge Egyptian Lodge, and squeeze supplies of money or of blood from it at discretion ? Also, whether thou even now knowest not Private Quacks, innumerable as the sea-sands, toiling as mere ffizZ/’-Cagliostros ; imperfect, hybrid-quacks, of whom Cagliostro is as the unattainable ideal and type-speci- men ? Such is the world. Understand it, despise it, love it ; cheerfully hold on thy way through it, with thy eye on higher loadstars ! DEATH OF EDWARD IRVING. DEATH OF EDWARD IRVING. Edward Irving’s warfare closed, if not in victory, yet in invincibility ; A man of antique heroic nature, in questionable modern garniture, which he could not wear. (p. 79).— What the Scottish uncelebrated Irving was, they that have only seen the London celebrated and dis- torted one can never know: O foulest Circean draught, poison of Popu- lar Applause! Wasted and worn to death amid the fierce confusion : The freest, brotheriest, bravest human soul. (82). DEATH OF EDWARD IRVING . 1 [ 1835 .] Edward Irving’s warfare has closed ; if not in victory, yet in invincibility, and faithful endurance to the end. The Spirit of the Time, which could not enlist him as its soldier, must needs, in all ways, fight against him as its enemy : it has done its part, and he has done his. One of the noblest natures ; a man of antique heroic nature, in questionable modern garni- ture, which he could not wear ! Around him a distracted so- ciety, vacant, prurient ; heat and darkness, and what these two may breed : mad extremes of flattery, followed by madder contumely, by indifference and neglect ! These were the con- flicting elements ; this is the result they have made out among them. The voice of our ‘ son of thunder,’ — with its deep tone of wisdom that belonged to all articulate-speaking ages, never inaudible amid wildest dissonances that belong to this inar- ticulate age, which slumbers and somnambulates, which can- not speak, but only screech and gibber, — has gone silent so soon. Closed are those lips. The large heart, with its large bounty, where wretchedness found solacement, and they that were wandering in darkness the light as of a home, has paused. The strong man can no more : beaten-on from without under- mined from within, he must sink overwearied, as at nightfall, when it was yet but the mid-season of day. Irving was forty- two years and some months old : Scotland sent him forth a Herculean man ; our mad Babylon wore him and wasted him, with all her engines ; and it took her twelve years. He sleeps with his fathers, in that loved birth-laud : Babylon with its 1 Fraser’s Magazine, No. 61 . 80 DEATH OF EDWARD IRVING. deafening inanity rages on ; but to him henceforth innocuous, unheeded — forever. Reader, thou hast seen and heard the man, as who has not, — with wise or unwise wonder ; thou shalt not see or hear him again. The work, be what it might, is done ; dark cur- tains sink over it, enclose it ever deeper into the unchange- able Past, Think, for perhaps thou art one of a thousand, and worthy so to think, That here once more was a genuine man sent into this our ungenuine phantasmagory of a world, which would go to ruin without such ; that here once more, under thy own eyes, in this last decade, was enacted the old Tragedy, and has had its fifth-act now, of The Messenger of Truth in the Age of Shams, — and what relation thou thyself mayst have to that. Whether any? Beyond question, thou thyself art here; either a dreamer or awake; and one day shalt cease to dream. This man was appointed a Christian Priest ; and strove with the whole force that was in him to he it. To be it : in a time of Tithe Controversy, Encyclopedism, Catholic Rent, Philanthropism, and the Revolution of Three Days ! He might have been so many things ; not a speaker only, but a doer ; the leader of hosts of men. For his head, when the Fog-Babylon had not yet obscured it, was of strong far-search- ing insight ; his very enthusiasm was sanguine, not atrabiliar ; he was so loving, full of hope, so simple-hearted, and made all that approached him his. A giant force of activity was in the man ; speculation was accident, not nature. Chivalry, adventurous field-life of the old Border, and a far nobler sort than that, ran in his blood. There was in him a courage, dauntless not pugnacious, hardly fierce, by no possibility fero- cious ; as of the generous war-horse, gentle in its strength, yet that laughs at the shaking of the spear. — But, above all, be what he might, to be a reality was indispensable for him. In his simple Scottish circle, the highest form of manhood at- tainable or known was that of Christian ; the highest Chris- tian was the Teacher of such. Irving’s lot was cast. For the foray-spears were all rusted into earth there ; Annan Castle DEATH OF EDWARD IRVING. 81 liacl become a Townhall ; and Prophetic Knox had sent tidings thither : Prophetic Knox ; and] alas, also Sceptic Hume ; and, as the natural consequence, Diplomatic Dundas ! In such mixed incongruous element had the young soul to grow. Grow nevertheless he did, with that strong vitality of his ; grow and ripen. What the Scottish uncelebrated Irving was, they that have only seen the London celebrated and distorted one can . never know. Bodily and spiritually, perhaps there was not, in that November 1822, when he first arrived here, a man more full of genial energetic life in all these Islands. By a fatal chance, Fashion cast her eye on him, as on some impersonation of Novel-Cameronianism, some wild Product of Nature from the wild mountains ; Fashion crowded round him, with her meteor lights and Bacchic dances ; breathed her foul incense on him ; intoxicating, poisoning. One may say, it was his own nobleness that forwarded such ruin ; the ex- cess of his sociability and sympathy, of his value for the suf- frages and sympathies of men. Syren songs, as of a new Moral Reformation (sons of Mammon, and high sons of Belial and Beelzebub, to become sons of God, and the gumflowers of Almack’s to be made living roses in a new Eden), sound in the inexperienced ear and heart. Most seductive, most delusive ! Fashion went her idle way, to gaze on Egyptian Crocodiles, Iroquois Hunters, or what else there might be ; forgot this man, — who unhappily could not in his turn forget. The in- toxicating poison had been swallowed ; no force of natural health could cast it out. Unconsciously, for most part in deep unconsciousness, there was now the impossibility to l^ve neglected ; to walk on the quiet paths, where alone it is well with us. Singularity must henceforth succeed Singularity. O foulest Circean draught, thou poison of Popular Applause ! madness is in thee, and death ; thy end is Bedlam and the Grave. For the last seven years, Irving, forsaken by the world, strove either to recall it, or to forsake it ; shut himself up in a lesser world of ideas and persons, and lived isolated there. Neither in this was there health : for this man such isolation was not fit, such ideas, such persons. One light still shone on him ; alas, through a medium more 6 S2 DEATH OF EDWARD IRVING. and more turbid : tbe light from Heaven. His Bible was there, wherein must lie healing for all sorrows. To the Bible he more and more exclusively addressed himself. If it is the written Word of God, shall it not be the acted Word too ? Is it mere sound, then ; black printer’s-ink on white rag-paper? A half-man could have passed on without answering ; a whole ill an must answer. Hence Prophecies of Millenniums, Gifts of Tongues, — whereat Orthodoxy prims herself into decent wonder, and waves her, Avaunt ! Irving clave to his Belief, as to his soul’s soul ; followed it whithersoever, through earth or air, it might lead him ; toiling as never man toiled to spread it, to gain the world’s ear for it, — in vain. Ever wilder waxed the confusion without and within. The misguised noble- minded had now nothing left to do but die. He died the death of the true and brave. His last words, they say, were : “In life and in death, I am the Lord’s.” — Amen ! Amen ! One who knew him well, and may with good cause love him, has said : “ But for Irving, I had never known what the communion of man with man means. His was the freest, brotherliest, bravest human soul mine ever came in contact with : I call him, on the whole, the best man I have ever, after trial enough, found in this world, or now hope to find. “ The first time I saw Irving was six-and-twenty years ago, in his native town, Annan. He was fresh from Edinburgh, with College prizes, high character and promise : he had come to see our Schoolmaster, who had also been his. Me heard of famed Professors, of high matters classical, mathematical, a whole Wonder-land of Knowledge : nothing but joy, health, hopefulness without end, looked out from the blooming young man. The last time I saw him was three months ago, in Lon- don. Friendliness still beamed in his eyes, but now from amid unquiet fire ; his face was flaccid, wasted, unsound ; hoary as with extreme age : he was trembling over the brink of the grave. — Adieu, thou first Friend ; adieu, while this confused Twilight of Existence lasts ! Might we meet where Twilight has become Day ! ” APPENDIX. APPENDIX. I.— NOVELLE. Parable of the bright Morningtide of Life : Its joyful duties, and hopeful sorrows. Openness to all true influences of Nature and Art : Mutability and its lessons, (p. 87). — Manifold relationship and signifi- cance of human Industry and Enterprise. How man delights to excite himself by hypothetical Terror. Sunshine and aspiring effort : Noon- tide peace, and fulness of content. (90). — Hypothetical Terror becomes actual Danger. Presence of mind, readiness, personal courage : Danger averted by the destruction of what is dangerous. Mystic intimations of deeper, wider instincts. (94). — How the Dangerous may be tamed into order, and thus into a Higher than personal Security. All things. obedi- ent to the Highest Wisdom. The truest Courage, childlike Trust in God : The only final Safety, to be in the Divine Harmony of his omnipo- tent Love. (98). II.— SCHILLER, GOETHE AND MADAME DE STAEL. Our Locomotive Age: The interest, that once attached to mere trav- ellers, now gone. Madame de Stael’s German Tour a notable exception. Spiritual adventures and feats of intellect, (p. 105). —Her jarring inter- views with Goethe and Schiller, described -by themselves. Intellectual incompatibilities, and National dissonances : French glitter and glib- ness ; German depth and taciturnity. Goethe’s summary of the whole circumstances and significance of her uncongenial yet profitable visit. (106). III.— THE TALE. Rumours and mis-rumours concerning Goethe’s Tale of Tales: A gen- uine English Translation nowhanded-in for judgment, (p. 116). — Plian- tasmagory not Allegory. A wonderful Emblem of our wonderful and woful Transition Age. Clue to the significance of the several Figures in the Poem. Imagination, in her Works of Art, should play like a sort of music upon us : She herself oannot condition and bargain ; she must wait what shall be given her. (117). — Metaphysical Subtilty and Au- 86 SUMMARY OF APPENDIX. dacity, the first flickerings, and audible announcement, of the New Age waiting to be born. How they press poor old Spiritual tradition into their service ; and the havoc they make with him : They give him Wis- dom which he cannot use ; but have no power to contribute the least to his wonted Nourishment. (124). — The Wisdom, which toil-worn Tradi- tion could not and dared not appropriate, is eagerly devoured by newly- awakened Speculative Thought : Glory of comprehending, and of sympa- thy with Nature. How Logical Acuteness is apt to despise Experimental Philosophy ; an.d how Philosophy gets the best of the bargain. How can poor Sceptical Dexterity ever find the way, across the Time-River of stormy Human Effort, to the unutterable repose and blessedness of Spiritual Affection ? The proffered Shadow of Superstition: Noontide Bridge of Speculative Science. (125). — Experimental Thought would fain decipher the forms and intimations of the impending Future : Ad- vent and cooperation of Poetic Insight. The ‘ open secret’ of the Com- ing Change. (128). — Poetic insight or Intuitive Perception, wedded to Practical Endeavour now grown decrepit and garrulous. In the absence of Insight, poor old Practicality is surprised and disconcerted by a visi- tation of Logic : Death of their foolish little household Pet ; which can now only become ‘ a true companion,’ by ‘ the touch’ of Spiritual Affec- tion. (130). — Practical Endeavour, trudging on, sullen and forlorn, is cunningly robbed by the Shadow of newly-revived Superstition. Old Tradition doggedly insists on his dues ; but is not unwilling the Time- River should bear the loss. The individual ‘ hand ’ becomes ‘ invisible,' when pledged in the World-Stream of mingled Human effort. (132). — The new Kingly Intellect of the new unborn Time, painfully yearning for a purity and Singleness of Love, which, till it learn ‘ the fourth ’ and deepest ‘ secret,’ can never belong to it. Invisible superfluity of Logic, in the Light of noonday intelligence. Pure Spiritual Affection, the New Love which must inspire and sanctify the New Age, as yet only powerful to produce wretchedness and death : At such Birth-time of the World, the greatest misery is the greatest blessing. (134). — Strange, gathering omens : Speculative Intelligence, however brilliant and clear- seeing, not the fulfilment of the Blessed Promise. The richest Kingly Intellect sees itself farther from the spirit of Holiness than the lowest, poorest, faithful affection. Voluntary self-sacrifice begins: Blessed death, better than an outcast life. (136). — All good influences combine to succor and sustain the One, who by Courage wins the secret of the Age. Spiritual Contagion : Heroic Self-sacrifice the order of the Day. (1391 — Death, but a passing from Life to Life. The Temple of the Future, and the Old-New Altar within the Temple. Our foolish Age of Transition passes utterly away ; and a New Universal Kingdom, of Wisdom, Majesty and Heroic Strength, inspired by the still omnipotence of Holy Love is ushered into Life. An individual suffices not, but He who com- bines with many at the proper Hour. (144). APPENDIX I. NOVELLE. 1 TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. [ 1832 .] The spacious courts of the Prince’s Castle were still veiled in thick mists of an autumnal morning ; through which veil, mean- while, as it melted into clearness, you could more or less discern the whole Hunter-company, on horseback and on foot, all busily astir. The hasty occupations of the nearest were distinguishable : there was lengthening, shortening of stirrup-leathers ; there was handling of rifles and shot-pouches, there was putting of game- bags to rights ; while the hounds, impatient in their leashes, threat- ened to drag their keepers off with them. Here and there too, a horse showed spirit more than enough ; driven-on by its fiery nature, or excited by the spur of its rider, who even now in the half-dusk could not repress a certain self-complacent wish to ex- hibit himself. All waited, however, on the Prince, who, taking leave of his young consort, was now delaying too long. United a short while ago, they already felt the happiness of consentaneous dispositions : y both were of active vivid character ; each willingly participated in the tastes and endeavours of the other. The Prince’s father had already, in his time, discerned and improved the season when it became evident that all members of the commonwealth should pass their days in equal industry ; should all, in equal working and producing, each in his kind, first earn and then enjoy. How well this had prospered was visible in these very days, when the chief market was a-holding which you might well 1 Fraser’s Magazine, No. 34. S8 APPENDIX. enough have named a fair. The Prince yestereven had led his Princess on horse-back through the tumult of the heaped-up wares ; and pointed out to her how, on this spot, the Mountain region met the Plain country in profitable barter : he could here, with the objects before him, awaken her attention to the various industry of his Laud. If the Prince at this time occupied himself and his servants al- most exclusively with these pressing concerns, and in particular worked incessantly with his Finance-minister, yet would the Huntmaster too have his right; on whose pleading, the tempta- tion could not be resisted to undertake, in this choice autumn ■weather, a Hunt that had already been postponed ; and so for the household itself, and for the many stranger visitants, prepare a peculiar and singular festivity. The Princess stayed behind with reluctance : but it was pro- posed to push far into the Mountains, and stir-up the peaceable inhabitants of the forests there with an unexpected invasion. At parting, her lord failed not to propose a ride for her, with Friedrich, the Prince-Uncle, as escort: “I will leave thee,” said he, “ our Honorio too, as Equerry and Page, who will manage all.” In pursuance of which words, he, in descending, gave to a handsome young man the needful injunctions ; and soon there- after disappeared with guests and train. The Princess, who had waved her handkerchief to her husband while still down in the court, now retired to the back apartments, which commanded a free prospect towards the Mountains ; and so much the lovelier, as the Castle itself stood on a sort of elevation, and thus, behind as well as before, afforded manifold magnificent views. She found the fine telescope still in the position where they had left it yestereven, when amusing themselves over bush and hill and forest-summit, with the lofty ruins of the primeval Stammburg, or Family Tower ; which in the clearness of evening stood out noteworthy, as at that hour with its great light-and-shade masses, the best aspect of so venerable a memorial of old time was to be had. This morning too, with the approximating glasses, might be beautifully seen the autumnal tinge of the trees, many in kind and number, which had struggled up through the masonry, unhindered and undisturbed during long years. The fair dame, however, directed the tube somewhat, lower, to a waste stony flat, over which the Hunting-train was to pass : she waited the mo- ment with patience, and was not disappointed ; for with the clear- ness and magnifying power of the instrument her glancing eyes APPENDIX. 89 plainly distinguished the Prince and the Head-Equerry ; nay she forbore not again to wave her handkerchief, as some momentary pause and looking-back was fancied perhaps, rather than ob- served. Prince-Uncle, Friedrich by name, now with announcement en- tered, attended by his Painter, who carried a large portfolio under his arm. “ Dear Cousin,” said the hale old gentleman, “ we here present you with the Views of the Stammburg, taken on various sides to show how the mighty Pile, warred-on and warring, has from old time fronted the year and its weather ; how here and there its walls had to yield, here and there rush down into waste ruins. However, we have now done much to make the wild mass accessi- ble ; for more there wants not to set every traveller, eveiy visitor, into astonishment, into admiration.” As the Prince now exhibited the separate leaves, he continued : “ Here where, advancing up the hollow-way, through the outer ring-walls, you reach the Fortress proper, rises against us a rock, the firmest of the whole mountain ; on this there stands a tower built, — yet where Nature leaves off, and Art and Handicraft begin, no one can distinguish. Farther you perceive, sidewards, walls abutting on it, and donjons terrace-wise stretching down. But I speak wrong ; foi - , to the eye, it is but a wood that encircles that old summit : these hundred-and-fifty years no axe has sounded there, and the massiest stems have on all sides sprung up ; wherever you press inwards to the walls, the smooth maple, the rough oak, the taper pine, with trunk and roots oppose you ; round these we have to wind, and pick our footsteps with skill. Do but look how art- fully our Master has brought the character of it on paper ; how the roots and stems, the species of each distinguishable, twist them- selves among the masonry, and the huge boughs come looping through the holes. It is a wilderness like no other ; an accident- ally unique locality, where ancient traces of the long-vanished power of Man, and the ever-living, ever-working power of Nature show themselves in the most earnest conflict.” Exhibiting another leaf, he went on : “ What say you now to the Castle-court, which, become inaccessible by the falling-in of tlu old gate-tower, had for immemorial time been trodden by no foot ? We sought to get at it by a side ; have pierced through walls, blasted vaults asunder, and so provided a convenient but secret way. Inside it needed no clearance ; here stretches a flat rock- summit, smoothed by Nature : but yet strong trees have, in spots, found luck and opportunity for rooting themselves there ; they 90 APPENDIX. have softly but decidedly grown up, and now stretch out tbeir boughs into the galleries where the knights once walked to and fro ; nay through the doors and windows into the vaulted halls ; out of which we would not drive them : they have even got the mastery, and may keep it. Sweeping away deep strata of leaves, we have found the notablest place, all smoothed, the like of which were perhaps not to be met with in the world. “ After all this, however, it is still to be remarked, and on the spot itself well worth examining, how on the steps that lead up to the main tower, a maple has struck root and fashioned itself to a stout tree, so that you hardly can with difficulty press by it, to mount the battlements and gaze over the unbounded prospect. Yet here too, you linger pleased in the shade ; for that tree is it which, high over the whole, wondrously lifts itself into the air. “ Let us thank the brave Artist, then, who so deservingly in various pictures teaches us the whole, even as if we saw it : he has spent the fairest hours of the day and of the season therein, and for weeks long kept moving about these scenes. Here in this corner has there been, for him and the warder we gave him, a pleasant little dwelling fitted up. You could not think, my Best, what a lovely outlook into the country, into court and walls, he has got there. But now when all is once in outline, so pure, so characteristic, he may finish it down here at his ease. With these pictures we will decorate our garden-hall ; and no one shall recreate his eyes over our - regular parterres, our groves and shady walks, without wishing himself up there, to follow, in actual sight of the old and of the new, of the stubborn, inflexible, indestructible, and of the fresh, pliant, irresistible, what reflections and comparisons would rise for him.” Honorio entered, with notice that the horses were brought out ; then said the Princess, turning to the Uncle : “Let us ride up ; and you will show me in reality what you have here set before me in image. Ever since I came among you, I have heard of this undertaking; and now should like, of all things, to see with my own eyes what in the narrative seemed impossible, and in the depicting remains improbable.” — “Not yet, my Love,” answered the Prince: “What you here saw is what it can become and is becoming ; for the present, much in the enterprise stands still amid impediments ; Art must first be complete, if Nature is not to shame it.” — “ Then let us ride at least upwards, were it only to the foot : I have the greatest wish to-day to look about me far in the world.” — “Altogether as you will,” replied the prince. — APPENDIX. 91 “Let us ride through the Town, however,” continued the Lady, “ over the great market-place, where stands the innumerable crowd of booths, looking like a little city, like a camp. It is as if the wants and occupations of all the families in the land were turned outwards, assembled in this centre, and brought into the light of day : for the attentive observer can descry whatsoever it is that man performs and needs ; you fancy, for the moment, there is no money necessary, that all business could here be managed by barter, and so at bottom it is. Since the Prince, last night, set me on these reflections, it is pleasant to consider how here, where Mountain and Plain meet together, both so clearly speak out what they require and wish. For as the highlander can fashion the tim- ber of his woods into a hundred shapes, and mould his iron for all manner of uses, so these others from below come to meet him with most manifold wares, in which often you can hardly discover the material or recognise the aim.” “ I am aware,” answered the Prince, “ that my Nejaliew turns his utmost care to these things ; for specially, on the present occasion, this main point comes to be considered, that one receive more than one gives out : wdiich to manage is, in the long-run, the sum of all Political Economy, as of the smallest private housekeeping. Par- don me, however, my Best : I never like to ride through markets ; at every step you are hindered and kept back ; and then flames-up in my imagination the monstrous misery which, as it were, burnt itself into my eyes, when I witnessed one such world of wares go off in fire. I had scarcely got to ” “ Let us not lose the bright hours,” interrupted the Princess ; for the worthy man had already more than once afflicted her with the minute description of that mischance : how he, being on a long jour- ney, resting in the best inn, on the market-place which was just then swarming with a fair, had gone to bed exceedingly fatigued ; and in the night-time been, by shrieks, and flames rolling up against his lodging, hideously awakened. . The Princess hastened to mount her favourite horse : and led, not through the backgate upwards, but through the foregate downwards, her reluctant-willing attendant ; for who but would gladly have ridden by her side, w r ho but would gladly have followed after her ? And so Honorio too had, without regret, stayed back from the otherwise so wished-for Hunt, to be exclusively at her service. As was to be anticipated, they could only ride through the market step by step : but the fair Lovely one enlivened every stoppage by 92 APPENDIX. some sprightly remark ; “ I repeat my lesson of yesternight,” said she, “since Necessity is trying our patience.” And in truth, tlio whole mass of men so crowded about the riders, that their progress was slow. The people gazed with joy at the young dame ; and on so many smiling countenances might be read the pleasure they felt to see that the first woman in the land was also the fairest and gracefullest. Promiscuously mingled stood, Mountaineers, who had built their still dwellings amid rocks, firs and spruces ; Lowlanders from hills, meadows and leas ; craftsmen of the little towns; and what else had all assembled there. After a quiet glance, the Princess remarked to her attendant, how all these, whencesoever they came, had taken more stuff than necessary for their clothes, more cloth and linen, more ribands for trimming. It is as if the women could not be bushy enough, the men not puffy enough, to please them- selves. “We will leave them that,” answered the Uncle : “ spend his superfluity on what he will, a man is happy in it ; happiest when he therewith decks and dizens himself.” The fair dame nodded assent. So had they, by degrees, got upon a clear space, which led out to the suburbs ; when, at the end of many small booths and stands, a larger edifice of boards showed itself, which was scarcely glanced at till an ear-lacerating bellow sounded forth from it. The feed- ing-hour of the wild-beasts, there exhibited, seemed to have come : the Lion let his forest- and desert-voice be heard in all vigour ; the horses shuddered, and all had to remark how, in the peaceful ways and workings of the cultivated world, the king of the wilder- ness so fearfully announced himself. Coming nearer the booth, you could not overlook the variegated colossal pictures represent- ing with violent colours and strong emblems those foreign beasts ; to a sight of which the peaceful burgher was to be irresistibly en- ticed. The grim monstrous tiger was pouncing on a blackamoor, on the point of tearing him in shreds ; a lion stood earnest and majestic, as if he saw no prey worthy of him; other wondrous particoloured creatures, beside these mighty ones, deserved less attention. “ As we come back,” said the Princess, “we will alight and take a nearer view of these gentry.” — “It is strange,” observed the Prince, “that man always seeks excitement by Terror. Inside, there, the Tiger lies quite quiet in his cage ; and here must he fe- rociously dart upon a black, that the people may fancy the like is to be seen within : of murder and sudden death, of burning and APPENDIX. 93 destruction, there is not enough, but ballad-singers must at every corner keep repeating it. Good man will have himself frightened a little ; to feel the better, in secret, how beautiful and laudable it is to draw breath in freedom.” "Whatever of apprehensiveness from such bugbear images might have remained, was soon all and wholly effaced, as, issuing through the gate, our party entered ou the cheerfullest of scenes. The road led first up the River, as yet but a small current, and bearing only light boats, but which by-and-by, as a renowned world-stream, would carry forth its name and waters, and enliven distant lands. They proceeded next through well-cultivated fruit-gardens and pleasure-grounds, softly ascending ; and by degrees you could look about you, in the now disclosed, much-peopled region ; till first a thicket, then a little wood admitted our riders, and the graceful- lest localities refreshed and limited their view. A meadow-vale leading upwards, shortly before mown for the second time, velvet- like to look upon, and watered by a brook rushing out lively copi- ous at once from the uplands above, received them as with wel- come ; and so they approached a higher freer station ; which, on issuing from the wood, after a stiff ascent, they gained ; and could now descry, over new clumps of trees, the old Castle, the goal of their pilgrimage, rising in the distance, as pinnacle of the rock and forest. Backwards, again, (for never did one mount hither with- out turning round), they caught, through accidental openings of the high trees, the Prince’s Castle, on the left, lightened by the morning sun ; the well-built higher quarter of the Town, softened under light smoke-clouds : and so on, rightwards, the under Town, the River in several bendings, with its meadows and mills ; on the far- ther side, an extensive fertile region. Having satisfied themselves with the prospect, or rather, as usu- ally happens when we look round from so high a station, become doubly eager for a wider, less limited Hew, they rode on, over a broad stony flat, where the mighty Ruin stood fronting them, as a green-crowned summit, a few old trees far down about its foot : they rode along ; and so arrived there, just at the steepest, most inaccessible side. Great rocks jutting out from of old, insensible of every change, firm, well-founded, stood clenched together there ; and so it towered upwards ; what had fallen at intervals lay in huge plates and fragments confusedly heaped, and seemed to forbid the boldest any attempt. But the steep, the precipitous is inviting to youth : to undertake it, to storm and conquer it, is for young limbs an enjoyment. The Princess testified desire for 94 APPENDIX. an attempt ; Honorio was at her hand ; the Prince-Uncle, if easier to satisfy, took it cheerfully, and would show that he too had strength : the horses were to wait below among the trees ; our climbers make for a certain point, where a huge projecting rock affords standing-room, and a prospect, which indeed is already passing over into the bird’s-eye kind, yet folds itself together there picturesquely enough. The sun, almost at its meridian, lent the clearest light ; the Prince’s Castle, with its compartments, main buildings, wings, domes and towers, lay clear and stately ; the upper Town in its whole extent ; into the lower also you could conveniently look, nay by the telescope distinguish the booths in the market-place. So furtkersome an instrument Honorio would never leave behind: they looked at the Biver upwards and downwards ; on this side, the mountainous, ten-ace-like, interrupted expanse, on that the up- swelling, fruitful land, alternating in level and low hill ; places in- numerable ; for it was long customary to dispute how many of them were here to be seen. Over the great expanse lay a cheerful stillness, as is common at noon ; when, as the Ancients were wont to say, Pan is asleep, and all Nature holds her breath not to awaken him. “It is not the first time,” said the Princess, “that I, on some such high far-seeing spot, have reflected how Nature, all clear, looks so pure and peaceful, and gives you the impression as if there were nothing contradictory in the world ; and yet when you return back into the habitation of man, be it lofty or low, wide or narrow, there is ever somewhat to contend with, to battle with, to smooth and put to rights.” Honorio, who meanwhile was looking through the glass at the Town, exclaimed, “ See ! see ! There is fire in the market ! ” They looked, and could observe some smoke ; the flames were smothered in the daylight. “The fire spreads ! ” cried he, still looking through the glass : the mischief indeed now became notice- able to the good eyes of the Princess ; from time to time you ob- serve a red burst of flame, the smoke mounted aloft ; and Prince- Uncle said : “ Let us return ; that is not good ; I always feared I should see that misery a second time.” They descended, got back to their horses. “ Bide,” said the Princess to the Uncle, “fast, but not without a groom : leave me Honorio ; we will follow without delay.” The Uncle felt the reasonableness, nay necessity of this ; and started off down the waste stony slope, at the quickest pace the ground allowed. APPENDIX. 95 As the Princess mounted, Honorio said: “Please your Excel- lency to ride slow ! Iu the Town as in the Castle, the tire-appar- atus is in perfect order ; the people, in this unexpected accident, will not lose their presence of mind. Here, moreover, we have bad ground, little stones and short grass ; quick riding is unsafe ; in any case, before we arrive, the fire will be got under.” The Princess did not think so ; she observed the smoke spreading, she fancied that she saw a flame flash up, that she heard an explosion ; and nowin her imagination all the terrific things awoke, which the worthy Uncle’s repeated narrative of his experiences in that mar- ket-conflagration had too deeply implanted there. Frightful doubtless had that business been ; alarming and im- pressive enough to leave behind it, painfully through life loug, a boding and image of its recurrence, — when in the night-season, on the great booth-covered market-space, a sudden Are had seized booth after booth, before the sleepers in these light huts could be shaken out of deep dreams : the Prince himself, as a wearied stranger arriving only for rest, started from his sleep, sprang to the window, saw all fearfully illuminated ; flame after flame, from the right, from the left, darting through each other, rolls quiver- ing towards him. The houses of the market-place, reddened in the shine, seemed already glowing ; threatened every moment to kindle, and burst forth in fire. Below, the element raged without let ; planks cracked, laths crackled, the canvas flew abroad, and its dusky fire-peaked tatters whirled themselves round and aloft, — as if bad spirits, in their own element, with perpetual change of shape, were in capricious dance, devouring one another, and there and yonder, would dart-up out from their penal fire. And then, with wild howls, each saved what was at hand : servants and mas- ters laboured to drag forth bales already seized by the flames ; to snatch away yet somewhat from the burning shelves, and pack it into the chests, which too they must at last leave a prey to the hastening flame. How many a one could have prayed but for a moment’s pause to the loud-advancing fire ; as he looked round for the possibility of some device, and was with all his possessions already seized ! On the one side, there burnt and glowed already what, on the other, still stood in dark night. Obstinate characters, will-strong men, grimly fronted the grim foe ; and saved much, with loss of their eyebrows and hair. — Alas, all this - waste confu- sion now arose anew before the fair spirit of the Princess ; the gay morning prospect was all overclouded, and her eyes darkened ; wood and meadow had put on a look of strangeness, of danger. 96 APPENDIX. Entering the peaceful vale, heeding little its refreshing coolness, they were but a few steps onwards from, the copious fountain of the brook which flowed by them, when the Princess descried, quite down in the thickets, something singular, which she soon recog- nised for the tiger : springing on, as she a short while ago had seen him painted, he came towards her ; and this image, added to the frightful ones she was already busy with, made the strangest impression. “Fly, your Grace!” cried Honorio, “fly!” She turned her horse towards the steep hill they had jngt descended. The young man, rushing on towards the monster, drew his pistol and fired when he thought himself near enough ; but, alas, with- out effect ; the tiger sprang to a side, the horse faltered, the pro- voked wild-beast followed his course, upwards straight after the Princess. She galloped, what her horse could, up the steep stony space ; scarcely apprehending that so delicate a creature, unused to such exertion, could not hold out. It overdid itself, driven on by the necessitated Princess ; it stumbled on the loose gravel of the steep, and again stumbled ; and at last fell, after violent ef- forts, powerless to the ground. The fair dame, resolute and dex- terous, failed not instantly to get upon her feet ; the horse too rose, but the tiger was approaching ; though not with vehement speed ; the uneven ground, the sharp stones seemed to damp his impetu- osity ; and only Honorio flying after him, riding with checked speed along with him, appeared to stimulate and provoke his force anew. Both runners, at the same instant, reached the spot where the Princess was standing by her horse : the Knight bent himself, fired, and with this second pistol hit the monster through the head, so that it rushed down ; and now, stretched out in full length, first clearly disclosed the might and terror whereof only the bodily hull was left lying. Honorio had sprung from his horse ; was already kneeling on the beast, quenching its last movements, and held his drawn hanger in his right hand. The youth was beautiful ; he had come dashing on, as, in sports of the lance and the ring, the Princess had often seen him do. Even so in the riding-course would his bullet, as he darted by, hit the Turk’s-head on the pole, right under the turban in the brow ; even so would he, lightly prancing up, prick his naked sabre into the fallen mass, and lift it from the ground. In all such arts he was dexterous and felicitous ; both now stood him in good stead. “ Give him the rest,” said the princess : “ I fear he will hurt you with his claws.” — “ Pardon ! ” answered the youth : “ he is already dead enough ; and I would not hurt the skin, which next winter APPENDIX. 97 shall shine upon your sledge.” — “ Sport not,” said the Princess : ‘ ‘ whatsoever of pious feeling dwells in the depth of the heart un- folds itself in such a moment.” — “I too,” cried Honorio, “was never more pious than even now ; and therefore do I think of what is joyfullest ; I look at the tiger’s fell only as it can attend you to do you pleasure.” — “ It would forever remind me,” said she, “of this fearful moment.” — “ Yet is it,” replied the youth with glow- ing cheeks, “ a more harmless spoil than when the weapons of slain enemies are carried for show before the victor.” — “ I shall bethink me, at sight of it, of your boldness and cleverness ; and need not add, that you may reckon on my thanks and the Prince’s favour for your life long. But rise ; the beast is clean dead ; let us consider what is next ; before all things rise ! ” — “ As I am once on my knees,” replied the youth, “once in a posture which in other circumstances would have been forbid, let me beg at this moment to receive assurance of the favour, of the grace which you vouchsafe me. I have already asked so often of your high Consort for leave and promotion to go on my travels. He who has the happiness to sit at your table, whom you honour with the privilege to entertain your company, should have seen the world. Travellers stream-in on us from all parts ; and when a town, an important spot in any quarter of the world comes in course, the question is sure to be asked of us, Were we ever there ? Nobody allows one sense, till one has seen all that : it is as if you had to instruct yourself only for the sake of others.” “Rise ! ” repeated the Princess : “I were loth to wish or request aught that went against the will of my Husband ; however, if I mistake not, the cause why he has restrained you hitherto will soon be at an end. His intention was to see you ripened into a complete self-guided nobleman, to do yourself and him credit in foreign parts, as hitherto at court ; and I should think this deed of yours was as good a recommendatory passport as a young man could wish for, to take abroad with him.” That, instead of a youthful joy, a certain mournfulness came over his face, the Princess had not time to observe, nor had he to indulge his emotion ; for, in hot haste, up the steep, came a woman, with a boy at her hand, straight to the group so well known to us ; and scarcely had Honorio, bethinking him, arisen, when they howling and shrieking cast themselves on the carcass ; by which action, as well as by their cleanly, decent, yet particol- oured and unusual dress, might be gathered that it was the mis- tress of this slain creature, and the black-eyed, black-locked boy, 7 98 APPENDIX. holding a flute in his hand, her son ; weeping like his mother, less violent, but deeply moved, kneeling beside her. Now came strong outbreakings of passion from this woman ; in- terrupted indeed, and pulse-wise ; a stream of words, leaping like a stream in gushes from rock to rock. A natural language, short and discontinuous, made itself impressive and pathetic : in vain should we attempt translating it into our dialects ; the approxi- mate purport of it we must not omit. “ They have murdered thee, poor beast ! murdered without need ! Thou wert tame, and wouldst fain have lain down at rest and waited our coming ; for thy foot- balls were sore, thy claws had no force left. The hot sun to ripen them was wanting. Thou wert the beautifullest of thy kind : who ever saw a kingly tiger so gloriously stretched-out in sleep, as thou here liest, dead, never to rise more ? "When thou awokest in the early dawn of morning, and openedst thy throat, stretching out thy red tongue, thou wert as if smiling on us ; and even when bel- lowing, thou tookest thy food from the hands of a woman, from the fingers of a child. How long have we gone with thee on thy journeys; how long has thy company been useful and fruitful to us ! To us, to us of a very truth, meat came from the eater, and sweetness out of the strong. So will it be no more. Woe! woe ! ” She had not done lamenting, when over the smoother part- of the Castle Mountain came riders rushing down ; soon recognised as the Prince’s Hunting-train, himself the foremost. Following their sport, in the backward hills, they had observed the fire-vapours ; and fast through dale and ravine, as in fierce chase, taken the shortest path towards this mournful sign. Galloping along the stony vacancy, they stopped and stared at sight of the unexpected group, which in that empty expanse stood out so mark-worthy. After the first recognition, there was silence ; some pause of breathing-time, and then what the view itself did not impart, was with brief words explained. So stood the Prince, contemplating the strange unheard-of incident ; a circle round him of riders, and , followers that had run on foot. What to do was still undeter- mined ; the Prince intent on ordering, executing ; when a man pressed forward into the circle ; large of stature, particoloured, wondrously apparelled, like wife and child. And now the family, in union, testified their sorrow and astonishment. The man, how- ever, soon restrained himself ; bowed in reverent distance before the Prince, and said : “ It is not the time for lamenting ; alas, my lord and mighty hunter, the Lion too is loose ; hither towards the APPENDIX. 99 moimtains is he gone : but spare him, have mercy, that he perish not like this good beast.” “The Lion ! ” said the Prince : “ Hast thou the trace of him ? ” —“Yes, Lord! A peasant down there, who had heedlessly taken shelter on a tree, directed me farther up this way, to the left ; but I saw the crowd of men and horses here ; anxious for tidings of assistance, I hastened hither.” — “ So then,” commanded the Prince, “ draw to the left, Huntsmen ; you will load your pieces, go softly to work ; if you drive him into the deep woods, it is no matter : but in the end, good man, we shall be obliged to kill your animal : why were you improvident enough to let him loose?” — “ The fire broke out,” replied he; “we kept quiet and attentive ; it spread fast, but at a distance from us ; we had water enough for our defence ; but a heap of powder blew up, and threw the brands on to us, and over our heads ; we were too hasty, and are now ruined people.” The Prince was still busy directing ; but for a moment all seemed to pause, as a man was observed hastily springing down from the heights of the old Castle ; whom the troop soon recognised for the watchman that had been stationed there to keep the Painter’s apartment, while he lodged there and took charge of the workmen. He came running, out of breath, yet in a few words soon made known, That the Lion had lain himself down, within the high ring-wall, in the sunshine, at the foot of a large beech, and was behaving quite quietly. With an air of vexation, however, the man concluded : “ W'hv did I take my rifle to town yesternight, to have it cleaned ? he had never risen again, the skin had been mine, and I might all my life have had the credit of the thing.” The Prince, whom his military experiences here also stood in stead, for he had before now been in situations where from various sides inevitable evil seemed to threaten, said hereupon : “ W T kat surety do you give me that if we spare your Lion, he will not work destruction among us, among my people ? ” “ This woman and this child,” answered the father hastily, “ en- gage to tame him, to keep him peaceable, till I bring up the cage, and then we can carry him back unharmed and without harming any one.” The boy put his flute to his lips ; an instrument of the kind once named soft, or sweet flutes ; sliort-beaked like pipes : he, who understood the art, could bring out of it the gracefullest tones. Meanwhile the Prince had inquired of the watchman how the lion came up. “ By the hollow-way,” answered he, “ which is 100 APPENDIX. walled-in on both sides, and was formerly the only entrance, and is to be the only one still : two footpaths,' which led in elsewhere, we have so blocked up and destroyed that no human being, ex- cept by that first narrow passage, can reach the Magic Castle which Prince Friedrich’s talent and taste is making of it.” After a little thought, during which the Prince looked round at the boy, who still continued as if softly jireluding, he turned to Honorio, and said : ‘ ‘ Thou hast done much to-day, complete thy task. Secure that narrow path ; keep your rifles in readiness, but do not shoot till the creature can no otherwise be driven back : in any case, kindle a fire, which will frighten him if he make down- wards. The man and woman take charge of the rest.” Honorio rapidly bestirred himself to execute these orders. The child continued his tune, which was no tune ; a series of notes without law, and perhaps even on that account so heart- touching : the bystanders seemed as if enchanted by the move- ment of a song-like melody, when the father with dignified enthu- siasm begun to speak in this sort : “ God has given the Prince wisdom, and also knowledge to dis- cern that all God’s works are wise, each after its kind. Behold the rock, how he stands fast and stirs not, defies the weather and the sunshine ; primeval trees adorn his head, and so crowned he looks abroad ; neither if a mass rush away, will this continue what it was, but falls broken into many pieces and covers the side of the descent. But there too they will not tarry, capriciously they leap far down, the brook receives them, to the river he bears them. Not resisting, not contradictory, angular ; no, smooth and rounded they travel now quicker on their way, arrive, from river to river, finally at the ocean, whither march the giants in hosts, and in the depths whereof dwarfs are busy. “But who shall exalt the glory of the Lord, whom the stars praise from Eternity to Eternity ! Why look ye far into the dis- tance ? Consider here the bee : late at the end of harvest she still busily gathers ; builds her a house, tight of corner, straight of wall, herself the architect and mason. Behold the ant : she knows her way, and loses it not ; she piles her a dwelling of grass-halms, earth-crumbs, and needles of the fir ; she piles it aloft and arches it in ; but she has laboured in vain, for the horse stamps, and scrapes it all in pieces : lo ! he has trodden-down her beams, and scattered her planks ; impatiently he snorts, and cannot rest ; for the Lord has made the horse comrade of the wind and companion of the storm, to carry man whither he wills, and woman whither APPENDIX. 101 she desires. But in the Wood of Palms arose he, the Lion ; with earnest step traversed the wildernesses ; there rules he over all creatures ; his might who shall withstand ? Yet man can tame him ; and the fiercest of living things has reverence for the image of God, in which too the angels are made, who serve the Lord and his servants. For in the den of Lions Daniel was not afraid ; he remained fast and faithful, and the wild bellowing interrupted not his song of praise.” This speech, delivered with expression of a natural enthusiasm, the child accompanied here and there with graceful tones ; but now, the father having ended, he, with clear melodious voice and skilful passaging, struck up his warble ; whereupon the father took the flute, and gave note in unison, while the child sang : From the Dens, I, in a deeper, Prophet’s song of praise can hear ; Angel-host he hath for keeper, Needs the good man there to fear ? Lion, Lioness, agazing, Mildly pressing round him came ; Yea, that humble, holy praising, It hath made them tame. The father continued, accompanying this strophe with his flute ; the mother here-and there touched-in as second voice. Impressive, however, in a quite peculiar degree, it was, when the child now began to shuffle the lines of the strophe into other arrangement ; and thereby if not bring out a new sense, yet heighten the feeling by leading it into self-excitement : Angel-host around doth hover, Us in heavenly tones to cheer ; In the Dens our head doth cover, — ■ Needs the poor child there to fear ? For that humble holy praising Will permit no evil nigh : Angels hover, keeping, gazing ; Who so safe as I ? Hereupon with emphasis and elevation began all three : For th’ Eternal rules above us, Lands and oceans rules his -will ; Lions even as lambs shall love us, And the proudest waves be still. Whetted sword to scabbard cleaving, Faith and Hope victorious see ; Strong, who, loving and believing, Prays, O Lord, to thee. 102 APPENDIX. All were silent, bearing, hearkening ; and only when the tones ceased could you remark and distinguish the impression they had made. All was as if appeased ; each affected in his way. The Prince, as if he now first saw the miseiy that a little ago had threatened him, looked down on his spouse, w 7 ho leaning on him forebore not to draw out the little embroidered handkerchief, and therewith covered her eyes. It was blessedness for her to feel her young bosom relieved from the pressure with which the preceding minutes had loaded it. A perfect silence reigned over the crowd ; they seemed to have forgotten the dangers : the conflagration below ; and above, the rising-up of a dubiously-reposing Lion. By a sign to bring the horses, the Prince first restored the group to motion ; he turned to the woman and said: “You think then that, once find the Lion, you corrld, by vour singing, by the sing- ing of this child, with help 'of these flute-tones, appease him, and carry him back to his prison, unhurt and hurting no one ? ” They answered Y r es, assuring and affirming; the castellan was given them as guide. And now the Prince started off in all speed with a few ; the Princess followed slower, with the rest of the train : mother and son, on their side, under conduct of the warder, who had got himself a musket, mounted up the steeper part of the height. Before the entrance of the hollow-wav which opened their access to the Castle, they found the hunters busy heaping-up dry brush- wood, to have, in any case, a large fire ready for kindling. “ There is no need,” said the woman : “ it will all go well and peaceably, without that.” Farther on, sitting on a wall, his double-barrel resting in liis lap, Honorio appeared ; at his post, as if ready for every occur- rence. However, he seemed hardly to notice our party ; he sat as if sunk in deep thoughts, he looked round like one whose mind was not there. The woman addressed him with a prayer not to let the fire be lit ; he appeared not to heed her words ; she spoke on with vivacity, and cried : “ Handsome young man, thou hast killed my tiger, I do not curse thee ; spare my lion, good young man, I will bless thee.” Honorio was looking straight out before him, to where the sun on his course began to sink. “Thou lookest to the west,” cried the woman ; “ thou dost well, there is much to do there ; hasten, delay not, thou wilt conquer. But first conquer thyself.” At this he appeared to give a smile ; the woman stept . on ; could not, however, but look back once more at him : a ruddy sun was irradiat- ing his face ; she thought she had never seen a handsomer youth. APPENDIX. 103 “ If your child,”' said the warder now, “ with his fluting and singing, can, as you are persuaded, entice and pacify the Lion, we shall soon get mastery of him after, for the creature has lain down quite close to the perforated vaults through which, as the main passage was blocked up with ruins, we had to bore ourselves an entrance into the Castle-Court. If the child entice him into this latter, I can close the ojiening with little difficulty ; then the boy, if he like, can glide out by one of the little spiral stairs he will find in the corner. We must conceal ourselves ; but I shall so take my place that a rifle-ball can, at any moment, help the poor child iu case of extremity.” ‘ ‘ All these precautions are unnecessary ; God and skill, piety and a blessing, must do the work.” — “ May be,” replied the warder ; “ however, I know my duties. First, I must lead you, by a difficult path, to the top of the wall, right opposite the vaults and opening I have mentioned : the child may then go down, as into the arena of the show, and lead away the animal, if it will fol- low him.” This was done : warder and mother looked dowm in concealment, as the child descending the screw-stairs, showed himself in the open space of the Court, and disappeared opposite them in the gloomy opening ; but forthwith gave his flute voice, which by-and-by grew weaker, and at last sank dumb. The pause was bodeful enough ; the old hunter, familiar with danger, felt heart-sick at the singular conjecture ; the mother, however, with cheerful face, bending over to listen, showed not the smallest dis- composure. At last the flute was again heard ; the child stept forth from the cavern with glittering satisfied eyes, the Lion after him, but slowly, and as it seemed with difficulty. He showed here and there desire to lie down ; yet the boy led him in a half-circle through the few disleaved many-tinted trees, till at length, in the last rays of the sun, which poured-in through a hole in the ruins, he set him down, as if transfigured in the bright red light ; and again commenced his pacifying song, the repetition of which we also cannot forbear : From the Dens, I, in a deeper, Prophet’s song of praise can hear ; Angel-host he hath for keeper. Needs the good man there to fear ? Lion, Lioness, agazing. Mildly pressing round him came ; Yea, that humble, holy praising, It hath made them tame. 104 APPENDIX. Meanwhile the Lion had laid itself down quite close to the child, and lifted its heavy right fore-paw into his bosom ; the boy as he sung gracefully stroked it ; but was not long in observing that a shaip thorn had stuck itself between the balls. He carefully pulled it out ; with a smile, took the particoloured silk-handkerchief from his neck, and bound up the frightful paw of the monster ; so that his mother for joy bent herself back with outstretched arms ; and perhaps, according to custom, would have shouted and clapped applause, had not a hard hand-gripe of the warder reminded her that the danger was not yet over. Triumphantly the child sang on, having with a few tones pre- luded : For th’ Eternal rules above ns, Lands and oceans rules his will ; Lions even as lambs shall love us, And the proudest waves be still Whetted sword to scabbard cleaving, Faith and Hope victorious see : Strong, who, loving and believing, Prays, O Lord, to thee. Were it possible to fancy that in the countenance of so grim a creature, the tyrant of the woods, the despot of the animal king- dom, an expression of friendliness, of thankful contentment could be traced, then here was such traceable ; and truly the child, in his illuminated look, had the air as of a mighty triumphant victor ; the other figure, indeed, not that of one vanquished, for his strength lay concealed in him ; but yet of one tamed, of one given up to his own peaceful will. The child fluted and sung on, changing the lines according to his way, and adding new : And so to good children bringeth Blessed Angel help in need ; Fetters o’er the cruel flingeth, Worthy act with wings doth speed. So have tamed, and firmly iron’d To a poor child’s feeble knee, Him the forest’s lordly tj’rant, Pious Thought and Melody. APPENDIX. 105 . IL SCHILLER, GOETHE AX'D MADAME DE STALL.' [1832.] In this age, by some called the Locomotive, when men travel wish all manner of practical, scientific and unscientific purposes ; to fish Mexican oysters, and convert the heathen ; in search of the picturesque, in search of cheap land, good groceries, bibliography, wives, new cookery, and, generally, though without effect, in search of happiness ; when even kings, queens and constitutions, are so often sent on their travels ; and what with railways, what with rev- olutions, absolutely nothing will stay in its place. — the interest that once attached to mere travellers is gone : no Othello could now by such means win the simplest Desdemona. Nevertheless, in Madame de Stael’s Travels there is still something peculiar. Shut out from her bright beloved Paris, she gyrates round it in a wider or narrower circle. Haunted with danger, affliction, love of knowledge, and above all with ennui, she sets forth in her private carriage on two intermingled errands : first, ‘ to find noble char- acters ; ’ secondly, ‘ to study national physiognomies.’ The most distinguished female living wall see face to face the most distin- guished personages living, be they male or female ; will have sweet counsel with them, or, in philosophic tourney, ‘ free passages of arms ; ’ will gauge them with her physiognomical callipers, and, if so seem fit, print their dimensions in books. Not to study the charters, police and economy of nations ; to stand in their council- halls, workshops, dress-shops and social assemblages ; least of all, to gaze on waterfalls, and ruined robber-towers, and low over them, as the cattle on a thousand hills can do, is she posting through the world : but to read the living book of man, as written in various tongues ; nay, to read the chrestomathy and diamond-edition of that living polyglot book of man, wherein, for clear eyes, all his subordinate performances, practices and arrangements, or the best spirit of these stand legible. It is a tour, therefore, not for this or that object of culture, this or that branch of wisdom ; but for culture generally, for wisdom itself : and combines with this dis- tinction that of being a true tour of knight-errantry, and search of spiritual adventures and feats of intellect, — the only kniglit-er- i Fraser's Magazine, No. 26. 100 APPENDIX. rantry practicable in these times. Witli such high-soaring views, Madame first penetrated into Germany in 1803 ; and conld not miss Weimar, where the flower of intellectual Germany was then assembled. The figure of such a three as Goethe, Schiller and De Stael, to whom Wieland, Muller and other giants, might be joined, rises beautiful in our imagination, and throws powder in the eyes ; and perhaps, for merely poetic purposes, it were best if we left it in- vested with that rose-coloured cloud, and pried no deeper. But insatiable curiosity will nowise let the matter rest there ; Science, as well as Fancy, must have its satisfaction. The ‘ spiritual Ama- zon ’ was a mortal woman ; those philosophic jous tings and sym- posia were also transacted on our common clay earth : behind that gorgeous arras, of which we see not the knotty side, who knows what vulgar, angular stone and mortar lies concealed ! In the Sixth Volume of the Correspondence between Schiller and Goethe, lately published ; still more, in the Thirty-first Volume of Goethe’s Works, even now publishing, where, under the title of Tag- und Jahres-Heft , is a continuation of his Autobiography, we find some indications and disclosures. These the British world, for insight into this matter, shall now also behold, in juxtaposition, if not in combination. Of Madame in London there are some sketches in Byron’s Letters, but more in the way of daubing than of paint- ing ; done too, not with philosophic permanent-colours, but with mere dandyic ochre and japan, which last were but indifferently applicable here. The following are in a more artistic style, and may be relied on as sincere and a real likeness. We give the whole series of Notices, which we have translated, long and short, arranged according to the order of dates, beginning with the first note of distant preparation, and ending with the latest reminiscence. Goethe is, for the time, at Jena, engaged in laborious official duties of a literary kind, when, on the 30th of November 1803, Schiller thus finishes a letter to him from Weimar : ‘ Madame de Stael is actually in Frankfort, and we may soon ‘ look for her here. If she but understand German, I doubt not ‘ we shall do our part ; but to preach our religion to her in French ‘ phrases, and standing the brunt of French volubility, were too ‘ hard a problem. We should not get through so cleverly as ‘ Schelling did with Camille Jourdan. Farewell.’ The next will explain themselves : APPENDIX. 107 ‘ Jena, 13th December 1803. ‘ It was to be foreseen, that when Madame de Stael came to Wei- ‘ mar, I shoirld be called thither. I have taken counsel with my- ‘ self, that the moment might not surprise me, and determined on ‘ staying here. For the laborious and dubious business that now ‘ lies on me, whatever physical force I have, especially in this bad ‘ month, will scantily suffice ; from the intellectual surveyance 1 down to the mechanical typographical department, I need to have ‘ it all before me. * * * * You, my dear friend, see, not with- ‘ out horror, what a case I am in ; with Meyer, indeed, to comfort ‘ me, yet without help or complete fellow-feeling from any one : ‘ for whatever is so much as possible, our people look upon as easy. ‘ Wherefore, I entreat you, take my place ; guide the whole matter ‘ for the best, so far as possible. If Madame de Stael please to ‘ visit me, she shall be well received. Let me but know four-and- ‘ twenty hours beforehand, and part of the Loder apartments shall ‘ be furnished to lodge her ; she will find a burgher’s table, and ‘ welcome ; we shall actually meet and speak together ; she can ‘ stay while such remains her pleasure. What I have to do here ‘ is transacted in separate half-hours ; the rest of my time shall be ‘ hers : but in this weather to go and to come, to dress, appear at ‘ court and in company, is, once for all, impossible, as decisively ‘ as ever you, in the like condition, have pronounced it. * All this I commit to your friendly guidance, for there is nothing ‘ that would gratify me more than to see this distinguished lady, ‘ and personally make acquaintance with her ; really glad were I, ‘ could she spend these two leagues of road on me. Worse quar- ‘ ters than await her here she has been used to by the way. Do ‘ you lead and manage these conditions with your delicate and kind ‘ hand, and send me an express when anything decided occurs. ‘ Good speed to all that your solitude produces, as yourself could ‘ wish and will ! For me, I am rowing in a foreign element ; nay, ‘ I might say, only splashing and spluttering therein, with loss for ‘ the outward man, and without the smallest satisfaction for the in- ‘ ward or from the inward. But after all, if it be true, as Homer ‘ and Polygnotes teach me more and more, that we poor mortals ‘ have properly a kind of hell to enact in this earth of ours, such a ‘ life may pass among the rest. A thousand farewells in the celes- ‘ tial sense ! ‘ Goethe.’ 108 APPENDIX. ‘ Weimar, lUh December 1803. ‘ Against your reasons for not coming hither there is nothing * solid to be urged ; I have stated them with all impressiveness to ‘the Duke. For Madame de Stael herself too, it must be much ‘ pleasanter to see you without that train of dissipation ; and for ‘ yourself, under such an arrangement, this acquaintance may prove ‘ areal satisfaction, which were otherwise a burden not to be borne. * * ■* * * * * ‘ Fare you heartily well ; keep sound and cheerful, and deal * gently with the Pilgrimess that wends towards you. 'When I hear * more, you shall learn. * Scheller. ‘ P. S. The Duke gives me answer that he will write to you ‘ himself, and speak with me in the Theatre. ’ ‘ Weimar, 21 st December 1803. ‘ The rapid and truly toilsome alternation of productive solitude 1 ‘ with formal society, and its altogether heterogeneous dissipations, * so fatigued me last week, that I absolutely could not take the ‘ pen, and left it to my wife to give you some picture of us. ‘ Madame de Stael you will find quite as you have a priori ‘ construed her : she is all of one piece ; there is no adventitious, ‘ false, pathological speck in her. Hereby is it that, notwith- ‘ standing the immeasurable difference in temper and way of ‘ thought, one is perfectly at ease with her, can hear all from ‘ her, and say all to her. She represents French culture in its ‘ purity, and under a most interesting aspect. In all that we ‘ name philosophy, therefore in all highest and ultimate questions, ‘ one is at issue witlrher, and remains so in spite of all arguing. ‘ But her nature, her feeling, is better than her metaphysics ; and ‘ her fine understanding rises to the rank of genial. She insists ‘ on explaining everything, on seeing into it, measuring it ; she ‘ allows nothing dark, inaccessible ; whithersoever her torch can- ‘ not throw its light, there nothing exists for her. Hence follows ‘ an aversion, a horror, for the transcendental philosophy, which ‘ in her view leads to mysticism and superstition. This is the car- ‘bonic gas in which she dies. For what we call poetry there ‘ is no sense in her : from such works it is only the passionate, the ‘ oratorical, the intellectual, that she can appropriate ; yet she will ‘ endure no falsehood there, only does not always recognise the true. 1 Schiller was now busied with Wilhelm Tell : on which last and greatest of his Dramas this portion of the Correspondence with Goethe mainly turns. APPENDIX. 109 ‘ You infer from these few words that the clearness, decidedness ‘ and rich vivacity of her nature cannot but affect one favourably. ‘ Our only grievance is the altogether unprecedented glibness of ‘ her tongue : you must make yourself all ear, if you would follow ‘ her. Nevertheless, as even I, with my small faculty of speaking ‘ French, get along quite tolerably with her, you, with your greater £ practice, will find communication very easy. ‘ My proposals were, that you came over on Saturday ; opened ‘the acquaintance, and then returned on Sunday to your Jena ‘ business. If she stay longer than the new year, you will find ‘ her here ; if she leave us sooner, she can still visit you in J ena ‘ before going. ‘ The great point at present is, that you hasten to get a sight ‘ of her, and so free yourself of the stretch of expectation. If * you can come sooner than Saturday, so much the better. ‘ For the present, farewell. My labour has not, indeed, ad- 1 vanced much this week, but also not stood still. It is truly a ‘ pity that this so interesting Phenomenon should have come upon ‘ us at the wrong season, when pressing engagements, bad ‘ weather, and the sad public occurrences over which one cannot ‘ rise quite triumphant, conspire to oppress us. ‘ Schuller.’ Goethe, having finished his work, returns to Weimar, but not in health. We find no mention of Madame till the 4th of January, and then only this : * * * * ‘Of the Lady de Stael I hear nothing : I hope she ‘ is busy with Benjamin Constant. What 'would I give for quiet- ‘ ness, liberty and health, through the next four' -weeks ! I should ‘ then have almost done. ‘ Schiller. ’ (Apparently of the same date.) ‘ Here come the new Periodicals, with the request that yc u ‘ would forward them, after use, to Meyer : especially I rcc- ‘ ommend No. 13 to notice. So there is nothing new under the ‘ sun ? And did not our accomplished Pilgrimess assure me this ‘ morning, with the utmost naivete , that whatever words of mine ‘ she could lay hold of, she meant to print ? That story about ‘ Rousseau's Letters 1 does her no good with me at present. One sees ‘ oneself and the foolish French petticoat-ambition as in a diamond- ‘ adamant mirror.’ The best wishes for you. ‘ Goethe.’ 1 This will explain itself afterwards. 110 APPENDIX. {No date.) * * * * ‘ Madame de Stael, in a note to my wife, this ‘ morning, speaks of a speedy departure, but also of a very probable ‘ return by Weimar. * * * ‘ Schiller.’ (Wo date.) * * * ‘Madame de Stael means to stay three weeks yet. ‘ Spite of all her French hurry, she will find, I fear, by her own ex- ‘ perience, that we Germans in Weimar are also a changeful people, ‘ — that every guest should know when to be gone. * * * ‘ Schiller.’ (Wo date.) * * * ‘ De Stael I saw yesterday here, and shall see her again ‘ to-day with the Duchess’s mother. It is the old story with her : ‘ one would think of theDanaides’ sieve, if Oknos 1 with his ass did ‘ not rather occur to one. ‘ Schuler.’ 13th January 1804. * * * ‘Be well and happy, and continue by your noble indus- ‘ try to give us a fresh interest in life : stand to it tightly in the ‘ Hades of company, and plait your reeds there into a right stiff ‘ rope, that there may be something to chew. — Greeting and hail ! ‘ Goethe.’ 11th January. * * * ‘ Your Exposition has refreshed me and nourished me. ‘ It is highly proper that by such an act, at this time, you express ‘ your contradiction of our importunate Visitress ; the case would ‘ grow intolerable otherwise. ‘ Being sick at present, and gloomy, it seems to me impossible ‘ that I could ever hold such discourses again. It is positively a ‘ sin against the Holy Ghost to speak even one word according to ‘ her dialect. Had she taken lessons of J ean Paul, she would not ‘ have stayed so long in Weimar : let her try it for other three ‘ weeks at her peril. * * * * ‘ Schiller.’ 21th January. ‘ To-day, for the first time, I have had a visit from Madame de ‘ Stael. It is still the same feeling : with all daintiness she bears 1 Oknos, a Greek gentleman, of date unknown, diligently plaits a reed rope, which his ass as diligently eats. This Oknos is supposed to have had an un- thrifty wife. Hence Schiller’s allusion. APPENDIX. Ill * herself rudely enough, as a traveller to Hyperboreans, whose ‘ noble old pines and oaks, whose iron and amber, civilised peoiile ‘ indeed could turn to use and ornament. ‘ Meanwhile she forces you to bring out the old worn carpets, by ‘ way of guest-present, and the old rusty weapons to defend your- ‘ self Withal. ‘Goethe.’ 2 6th January. * * * * 1 What are you busy with for to-day and to-morrow ? ‘ That long-projected French reading of Madame de Stael’s takes ‘ place, I hear, to-morrow evening. However, if you are at home ‘ then, and in the mood, I hereby invite myself, for I long much to ‘ see you. ‘ Schiller.’ ‘ Madame de Stael was here to-day with Mtiller, and the Duke ‘ soon joined us ; whereby the discourse grew very lively ; and our ‘ first object, that of revising her Translation of The Fisher ,* was ‘ rendered vain. ****** 1 To-morrow evening, about five, Benjamin Constant is to be with ‘ me. If you can look in later, it will be kindly done. Wishing ‘ you sound sleep. ‘ Goethe.’ 8th February. * * * < if y 0U can visit me to-night, pray mention to the ‘ bearer at what hour you would like the carriage. ‘ Goethe.’ * * * ‘ Being in quite special tune for working to-dav, I must ‘ make a long evening of it, and doubt whether I shall get out to ‘ you. Unhappily I have to struggle and make up beforehand for ‘ the loss of to-morrow, being engaged to dine with Madame de ‘ Stael then. ‘ Schiller.’ (On, or after , the 21 st of Feb.) * * * < To-night we shall meet at Madame’s. Yesterday we ‘ missed you sadly. Many a merry matter turned up, which we ‘ will laugh at by ourselves some day. ‘ Schllleb.’ 1 ‘ Das Wasser rauscht, das Wasser schwoll, Ein Fischer sass daran ; ’ Ac. — a celebrated little poem of Goethe’s. 112 APPENDIX. [On, or after, the 12th of March.) 4 It is a riglit comfort to me that you offer to take charge of Tell. 4 If I be in any tolerable state, I ■will certainly come. Since I saw 4 you last time at the rehearsal, I have not been at all well : the 4 weather is not kind to me ; besides, ever since the departure of ‘ Madame, I have felt no otherwise than as if I had risen from a 4 severe sickness. 4 Schiller.’ With clipping and piecing we have now done ; but, by way of hem to this patchwork, subjoin the passage from Goethe’s Auto- biography 1 above referred to, which offers us a summary and brief synopsis of the whole circumstances, — written long afterwards, in that tone of cheerful gravity, combining the clearest insight with tolerance and kindly humor, to which no reader of his Dichtung unci Wahrheit can be a stranger. ‘ Madame de Stael came to Weimar in the beginning of Decem- 4 ber, while I was still at Jena busied with the Programme. 4 What Schiller wrote me on the 21st of that month served at once 4 to instruct me touching the relation which her presence would 4 give rise to. 2 4 As I could not move from Jena till my task were finished, there 4 came tidings and delineations to me of many kinds how the lady 4 bore herself and was received ; and I could moderately well pre- 4 scribe for myself the part I had to play : yet it all turned out 4 quite otherwise, as in the nest year, which we are now approach- 4 ing, must be shown. *•*■•**** 1804. ‘ Winter had come on with full violence, the roads were snowed- 4 up ; without strong effort was no travelling. Madame de Stael 4 announced herself more and more importunately. My business 4 was concluded, and I resolved for many reasons to return to 4 Weimar ; but this time, also, I felt the unwholesomeness of win- 4 ter residence in the Castle. The so dear-bought experience of 4 1801 had not made me wiser : I returned with a bad cold, which, 4 without being dangerous, kept me some days in bed, and then 4 weeks long in my room ; on which account, a part of this dis- 4 tinguished lady’s stay was for me historical only, as I learned 4 what happened in society from the narratives of friends ; and 1 Werke, b. xxxi. ss. 170-6. " Here follows Schiller's Letter, which we have given already sub dato. APPENDIX. 113 ‘ afterwards too our personal intercourse had to be managed first ‘ by billets, then by dialogues, and, later still, in the smallest ‘ circle, — perhaps the most favourable way both for learning what ‘ was in her, and imparting, so far as that might be, what was 4 in me. ‘ With decisive vehemence she followed her purpose, to become ‘ acquainted with our circumstances, coordinating and subordinat- ‘ ing them to her ideas ; to inform herself as much as possible ‘ concerning individuals ; as a woman of the world, to gain clear ‘ views of our social relations : with her deep female spirit to pen- 4 etrate and see through our general inodes of representing Man 4 and Nature, which is called our philosophy. Now, though I had ‘ no cause to simulate with her, as indeed, even when I let myself ‘ have free course, people do not always rightly interpret me ; yet * here there was an extraneous circumstance at work, that for the ‘ moment made me shy. I received, just at that time, a newly- ‘ published French book, containing the correspondence of two ‘ ladies with Rousseau . 1 On the secluded, inaccessible -man, ‘ these fair intruders had played-off a downright mystification, — ‘ contriving to interest him in certain small concerns, and draw ‘ him into letter-writing ; which letters, when they had enough 4 of the joke, they lay together, and send forth through the" press. ‘ To Madame de Stael I expressed my dislike of the proceed- * ings ; she, however, took the matter lightly ; nay seemed to ap- * plaud it, and not obscurely signified that she meant to deal with 4 us much in the same way. There needed no more to put me on ‘ my guard, in some measure to seal me up. ‘ The great qualities of this high-thinking and high-feeling au- ‘ thoress lie in the view of every one ; and the results of her jour- ‘ ney through Germany testify sufficiently how well she applied 4 her time there. ‘ Her objects were manifold : she wished to know Weimar, to 4 gain accurate acquaintance with its moral, social, literary aspects, 4 and what else it offered ; farther, however, she herself also 4 wished to be known ; and endeavoured therefore to give her own 4 views currency, no less than to search-out our way of thought. 4 Neither could she rest satisfied even here : she must also work 4 upon the senses, upon the feelings, the spirit ; must strive to 4 awaken a certain activity or vivacity, with the want of which she 4 reproached us. 4 Having no notion of what Duty means, and to what a silent, 1 See above, under date the 4th of January. 8 114 APPENDIX. ‘ collected postui’e he that undertakes it must restrict himself, she ‘ was evermore for striking in, for instantaneously producing an * effect. In society there must be constant talking and discours- ‘ ing. ‘ The Weimar people are doubtless capable of some enthusiasm, ‘ perhaps occasionally of a false enthusiasm ; but no French up- ‘ blazing was to be looked for from them ; least of all at a time ‘ when the French political preponderance threatened all Europe, ‘ and Galm-thinking men f presaw the inevitable mischief which, next year, was to lead us to the verge of destruction. ‘ In the way of public reading also, and reciting, did this lady ‘ strive for lam-els. I excused myself from an evening party when ‘ she exhibited Phedre in this fashion , 1 and where the moderate ‘ German plaudits nowise contented her. ‘ To philosophise in society, means to talk with vivacity about ‘ insoluble problems. This was her peculiar pleasure and passion. ‘ Naturally too she was wont to cany it, in such speaking and ‘ counter-speaking, up to those concerns of thought and sentiment ‘ which properly should not be spoken of except between God and ‘ the individual. Here, moreover, as woman and Frenchwoman, ‘ she had the habit of sticking fast on main positions, and, as it ‘ were, 'not hearing rightly what the other said. 1 By all these things the evil genius was awakened in me, so ‘ that I would treat whatever was advanced no otherwise than dia- ‘ lectically and problematically and often, by stiff-necked contradie- ‘ tions, brought her to despair ; wherein, truly, she for the first ‘ time grew rightly amiable, and in the most brilliant manner ex- ‘ hibited her talent of thinking and replying. ‘ More than once I had regular dialogues with her, ourselves ‘ two ; in which likewise, however, she was burdensome, according ‘ to her fashion ; never granting, on the most important topics, a ‘ moment of reflection, but passionately demanding that you should ‘ despatch the deepest concerns, the weightiest occurrences, as ‘ lightly as if it were a game at shuttlecock. ‘ One little instance, instead of many, may find place here : ‘ She stepped in, one evening before court- time, and said, as if ‘ for salutation, with warm vehemence, “I have important news to ‘ tell you : Moreau is arrested, with some others, and accused of ‘ treason against the Tyrant.” I had long, as every one had, taken ‘ interest in the person of this noble individual, and followed his ‘ actions and attempts. I now silently called back the past ; in '■ See above : date, 26th January. APPENDIX. 115 ‘ order, as my way is, to try the present thereby, and deduce, or at ‘ least forecast, the future. The lady changed the conversation, ‘ leading it, as usual, on manifold indifferent things ; and as I, ‘ persisting in my reverie, did not forthwith answer her with due ‘ liveliness, she again reproached me, as she had often done, that ‘ this evening too, according to custom, I was in the dumps ( mans - ‘ scale), and no cheerful talk to be had with me. I felt seriously ‘ angry ; declared that she was capable of no true sympathy, that ‘ she dashed in without note of warning, felled you with a club, — * and next minute you must begin piping tunes for her, and jig ‘ from subject to subject. ‘ Such speeches were quite according to her heart ; she wished ‘ to excite passion, no matter what. In order to appease me, she ‘ now went over all the circumstances of the above sorrowful mis- 1 chance, and evinced therein great penetration into characters, and * acquaintance with the posture of affairs. ‘ Another little story will prove likewise how gaily and lightly ‘ you might live with her, so you took it her own way : ‘ At a numerous supper-party with the Duchess Amelia, I was ‘ sitting far off her, and chanced this time also to be taciturn and ‘ rather meditative. My neighbours reproved me for it, and there ‘ rose a little movement, the cause of which at length reached up ‘ to the higher personages. Madame de Stael heard the accusa- * tion of my silence ; expressed herself regarding it in the usual ‘ terms, and added, “ On the whole, I never like Goethe till he has ‘ had a bottle of champagne.” I said half-aloud, so that those ‘ next me could hear, “ I suppose then, we have often got a little ‘ elevated together.” A moderate laugh ensued. She wanted to ‘ know the cause. No one could, or would, give a French version ‘ of my words in their proper sense ; till at last Benjamin Constant, ‘ one of those near me, undertook, as she continued asking and ‘ importuning, to satisfy her by some euphonistic phrase, and so ‘ terminate the business. ‘ But whatever, on reflection, one may think or say of these pro- ‘ ceedings, it is ever to be acknowledged that, in their results, they ‘ have been of great importance and influence. That Work on ‘ Germany, which owed its origin to such social conversations, ‘ must be looked on as a mighty implement, whereby, in the Ohi- ‘ nese Wall of antiquated prejudices which divided us from France, ‘ a broad gap was broken ; so that across the Bhine, and, in con- 1 sequence of this, across the Channel, our neighbours at last took ‘ closer knowledge of us ; and now the whole remote West is open 116 APPENDIX. ‘ to our influences. Let us bless those annoyances, therefore, and ‘ that conflict of national peculiarities, which at the time seemed * unseasonable, and nowise promised us furtherance.’ in. THE TALE. 1 BY GOETHE. [1832.] That Goethe, many years ago, wrote a piece named Das Malirchen (The Tale) ; which the admiring critics of Germany contrived to criticise by a stroke of the pen ; declaring that it was indeed The Tale, and worthy to be called the Tale of Tales ( das Mahrchen alter Malirchen),- — may appear certain to most English readers, for they have repeatedly seen as much in print. To some English reader's it may appear certain, furthermore, that they personally know this Tales of Tales ; and can even pronounce it to deserve no such epithet, and the admiring critics of Germany to be little other than blockheads. English readers ! the first certainty is altogether indubitable ; the second certainty is not worth a rush. That same Malirchen alter Malirchen you may see with your own eyes, at this hour, in the Fifteenth Volume of Goethe's Werke; and seeing is believing. On the other hand, that English ‘ Tale of Tales,’ put forth some years ago as the Translation thereof, by an individual connected with the Periodical Press of London (his Periodical vehicle, if we remember broke down soon after, and was rebuilt, and still runs, under the name of Court Journal ), — was a Translation, miserable enough, of a quite different thing ; a thing, not a Malirchen (Fabulous Tale) at all, but an Erzaldung or common fictitious Narrative ; having no manner of relation to the real piece (beyond standing in the same Volume) ; not so much as Milton’s Tetrachordon of Divorce has to his Allegro and Penseroso! In this way do individuals connected with the Periodical Press of London play their part, and commodiously befool thee, O Public of English readers, and can serve thee with a mass of roasted grass, and name it stewed venison ; and will continue to do so, till thou — open thy eyes, and from a blind monster become a seeing one. i Fraser’s Magazine, No. 33. APPENDIX. 117 This mistake we did not publicly note at the time of its occur- rence ; for two good reasons : first, that while mistakes are in- creasing, like Population, at the rate of Twelve Hundred a-dav, the benefit of seizing one, and throttling it, would be perfectly inconsiderable : second, that we were not then in existence. The highly composite, astonishing Entity, which here as ‘ O. Y.’ ad- dresses mankind for a season, still slumbered (his elements scat- tered over Infinitude, and working under other shapes) in the womb of Nothing ! Meditate on us a little, O Reader : if thou wilt consider who and what we are ; what Powers, of Cash, Esuri- ence, Intelligence, Stupidity and Mystery created us, and what work we do and will do, there shall be no end to thy amazement. This mistake, however, we do now note ; induced thereto by occasion. By the fact, namely, that a genuine English Transla- tion of that MdhrcTten has been handed-in to us for judgment ; and now (such judgment haring proved merciful) comes out from us in the way of publication. Of the Translation we cannot say much ; by the colour of the paper, it may be some seven years old, and have lain peiWaps in smoky repositories : it is not a good Translation ; yet also not wholly bad ; faithful to the original (as we can vouch, after strict trial)' ; conveys the real meaning, though with an effort : here and there our pen has striven to help it, but could not do much. The poor Translator, who signs himself ‘ D. T.,’ and affects to carry matters with a high hand, though, as we have ground to surmise, he is probably in straits for the necessaries of life, — has, at a more recent date, appended numerous Notes; wherein he will, convince himself that more meaning lies in his Malirchen 1 than in all the Literature of our century : ’ some of these we have retained, now and then with an explanatory or exculpatory word of our own ; the most we have cut away, as superfluous and even absurd. Superfluous and even absurd, we say : D. T. can take this of us as he likes ; we know him, and what is in him, and what is not in him ; believe that he will prove reasonable ; can do either way. At all events, let one of the notablest Performances produced for the last thousand years, be now, through his organs (since no other, in this elapsed half-century, have offered them- selves), set before an undiscerning public. Me too will premise our conviction that this Malirchen. presents a phantasmagoric Adumbration, pregnant with deepest signifi- cance ; though nowise that D. T. has so accurately evolved the same. Listen notwithstanding to a remark or two, extracted from his immeasurable Proem : 113 APPENDIX. ‘ Dull men of this country,’ says he, ‘ who pretend to admire * Goethe, smile.d on me when I first asked the meaning of this ‘ Tale. 1 1 Meaning ! ” answered they : “ it is a wild arabesque, ‘ without meaning or purpose at all, except to dash together, ! copiously enough, confused hues of Imagination, and see what ‘ will come of them.” Such is still the persuasion of several heads ; ‘ which nevertheless would perhaps grudge to be considered wig- 1 blocks.’ — Not impossible : the first Sin in our Universe was Luci- fer’s, that of Self-conceit. But hear again ; what is more to the point : . ‘ The difficulties of interpretation are exceedingly enhanced by ‘ one circumstance, not unusual in other such writings of Goethe’s ; ‘ namely, that this is no Allegory ; which, as in the Pilgrim's Prog- ‘ ress, you have only once for all to find the key of, and so go on ‘ unlocking : it is a Phantasmagory, rather ; wherein things the ‘ most heterogeneous are, with homogeneity of figure, emblemed ‘ forth ; w'hich would require not one key to unlock it, but, at ‘ different stages of the business, a dozen successive keys. Here ‘ you have Epochs of Time shadowed forth, there Qualities of the ‘ Human Soul ; now it is Institutions, Historical Events, now Doc- ‘ trines, Philosophic Truths : thus are all manner of “ entities and ‘ quiddities and ghosts of defunct bodies ” set flying ; you have the ‘ whole Four Elements cliaotico-creatively jumbled together, and ‘ spirits enough embodying themselves, and roguishly peeling ‘through, in the confused wild- working mass ! * * * 1 So much, however, I will stake my whole money-capital and ‘ literary character upon : that here is a wonderful Emblem of Uxi- * VEBSAL History set forth ; more especially a wonderful Emblem of ‘this our wonderful and woful “Age of Transition ; ” what men ‘ have been and done, what' they are to be and 'do, is, in this Tale * of Tales, poetico-prophetically typified, in such a style of grand- ‘ eur and celestial brilliancy and life, as the Western Imagination ‘ has not elsewhere reached ; as only the Oriental Imagination, and ‘ in the primeval ages, was wont to attempt.’— Here surely is good wine, with a big bush ! Study the Tale of Tales, O reader : even in the bald version of D. T., there will be meaning found. He continues in this triumphant style : ‘ Can any mortal head (not a wigblock) doubt that the Giant of ‘this poem means Superstition ? That the Ferryman has some- ‘ thing to do with the Priesthood ; his Hut with the Church ? ‘ Again, might it not be presumed that the River were Tike : and ‘that it flowed (as Time does) between two worlds? Call the APPENDIX. 119 1 world, or country on this side, where the fair Lily dwells, the ‘ world of Supebnatubalism ; the country on that side, Naturalism, ‘ the working week-day world where we all dwell and toil : whoso- ever or whatsoever introduces itself, and appears, in the firm- ‘ earth of human business, or as we well say, comes into Existence, ‘ must proceed from Lily’s supernatural country ; whatsoever of a ‘ material sort deceases and disappears might be expected to go ‘ thither. Let the reader consider this, and note what comes of it. ‘ To get a free solid communication established over this same ‘ wondrous River of Time, so that the Natural and Supernatural ‘ may stand in friendliest neighbourhood and union, forms the ‘ grand action of this Phantasmagoric Poem : is not such also, let * me ask thee, the grand action and summary of Universal History ; ‘ the one problem of Human Culture ; the thing which Mankind ‘ (once the three daily meals of victual were moderately secured) ‘ has ever striven after, and must ever strive after ? — Alas ! we ob- ‘ serve very soon, matters stand on a most distressful footing, in ‘ this of Natural and Supernatural : there are three conveyances ‘ across, and all bad, all incidental, temporary, uncertain : the ‘ worst of the three, one would think, and the worst conceivable, ‘ were the Giant’s Shadow, at sunrise and sunset ; the best that ‘ Snake-bridge at noon, yet still only a bad-best. Consider again ‘ our trustless, rotten, revolutionary ‘ ‘ age of transition,” and see ‘ whether this too does not fit it ! ‘If you ask next, Who these other strange characters are, the 1 Snake, the Will-o’-wisps, the Man with the Lamp ? I will answer, ‘ in general and afar off, that Light must signify human Insight, ‘ Cultivation, in one sort or other. As for the Snake, I know not ‘ well what name to call it by ; nay perhaps, in our scanty vocab- ‘ ularies, there is no name for it, though that does not hinder ‘ its being a thing, genuine enough. Meditation ; Intellectual ‘ Research ; Understanding ; in the most - general acceptation, ‘ Thought : all these come near designating it ; none actually ‘ designates it. Were I bound, under legal penalties, to give the ‘ creature a name, I should say, Thought rather than another. ‘ But what if our Snake, and so much else that works here be- ‘ side it, were neither a quality , nor a reality , nor a state, nor an ‘ action, in any kind ; none of these things purely and alone, but ‘ something intermediate and partaking of .them all ! In which ‘ case, to name it, in vulgar speech, were a still more frantic at- ‘ tempt : it is unnameable in speech ; and remains only the alle- 120 APPENDIX. ‘ gorical Figure known in this Tale by the name of Snake, and more ‘ or less resembling and skadowing-forth somewhafftkat speech has ‘named, or might name. It is this heterogeneity of nature, pitck- ‘ ing your solidest Predicables keels-over-kead, throwing you kalf- 1 a-dozen Categories into the melting-pot at once, — that so un- ‘ speakably bewilders a Commentator, and for moments is nigh re- ‘ ducing him to delirium saltans. ‘ The Will-o’-wisps, that larigk and jig, and compliment the la- ‘ dies, and eat gold and shake it from them, I for my own share ; take the liberty of viewing as some shadow of Elegant Culture, ‘ or modern Fine Literature ; which by-and-by became so scepti- ‘ cal-destructive ; and did, as French Philosophy, eat Gold (or Wis- ‘ dom) enough, and shake it out again. In which sense, their ‘ coming (into Existence) by the old Ferryman’s (by the Priest- ‘ hood’s) assistance, and almost oversetting his boat, and then ‘laughing at him, and trying to skip-off from him, yet being ‘ obliged to stop till they had satisfied him : all this, to the dis- ‘ cerning eye, has its significance. ‘ As to the Man with the Lamp, in him and his gold -giving, ‘jewel-forming, and otherwise so miraculous Light, which “ casts ‘no shadow,” and “ cannot illuminate what is wholly otherwise in ‘ darkness,” — I see what you might name the celestial Reason of ‘Man (Reason as contrasted with Understanding, and superordi- ‘ nated to it), the purest essence of his seeing Faculty ; which inani- ‘ fests itself as the Spirit of Poetry, of Prophecy, or whatever else ‘ of highest in the intellectual sort man’s mind can do. We behold ‘ this respectable, venerable Lamp-bearer everywhere present in ‘ time of need ; directing, accomplishing, working, wonder-work- ‘ ing, finally victorious as, in strict reality, it is ever (if we will ‘ study it) the Poetic Vision that lies at the bottom of all other ‘ Knowledge or Action ; and is the source and creative fountain of ‘ whatsoever mortals ken or can, and mystically and miraculously ‘ guides them forward whither they are to go. Be the Man with ‘ the Lamp, then, named Reason ; mankind’s noblest inspired In- ‘ sight and Light ; whereof all the other lights are but effluences, ‘ and more or less discoloured emanations. ‘ His Wife, poor old woman, we shall call Practical Endeavour ; ‘ which as married to Reason, to spiritual Vision and Belief, ‘ first makes-up man’s being here below. Unhappily the ancient ‘ couple, we find, are but in a decayed condition : the better em- ‘ blems are they of Reason and Endeavour in this our “transition- ‘ ary age ! ” The Man presents himself in the garb of a peasant, APPENDIX. ■ 121 ‘ the Woman has grown olcl, garrulous, querulous ; both live never- theless in their “ancient cottage,” better or worse, the roof-tree ‘ of which still holds together over them. And then those mis- chievous Will-o’-wisps, who pay the old lady such court, and eat 4 all the old gold (all that was wise and beautiful and desirable) ‘ off her walls ; and show the old stones, quite ugly and bare, as * they had not been for ages ! Besides they have killed poor ‘Mops, the plaything, and joy and fondling of the house ; — as has ‘ not that same Elegant Culture, or French Philosophy done, ‘ wheresoever it has arrived ? Mark, notwithstanding, how the ‘Man with the Lamp puts it all right again, reconciles everyt hin g, ‘ and makes the finest business out of what seemed the worst. ‘ With regard to the Four Kings, ancl the Temple which lies ‘fashioned underground, please to consider all this as the Future ‘ lying prepared and certain under the Present : you observe, not ‘ only inspired Reason (or the Man with the Lamp), but scientific ‘ Thought (or the Snake), can discern it lying there : nevertheless • much work must be done, innumerable difficulties fronted and ‘ conquered, before it can rise out of the depths (of the Future), ‘ and realise itself as the actual worshipping-place of man, and ‘ “ the most frequented Temple in the whole Earth.” ‘ As for the fair Lily and her ambulatory necessitous Prince, ‘ these are objects that I shall admit myself incapable of naming : ‘ yet nowise admit myself incapable of attaching meaning to. Con- ‘ sider them as the two disjointed Halves of this singular Dualistic ‘ Being of ours ; a Being, I must say, the most utterly Dualistic ; ‘fashioned, from the very heart of it, out of Positive and Negative ‘ (what we happily call Light and Darkness, Necessity and Free- ‘ will, Good and Evil, and the like) ; everywhere out of two mor- ‘ tally opposed things, which yet must be united in vital love, if ‘there is to be any Life; — a Being, I repeat, Dualistic beyond ex- ‘ pressing ; which will split in two, strike it in any direction, on ‘ any of its six sides ; and does of itself split in two (into Contradic- ‘ tion), every hour of the day, — were not Life perpetually there, ‘ perpetually knitting it together again ! But as to that cutting- ‘ up, and parcelling, and labelling of the indivisible Human Soul ‘ into what are called “ Faculties,” it is a thing I have from of old ‘ eschewed, and even hated. A thing which you must sometimes ‘ do (or you cannot speak) ; yet which is never done without Error ‘ hovering near you ; for most part, without her pouncing on you, ‘ and quite blindfolding you. ‘ Let not us, therefore, in looking at Lily and her Prince be 122 APPENDIX. ‘ tempted to that practice : wiry should we try to name them at all ? ‘ Enough, if we do feel that man’s whole Being is riven asunder ‘ every way (in this “ transitionary age ”), and yawning in hostile, ‘ irreconcilable contradiction with itself : what good were it to ‘ know farther in what direction the rift (as our Poet here pleased ‘ to represent it) had taken effect ? Fancy, however, that these ‘ two Halves of Man’s Soul and Being are separated, in pain and ‘ enchanted obstruction, from one another. The better, fairer Half ‘ sits in the Supernatural country, deadening and killing ; alas, ‘ not permitted to come across into the Natural visible country, 1 and there make all blessed and alive ! The rugged stronger Half, ‘ in such separation, is quite lamed and paralytic ; wretched, for- * lorn, in a state of death-life, must he wander to and fro over the ‘ Biver of Time ; all that is dear and essential to him, imprisoned ‘ there ; which if he look at, he grows still weaker, which if he ‘ touch, he dies. Poor Prince ! And let the judicious reader who ‘ has read the Era he lives in, or even spelt the alphabet thereof, ‘ say whether, with the paralytic-lamed Activity of man (hampered ‘ and hamstrung in a “ transitionary age ” of Scepticism, Method- ‘ ism ; atheistic Sarcasm, hysteric Orgasm ; brazen-faced Delusion, ‘ Puffery, Hypocrisy, Stupidity, and the whole Bill and nothing ‘ but the Bill), it is not even so ? Must not poor man’s Activity ‘ (like this poor Prince) wander from Natural to Supernatural, and ‘ back again, disconsolate enough ; unable to do anything, except ‘ merely wring its hands, and, whimpering and blubbering, lament- ‘ ably inquire : What shall I do ? ‘ But Courage ! Courage ! The Temple is built (though under- ‘ ground) ; the Bridge shall arch itself, the divided Two shall ‘ clasp each other as flames do, rushing into one; and all that ends ‘ well shall be well ! Mark only how, in this inimitable Poem, ‘ worthy of an Olympic crown, or prize of the Literary Society, it 1 is represented as proceeding i ’ So far D. T. ; a commentator who at least does not want confi- dence in himself : whom we shall only caution not to be too con- fident ; to remember always that, as he once says, 1 P 1 i a n t as magory is not Allegory ; ’ that much exists, under our very noses, which has no ‘name,’ and can get none; that the ‘Biver of Time’ and so forth may be one thing, or more than one, or none ; that, in short, there is risk of the too valiant D. T.’s bamboozling himself ill this matter ; being led from puddle to pool ; and so left stand- ing at last, like a foolish mystified nose-of-wax, wondering where the devil he is. APPENDIX. 123 To the simpler sort of readers we shall also extend an advice ; or be it rather, proffer a petition. It is to fancy themselves, for the time being, delivered altogether from D. T.’s company ; and to read this Mdhrchen, as if it were there only for its own sake, and those tag-rag- Notes of his were so much blank paper. Let the simpler sort of readers say now how they like it ! If unhappily, on looking back, some spasm of ‘ the malady of thought ’ begin afflicting them, let such Notes be then inquired of, but not till then, and then also with distrust. Pin thy faith to no man’s sleeve ; hast thou not two eyes of thy own ? The Commentator himself cannot,’ it is to be hoped, imagine that he . has exhausted the matter. To decipher and represent the genesis of this extraordinary Production, and what was the Author’s state of mind in producing it ; to see, with dim common eyes, what the great Goethe, with inspired poetic eyes, then saw T ; and paint to oneself the thick-coming shapes and many-coloured splendours of his ‘ Prospero’s Grotto,’ at that hour : this were what we could call complete criticism and commentary : what D. T. is far from having done, and ought to fall on his face, and confess that he can never do. We shall conclude with remarking two things. First, that D. T. does not appear to have set eye on any of those German Commen- taries on this Tale of Tales ; or even to have heard, credently, that such exist : an omission, in a professed Translator, which he him- self may answer for. Secondly, that with all his boundless pre- luding, he has forgotten to insert the Author’s own prelude ; the passage, namely, by which this Mdhrchen is specially ushered in, and the key-note of it struck by the Composer himself, and the tone of the whole prescribed ! This latter altogether glaring omission we now charitably supply ; and then let P. T., and his illustrious Original, and the Readers of this Magazine take it among them. Turn to the latter part of the Deutschen Ausgeican- clerten (page 208, Volume xv. of the last edition of Goethe's Werke) ; it is written there, as we render it : ‘“The Imagination,” said Karl, “is a fine faculty; yet I like ‘ not when she works on what has actually happened : the airy ‘ forms she creates are welcome as things of their own kind ; but ‘ uniting with Truth she produces oftenest nothing but monsters ; ‘ and seems to me, in such cases, to fly into direct variance with ‘ Reason and Common Sense. She ought, you might say, to hang ‘ upon no object, to force no object on us ; she must, if she is to ‘ produce Works of Art, play like a sort of music upon us ; move 124 APPENDIX. ‘ us within ourselves, and this in such a way that we forget there ‘ is anything without us producing the movement.” ‘ “Proceed no farther,” said the old man, “with your concli- ‘ tionings ! To enjoy a product of Imagination this also is a eon- ‘ dition, that we enjoy it unconditionally ; for Imagination herself ‘ cannot condition and bargain ; she must ivait what shall be given ‘ her. She forms no plans, prescribes for herself no path ; but is ‘ borne and guided by her own pinions ; and hovering hither and ‘ thither, marks out the strangest courses ; which in their direc- ‘ tion are ever altering. Let me but, on my evening walk, call up ‘ again to life within me, some w r ondrous figures I was wont to ‘ play with in earlier years. This night I promise you a Tale, ‘ which shall remind you of Nothing and of All.” ’ And now for it. O. Y. In his little Hut, by the great Eiver, which a heavy rain had swoln to overflowing, lay the ancient Ferryman, asleep, wearied by the toil of the day. In the middle of the night, 1 loud voices awoke him ; he heard that it was travellers wishing to be carried over. Stepping out, he saw two large Will-o’-wisps, hovering to and fro on his boat, which lay moored : they said, they were in violent haste, and should have been already on the other side. The old Ferryman made no loitering ; pushed off, and steered with his usual skill obliquely through the stream ; while the two strangers whiffled and hissed together, in an unknown very rapid tongue, and every now and then broke out in loud laughter, hopping about, at one time on the gunwale and the seats, at another on the bottom of the boat. “ The boat is heeling ! ” cried the old man ; “ if you don’t be quiet, it will overset ; be seated, gentlemen of the wisp ! ” At this advice they burst into a fit of laughter, mocked the old man, and were more unquiet than ever. He bore their mischief with patience, and soon reached the farther shore. “ Here is for your labour ! ” cried the travellers, and as they i In the middle of the night truly ! In the middle of the Dark Ages, when what with Mahomedan Conquests, what with Christian Crusadings, Destruc- tions of Constantinople, Discoveries of America, the TiME-River was indeed swoln to overflowing ; and the Iff ties Fatui (of Elegant Culture, of Literature,) must needs feel in haste to get over into Existence, being much wanted ; and apply to the Priesthood (respectable old Ferryman, roused out of sleep thereby!), who willingly introduced-them, mischievous ungrateful imp.- as they were. — D. T. APPENDIX. 125 shook themselves, a heap of glittering gold-pieces jingled down into the wet boat. “For Heaven’s sake, what are you about?” cried the old man ; “ you will ruin rhe forever ! Had a single piece of gold got into the water, the stream, which cannot suffer gold, would have risen in horrid waves, and swallowed both my skiff and me ; and who knows how it might have fared with you in that case ? here, take back your gold.” “ We can take nothing back, which we have once shaken from us,” said the Lights. “ Then you give me the trouble,” said the old man, stooping down, and gathering the pieces into his cap, ‘ ‘ of raking them to- gether, and carrying them ashore, and burying them.” The Lights had leaped from the boat, but the old man cried : “ Stay ; where is my fare ? ” “If you take no gold, you may work for nothing,” cried the Will-o’-wisps . 1 — “ You must know that I am only to be paid with fruits of the earth.” — “Fruits of the earth? we despise them, and have never tasted them.” — “And yet I cannot let you go, till you have promised that you will deliver me three Cabbages, three Artichokes, and three large Onions.” The Lights were making-off with jests ; but they felt themselves, in some inexplicable manner, fastened to the ground : it was the unpleasantest feeling they had ever had. They engaged to pay him his demands as soon as possible : he let them go, and pushed away. He was gone a good distance, when they called to him : “ Old man ! Holla, old man ! the main point is forgotten ! ” 1 He was off, however, and did not hear them. He had fallen quietly down that side of the River, where, in a rocky spot, "which the water never reached, he meant to bury the pernicious gold. Here, between two high crags, he found a monstrous chasm ; shook the metal into it, and steered back to his cottage. Now, in this chasm lay the fair green Snake, who was roused from her sleep by the gold coming chinking down . 2 No sooner did she fix her eye on the glittering coins, than she ate them all up, with the greatest relish, on the spot ; and carefully packed out such pieces as were scattered in the chinks of the rock. Scarcely had she swallowed them, when, with extreme delight, she began to feel the metal melting in her inwards, and spreading 1 What could this be ? To ask whither their next road lay ? It was useless to ask there : the respectable old Priesthood ‘ did not hear them.’ — D. T. 2 Thought, Understanding, roused from her long sleep by the first produce of modern Belles Lettres ; which she eagerly devours. — D. T. 126 'APPENDIX. all over lier body ; and soon, to her lively joy, she observed that she was grown transparent and luminous. Long ago she had been told that this was possible ; but now being doubtful whether such a light could last, her curiosity and the desire to be secure against the future, drove her from her cell, that she might see who it was that had shaken-in this precious metal. She found no one. The more delightful was it to admire her own appearance, and her graceful brightness, as she crawled along through roots and bushes, and spread out her light among the grass. Every leaf seemed of emerald, every flower was dyed with new glory. It ■was in vain that she crossed the solitary thickets ; but her hopes rose high, when, on reaching the open country, she perceived from afar a brilliancy resembling her own. “ Shall I find my like at last, then?” cried she, and hastened to the spot. The toil of crawling through bog and reeds gave her little thought; for though she liked best to live in dry grassy spots of the mountains, among the clefts of rocks, and for most part fed on spicy herbs, and slaked her thirst with mild dew and fresh spring-water, yet for the sake of this dear gold, and in the hope of this glorious light, she would have undertaken anything you could propose to her. At last, with much fatigue, she reached a wet rushy spot in the swamp, where our two "Will-o'-wisps were frisking to and fro. She shoved herself along to them ; saluted them, was happy to meet such pleasant gentlemen related to her family. The Lights glided towards her, skipped up over her, and laughed in their fashion. “Lady Cousin,” said they, “you are of the horizontal hue, yet what of that ? It is true we are related only by the look ; for observe you,” here both the Flames, compressing their whole breadth, made themselves as high and peaked as possible, “how prettily this taper length beseems us gentlemen of the vertical line ! Take it not amiss of us, good Lady ; what family can boast of such a thing? Since there ever was a Jack-o’-lantern in the world, no one of them has either sat or lain.” The Snake felt exceedingly rmcomfortable in the company of these relations ; for let her hold her head ^is high as possible, she found - that she must bend it to the earth again, would she stir from the spot ; 1 and if in the dark thicket she had been extremely satis- 1 True enough : Thought cannot fly and dance, as your wildfire of Belles Lettres may ; she proceeds in the systole-diastole, up-and-down method ; and must ever ‘ bend her head to the earth again ’ (in the way of Baconian Experi- ment), or she will not stir from the spot. — D. T. APPENDIX. 127 fied with her appearance, her splendour in the presence of these cousins seemed to lessen every moment, nay she was afraid that at last it would go out entirely. In this embarrassment she hastily asked : If the gentlemen could not inform her, whence the glittering gold came, that had fallen a short while ago into the cleft of the rock ; her own opinion was, that it had been a golden shower, and. had trickled down direct from the sky. The 'Will-o’-wisps laughed, and shook themselves and a multitude of gold-pieces came clinking down about them. The Snake pushed nimbly forwards to eat the coin. “ Much good may it do you, Mistress,” said the dapper gentlemen: “we can help you to a little more.” They shook themselves again several times with great quickness, so that the Snake could scarcely gulp the precious victuals fast enough. Her splendour visibly began increasing ; she was really shining beautifully, while the Lights had in the mean time grown rather lean and short of stature, with- out however in the smallest losing their good-humour. “ I am obliged to you forever,” said the Snake, having got her wind again after the repast ; * ‘ ask of me what you will ; all that I can I will do.” “ Very good ! ” cried the Lights. “ Then tell us where the fair Lily dwells ? Lead us to the fair Lily’s palace and garden ; and do not lose a moment, we are dying of impatience to fall down at her feet.” “ This service,” said the Snake with a deep sigh, “ I cannot now do for you. The fair Lily dwells, alas, on the other side of the water.” — “Other side of the water? And we have come across it, this stormy night ! How cruel is the River to divide us ! Would it not be possible to call the old man back ? ” “ It would be useless,” said the Snake ; “ for if you found him ready on the bank, he would not take you in ; he can carry any one to this side, none to yonder.” “ Here is a pretty kettle of fish ! ” cried the Lights : “are there no other means' of getting through the water ? ” — “ There are other means, but not at this moment. I myself could take you over, gen- tlemen, but not till noon.” — “ That is an hour we do not like to travel in.” — “ Then you may go across in the evening, on the great Giant’s shadow.” — “How is that?” — “The great Giant lives not far from this ; with his body he has no power ; his hands cannot lift a straw, his shoulders could not bear a faggot of twigs ; but with his shadow he has power over much, nay all . 1 At sunrise and 1 Is not . ScrERSTXTiON strongest when the sun is low ? with body, power- less; with shadow, omnipotent '! — D. T. 128 APPENDIX. sunset therefore lie is strongest ; so at evening you merely put yourself upon the back of his shadow, the Giant walks softly to the bank, and the shadow carries you across the water. But if you please, about the hour of noon, to be in waiting at that comer of the wood, where the bushes overhang the bank, I myself will take you over and present you to the fair Lily : or on the other hand, if you dislike the noontide, you have just to go at nightfall to that bend of the rocks, and pay a visit to the Giant ; he will certainly receive you like a gentleman.” With a slight bow, the Flames went off ; and the Snake at bot- tom was not discontented to get rid of them ; partly that she might enjoy the brightness of her own light, partly satisfy a curi- osity with which, for a long time, she had been agitated in a singu- lar way. In the chasm, where she often crawled hither and thither, she had made a strange discovery. For although in creeping up and down this abyss, she had never had a ray of light, she could well enough discriminate the objects in it, by her sense of touch. Gen- erally she met with nothing but irregular productions of Mature ; at one time she would wind between the teeth of large crystals, at another she would feel the barbs and hairs of native silver, and now and then carry out with her to the light some straggling jewels . 1 But to her no small wonder, in a rock which was closed on every side, she had come on certain objects which betrayed the shaping hand of man. Smooth walls on which she could not climb, sharp regular corners, well-formed pillars ; and what seemed strangest of all, human figures which she had entwined more than once, and which appeared to her to be of brass, or of the finest polished marble. All these experiences she now wished to com- bine by the sense of sight, thereby to confirm what as yet she only guessed. She believed she could illuminate the whole of that subterranean vault by her own light ; and hoped to get acquainted with these curious things at once. She hastened back : and soon found, by the usual way, the cleft by which she used to peuetrate the Sanctuary. On reaching the place, she gazed around with eager curiosity ; and though her shining could not enlighten every object in the rotunda, yet those nearest her were plain enough. With astonish- 1 Primitive employments, and attainments, of Thought, in this dark den whither it is sent to dwelt For many long ages, it discerns ‘ nothing but ir- regular productions of Mature ; ’ having indeed to pick material bed and board out of Nature and her irregular productions. — D. T. APPENDIX. 129 ment and reverence sire looked up into a glancing nielie, where the image of an august King stood formed of pure Gold. In size the figure was beyond the stature of man, but by its shape it seemed the likeness of a little rather than a tall person. His handsome body was encircled with an unadorned mantle ; and a garland of oak bound his hair together. No sooner had the Snake beheld this reverend figure, than the King began to speak, and asked: “Whence comest thou?” — “From the chasms where the gold dwells,” said the Snake. — “ What is grander than gold ? ” inquired the King. — “ Light,” re- plied the Snake.' — “What is more refreshing than light?” said he. — “ Speech,” answered she. During this conversation, she had squinted to a side, and in the nearest niche perceived another glorious image. It was a Silver King in a sitting posture ; his shape was long and rather languid ; he was covered with a decorated robe ; crown, girdle and sceptre were adorned with precious stones : the cheerfulness of pride was in his countenance ; he seemed about to speak, when a vein which ran dimly-coloured over the marble wall, on a sudden became bright, and diffused a cheerful light throughout the whole Tem- ple. By this brilliancy the Snake perceived a third King, made of Brass, and sitting mighty in shape, leaning on his club, adorned with a laurel garland, and more like a rock than a man. She was looking for the fourth, which was standing at the greatest distance from her ; but the wall opened, while the glittering vein started and split, as lightning does, and disappeared. A Man of middle stature, entering through the cleft, attracted the attention of the Snake. He was dressed like a peasant, and carried in his hand a little Lamp, on whose still flame you liked to look, and which in a strange manner, without casting any shadow, enlightened the whole dome. 1 “ Why comest thou, since we have light ? ” said the golden King. — “You know that I may not enlighten what is dark.” 2 — “Will my Kingdom end ? ” said the silver King. — “ Late or never,” said the old Man. With a stronger voice the brazen King began to ask : “When ' shall I arise ? ” — “ Soon,” replied the Man. — “ With whom shall I 1 Poetic Light, celestial Pieason ! — D. T. Let the reader, in one word, attend well to these four Kings : much annota- tion from D. T. is here necessarily swept out. — O. Y. 2 What is wholly dark. Understanding precedes Reason ; modern Science is come ; modern Poesy is still but coming, — in Goethe (and whom else?.). — D. T. 9 130 APPENDIX. combine?” said the King. — “ With thy elder brothers,” said the Man. — “ What will the youngest do ? ” inquired the King. — “ He will sit down,” replied the Man. “I am not tired,” cried the fourth King, with a rough faltering voice.' While this speech was going on, the Snake had glided - softly round the Temple, viewing everything ; she was now looking at the fourth King close by him. He stood leaning on a pillar ; his considerable form was heavy rather than beautiful. But what metal it was made of could not be determined. Closely inspected, it seemed a mixture of the three metals which its brothers had been formed of. But in the founding, these materials did not seem to have combined together fully ; gold and silver veins ran irreg- ularly through a brazen mass, and gave the figure an unpleasant aspect. Meanwhile the gold King was asking of the Man, “ How many secrets knowest thou?” — “Three,” replied the Man. — “Which is the most important?” said the silver King. — “ The open one,” replied the other. 2 — “ Wilt thou open it to us also ? ” said the brass King. — “When I know the fourth,” replied the Man. — “What care I ? ” grumbled the composite King, in an under tone. “I know the fourth,” said the Snake; approached the old Man, and hissed somewhat in his ear. “The time is at hand ! ” cried the old Man, with a strong voice. The temple reechoed, the metal statues' sounded ; and that instant the old Man sank away to the westward, and the Snake to the eastward; and both of them passed through the clefts of the rock, with the greatest speed. All the passages, through which the old Man travelled, filled themselves immediately behind him, with gold ; for his Lamp had the strange property of changing stone into gold, wood into silver, dead animals into precious stones, and of annihilating all metals. But to display this power, it must shine alone. If another light were beside it, the Lamp only cast from it a pure clear brightness, and all living things were refreshed by it . 3 1 Consider these Kings as Eras of the World’s History ; no, not as Eras, but as Principles which jointly or severally rule Eras. Alas, poor we, in this chaotic soft-soldered ‘ transitionary age,’ are so unfortunate as to live under the Fourth King. — D. T. 2 Reader, hast thou any glimpse of the 1 open secret ? ’ I fear, not. — D. T. Writer, art thou a goose ? I fear, yes.— O. .Y. 3 In Illuminated Ages, the Age of Miracles is said to cease ; but it is only we that cease to see it, for we are still 1 refreshed by it.’ — D. T. APPENDIX. 131 Tlie old Man entered his cottage, which was built on the slope of the hill. He found his Wife in extreme distress. She was sitting at the fire weeping, and refusing to be consoled. “ How unliapjjy am I ! ” cried she : “ Did not I entreat thee not to go away to- night ? ” — “ What is the matter, then ? ” inquired the husband, quite composed. “ Scarcely wert thou gone,” said she, sobbing, “ when there came two noisy Travellers to the door : unthinkingly I let them in ; they seemed to be a couple of genteel, very honourable people ; they were dressed in flames, you would have taken them for Will-o’- wisps. But no sooner were they in the house, than they began, like impudent varlets, to compliment me , 1 and grew so forward that I feel ashamed to think of it.” “No doubt,” said the husband with a smile, “the gentlemen were jesting : considering thy age, they might have held by gen- eral politeness.” “ Age ! what age ? ” cried the Wife : “wilt thou always be talk- ing of my age ? How old am I, then ? — General politeness ! But I know what I know. Look round there what a face the walls have ; look at the old stones, which I have not seen these hundred years ; every film of gold have they licked away, thou couldst not think how fast ; and still they kept assuring me that it tasted far beyond common gold. Once they had swept the walls, the fellows seemed to be in high spirits, and truly in that little while they had grown much broader and brighter. They now began to be imper- tinent again, they patted me, and called me their queen, they shook themselves, and a shower of gold-pieces sprang from them ; see how they are shining there under the bench ! But ah, what misery ! Poor Mops ate a coin or two ; and look, he is lying in the chimney, dead. Poor Pug ! O well-a-day ! • I did not see it till they were gone ; else I had never promised to pay the Ferryman the debt they owe him.”' — “ What do they owe him ? ” said the Man. — “Three Cabbages,” replied the Wife, “three Artichokes and three Onions : I engaged to go when it was day, and take them to the River.” “ Thou mayest do them that civility,” said the old Man ; “ they may chance to be of use to us again.” 1 Poor old Practical Endeavour ! Listen to many an encyclopedic Diderot, humanised Philosophe , didactic singer, march-of- intellect man, and other ‘ impudent varlets ’ (who would never put their own finger to the work) ; and hear what 1 compliments ’ they uttered. — D. T. 132 APPENDIX. 1 ‘ Whether they will be of use to us I know not ; but they prom- ised and vowed that they would.” Meantime the fixe on the hearth had burnt low; the old Man covered-up the embers with a heap of ashes, and put the glittering gold-pieces aside ; so that his little Lamp now gleamed alone, in the fairest brightness. The walls again coated themselves with gold, and Mops changed into the prettiest onyx that could be im- agined. The alternation of the brown and black in this precious stone made it the most curious piece of workmanship. “ Take thy basket,” said the Man, “ and put the onyx into it ; then take the three Cabbages, the three Artichokes and the three Onions ; place them round little Mops and carry them to the River. At noon the Snake will take thee over ; visit the fair Lily, give her the onyx, she will make it alive by her touch, as by her touch she kills whatever is alive already. She will have a true companion in the little dog. Tell her not to mourn ; her deliver- ance is near ; the greatest misfortune she may look upon as the greatest happiness ; for the time is at hand.” The old Woman filled her basket, and set out as soon as it was day. The rising sun shone clear from the other side of the River, which was glittering in the distance : the old Woman walked with slow steps, for the basket pressed upon her head, and it was not the onyx that so burdened her. Whatever lifeless thing she might be carrying, she did not feel the weight of it ; on the other hand, in those cases the basket rose aloft, and hovered along above her head. But to carry any fresh herbage, or any little living animal, she found exceedingly laborious . 1 She had travelled-on for some time, in a sullen humour, when she halted -suddenly in fright, for she had almost trod upon the Giant’s shadow, which was stretch- ing towards her across the plain. And now, lifting up her eyes, she saw the monster of a Giant himself, who had been bathing in the River, and was just come out , 2 and she knew not how she should avoid him. The moment he perceived her, he began salut- ing her in sport, and the hands of his shadow soon caught hold of the basket. With dexterous ease they picked away from it a Cabbage, an Artichoke and an Onion, and brought them to the 1 Why so ? Is it because with ‘ lifeless things ’ (with inanimate machinery) all goes like clock-work, which it is, and ‘the basket hovers aloft ; ’ while with living things (were it but the culture of forest-trees) poor Endeavour has more difficulty ? — D. T. Or, is it chiefly because a Tale must be a Tale ? — O. Y. - Very proper in the huge Loggerhead Superstition, to bathe himself in the element of Time, and get refreshment thereby. — D. T. APPENDIX. 133 Giant’s mouth, who then went his way up the Eiver, and let the Woman go in peace. She considered whether it would not he better to return, and supply from her garden the jueces she had lost ; and amid these doubts, she still kept walking on, so that in a little while she was at the bank of the Eiver. She sat long waiting for the Ferryman, whom she perceived at last, steering over .with a very singular traveller. A young, noble-looking, handsome man, whom she could not gaze upon enough, stept out of the boat. “ What is it you bring ? ” cried the old Man. — “ The greens which those two Will-o’-wisps owe you,” said the Woman, point- ing to her ware. As the Ferryman found only two of each sort, he grew angry, and declared he would have none of them. The Woman earnestly entreated him to take them ; told him that she could not now go home, and that her burden for the way which still remained was very heavy. He stood by his refusal, and as- sured her that it did not rest with him. “What belongs to me,” said he, “ I must leave lying nine hours in a heap, touching none of it, till I have given the Eiver its third.” After much higgling, the old Man at last replied : “ There is still another way. If you like to pledge yourself to the Eiver, and declare yourself its debtor, I will take the six pieces ; but there is some risk in it.” — “ If I keep my word, I shall run no risk?” — “Not the smallest. Put your hand into the stream,” continued he, “ and promise that within four-and-twenty hours you will pay the debt.” The old Woman did so ; but what was her affright, when on drawing out her hand, she found it black as coal ! She loudly scolded the old Ferryman ; declared that her hands had always been the fairest part of her ; that in spite of her hard work, she had all along contrived to keej) these noble members white and dainty. She looked at the hand with indignation, and exclaimed in a despairing tone : “ Worse and worse ! Look, it is vanishing entirely ; it is grown far smaller than the other.” 1 “ For the present it but seems so,” said the old Man ; “if you do not keep your word, however, it may prove so in earnest. The hand will gradually diminish, and at length disappear altogether, though you have the use of it as formerly. Everything as usual you will be able to perform with it, only nobody will see it.” — “ I had rather that I could not use it, and no one could observe the 1 A dangerous thing to pledge yourself to the Time-River; — as many a Na- tional Debt, and the like, blackening, bewitching the ‘beautiful hand’ of En- deavour, can witness. — D. T. Heavens! — O. Y. 134 APPENDIX. want,” cried she : “ but what of that, I will keep my word, and rid myself of this black skin, and all anxieties about it.” Thereupon she hastily took up her basket, which mounted of itself over her head, and hovered free above her in the air, as she hurried after the Youth, who was walking softly and thoughtfully down the bank. His noble form and strange dress had made a deep im- pression on her. His breast was covered with a glittering coat of mail ; in whose wavings might be traced every motion of his fair body. From his shoulders hung a purple cloak ; around his uncovered head flowed abundant brown hair in beautiful locks : his graceful face, and his well-formed feet, were exposed to the scorching of the sun. "With bare soles, he walked composedly over the hot sand ; and a deep inward sorrow seemed to blunt him against all external things. The garrulous old Woman tried to lead him into conversation ; but 'with his short answers he gave her small encouragement or in- formation ; so that in the end, notwithstanding the beauty of his eyes, she grew tired of speaking with him to no purpose, and took leave of him with these words : “You walk too slow for me, worthy sir ; I must not lose a moment, for I have to pass the River on the green Snake, and cany this fine present from my husband to the fair Lily.” So saying she stept faster forward ; but the fair Youth pushed on with equal speed, and hastened to keep up with her. “ You are going to the fair Lily! ” cried he ; “ then our roads are the same. But what present is this you are bringing her ? ” “ Sir,” said the Woman, “ it is hardly fair, after so briefly dis- missing the questions I put to you, to inquire with such vivacity about my secrets. But if you like to barter, and tell me your ad- ventures, I Will not conceal from you how it stands with me and my presents.” They soon made a bargain ; the dame disclosed her circumstances to him ; told the history of the Pug, and let him see the singular gift. He lifted this natural curiosity from the basket, and took Mops, who seemed as if sleeping softly, into his arms. “ Happy beast ! ” cried he ; “ thou wilt be touched by her bauds, thou wilt be made alive by her ; while the living are obliged to fly from her presence to escape a mournful doom. Yet why say I mournful? Is it not far sadder and more frightful to be injured by her look, than it would be to die by her hand ? Behold me,” said he to the Woman ; “ at my years, what a miserable fate have I to undergo. This mail which I have honourably borne in war, this purple which I sought to merit by a wise reign, Destiny has left me ; the one as APPENDIX. 135 a useless burden, the other as an empty ornament. Crown, and sceptre, and sword are gone ; and I am as bare and needy as any other son of earth ; for so unblessed are her bright eyes, that they take from every living creature they look on all its force, and those whom the touch of her hand does not kill are changed to the state of shadows wandering alive.” Thus did he continue to bewail, nowise contenting the old Woman’s curiosity, who wished for information not so much of his internal as of his external situation. She learned neither the name of his father, nor of his kingdom. He stroked the hard Mops, whom the sunbeams and the bosom of the youth had warmed as if he had been living. He inquired narrowly about the Man with the Lamp, about the influences of the sacred light, appearing to expect much good from it in his melancholy case. ' Amid such conversation, they descried from afar the majestic arch of the Bridge, which extended from the one bank to the other, glittering with the strangest colours in the splendours, of the sun. Both were astonished ; for until now they had never seen this edifice so grand. “ How ! ” cried the Prince, “ was it not beautiful enough, as it stood before our eyes, piled out of jas- per and agate ? Shall we not fear to tread it, now that it appears combined, in graceful complexity of emerald and chrysojiras and chrysolite ? ” Neither of them knew the alteration that had taken place upon the Snake : for it was indeed the Snake, who every day at noon curved herself over the Biver, and stood forth in the form of a bold-swelling bridge. 1 The travellers stept upon it with a rev- erential -feeling, and passed over it in silence. No sooner had they reached the other shore, than the bridge began to heave and stir ; in a little while, it touched the surface of the water, and the green Snake in her proper form came gliding after the wanderers. They had scarcely thanked her for the privi- lege of crossing on her back, when they found that, besides them three, there must be other persons in the company, whom their eyes could not discern. They heard a hissing, which the Snake also answered with a hissing ; they listened, and at length caught what follows: “5Ve shall first look about us in the fair Lily's Park,” said a pair of alternating voices ; “ and then request you at nightfall, so soon as we are anywise presentable, to introduce us to this paragon of beauty. At the shore of the great Lake you will 1 If aught can overspan the Time-River, then what but Understanding, but Thought, in its moment of plenitude, in its favourable noon-moment ? — D. T 136 APPENDIX. find ns.” — “Be it so,” replied the Snake ; and a hissing sound died away in the air. Our three-travellers now consulted in what order they should in- troduce themselves to the fair Lady ; for however many people might be in her company, they were obliged to enter and depart singly, under pain of suffering very hard severities. The Woman with the metamorphosed Pug in the basket first approached the garden, looking round for her Patroness ; who was not difficult to find, being just engaged in singing to her haip. The finest tones proceeded from her, first like circles on the sur- face of the still lake, then like a light breath they set the grass and the bushes in motion. In a green enclosure, under the shadow of a stately group of many diverse trees, was she seated ; and again did she enchant the eyes, the ears and the heart of the "Woman, who approached with rapture, and swore within herself that since she saw her last, the fair one had grown fairer than ever. With eager gladness, from a distance, she expressed her reverence and admiration for the lovely maiden. “ What a happiness to see you, what a Heaven does your presence spread around you ! How charmingly the harp is leaning on your bosom, how softly your arms surround it, how it seems as if longing to be near you, and how it sounds so meekly under the touch of your slim fingers ! Tlirice-kappy youth, to whom it were permitted to be there ! So speaking she approached ; the fair Lily raised her eyes ; let her hands drop from the harp, and answered : “ Trouble me not with untimely praise ; I feel my misery but the more deeply. Look here, at my feet lies the poor Canary-bird, which used so beauti- fully to accompany my singing ; it would sit upon my harp, and was trained not to touch me ; but to-day, while I, refreshed by sleep, was raising a peaceful morning hymn, and my little singer was pour- ing forth his harmonious tones more gaily than ever, a Hawk darts over my head ; the poor little creature, in affright, takes refuge in my bosom, and I feel the last palpitations of its departing life. The plundering Hawk indeed was caught by my look, and fluttered fainting down into the water ; but what can his punishment avail me ? my darling is dead, and his grave will but increase the mourn- ful bushes pf my garden.” “ Take courage, fairest Lily ! ” cried the Woman, wiping off a tear, which the story of the hapless maiden had called into her eyes ; ‘ ‘ compose yourself ; my old man bids me tell you to mod- erate your lamenting, to look 'upon the greatest misfortune as a forerunner of the greatest happiness, for the time is at hand : and APPENDIX. 137 truly,” continued slie, “ the world is going strangely on of late. Do but look at rfty hand, how black it is ! As I live and breathe, it is grown far smaller : I must hasten, before it vanish altogether ! Why did I engage to do the Will-o’-wisps a service, why did I meet the Giant’s shadow, and dip my hand in the Biver ? Could you not afford me a single cabbage, an artichoke and an onion ? I would give them to the Biver, and my hand were white as ever, so that I could almost show it with one of yours.” “ Cabbages and onions thou mayest still find ; but artichokes thou wilt search for in vain. No plant in my garden bears either flowers or fruit ; but every twig that I break, and plant upon the grave of a favourite, grows green straightway, and shoots up in fair boughs. All these groups, these bushes, these groves my hard des- tiny has so raised around me. These pines stretching out like para- sols, these obelisks of cypresses, these colossal oaks and beeches, were all little twigs planted by my hand, as mournful memorials in a soil that otherwise is barren.” 1 To this speech the old Woman had paid little heed ; she was looking at her hand, which, in presence of the fan - Lily, seemed every moment growing blacker and smaller. She was about to snatch her basket and hasten off, when she noticed that the best part of her errand had been forgotten. She lifted out the onyx Pug, and set him down, not far from the fair one, in the grass. “ My husband,” said she, “sends you this memorial; you know that you can make a jewel live by touching it. This iiretty faithful dog- will certainly afford you much enjoyment ; and my grief at losing him is brightened only by the thought that he will be in your pos- session.” The fan- Lily viewed the dainty creature with a pleased and, as it seemed, with an astonished look. “ Many signs combine,” said she, “ that breathe some hope into me : but ah ! is it not a natural deception which makes us fancy, when misfortunes crowd upon us, that a better day is near ? “ What can these many signs avail me ? My Singer’s Death, thy coal-black Hand ? This Dog of Onyx, that can never fail me ? And coming at the Lamp’s command ? 1 In Supernaturalism, truly, what is there either of flower or of fruit ? Nothing that will (altogether) content the greedy Time-River. Stupendous, funereal sacred groves, 1 in a soil that otherwise is barren ! ’ — D. T. 138 APPENDIX. Prom human joys removed forever, With sorrows compassed round I sit : Is there a Temple at the River ? Is there a Bridge ? Alas, not yet ! ” The good old dame had listened with impatience to this singing, which the fair Lily accompanied with her harp, in a way that would have charmed any other. She was on the point of taking leave, when the "arrival of the green Snake again detained her. The Snake had canght the last lines of the song, and on this matter forthwith began to speak comfort to the fair Lily. ‘ ‘ The prophecy of the Bridge is fulfilled ! ” ciied the Snake : “ you may ask this worthy dame how royally the arch looks now. What formerly was untransparent jasper, or agate, allowing but a gleam of light to pass about its edges, is now become transparent precious stone. No beryl is so clear, no emerald so beautiful of hue.” “ I wish you joy of it,” said Lily ; “ but you will pardon me if I regard the prophecy as yet unaccomplished. The lofty arch of your bridge can still but admit foot-passengers ; and it is promised us that horses and carriages and travellers of every sort shall, at the same moment, cross this bridge in both directions. Is there not something said, too, about pillars, which are to arise of themselves from the waters of the Biver ? ” The old Woman still kept her eyes fixed on her hand ; she here interrupted them dialogue, and was taking leave. “Wait a mo- ment,” said the fair Lily, “ and carry my little bird with you. Bid the Lamp change it into a topaz ; I will enliven it by my touch ; with your good Mops it shall form my dearest pastime : but hasten, hasten ; for, at sunset, intolerable putrefaction will fasten on the hapless bird, and tear asunder the fair combination of its form for- ever.” The old Woman laid the little corpse, wrapped in soft leaves, into her basket, and hastened away. “ However it may be,” said the Snake, recommencing their in- terrupted dialogue, “ the Temple is built.” “ But it is not at the Biver,” said the fair one. “ It is yet resting in the depths of the Earth,” said the Snake ; “ I have seen the Kings and conversed with them.” “ But when will they arise ? ” inquired Lily. The Snake replied . “ I heard resounding in the Temple these deep words, The time is at hand.” A pleasing cheerfulness spread over the fair Lily’s face : “ ’Tis APPENDIX. 139 the second time,” said she, “ that I have heard these happy words to-day : when will the day come for me to hear them thrice ? ” She arose, and immediately there came a lovely maiden from the grove, and took away her harp. Another followed her, and folded-np the fine carved ivory stool, on which the fair one had been sitting, and put the silvery cushion under her arm. A third then made her appearance, with a large parasol worked with pearls ; and looked whether Lily would require her in walking. These three maidens were beyond expression beautiful ; and yet their beauty but exalted that of Lily, for it was plain to every one that they could never be compared to her. 1 Meanwhile the fair one had been looking, with a satisfied as- pect, at the strange onyx Mops. She bent down and touched him, and that instant he started up. Gaily he looked around, ran hither and thither, and at last, in his kindest manner, hastened to salute his benefactress. She took him in her arms, and pressed him to her. “ Cold as thou art,” cried .she, “and though but a half-life works in thee, thou art welcome to me ; tenderly will I love thee, prettily will I play with thee, softly caress thee, and firmly press thee to my bosom.” She then let him go, chased him from her, called him bacl^ and played so daintily with him, and ran about so gaily and so innocently with him on the grass, that with new rapture you viewed and participated in her joy, as a little while ago her sorrow had attuned every heart to sympathy. This cheerfulness, these graceful sports were interrupted by the entrance of the woful Youth. He stepped forward, in his former guise and aspect ; save that the heat of the day appeared to have fatigued him still more, and in the presence of his mistress he grew paler every moment. He bore upon his hand a Hawk, which was sitting quiet as a dove, with its body shrunk, and its wings drooping. “It is not kind in thee,” cried Lily to him, “to bring that hateful thing before my eyes, the monster, which to-day has killed my little singer.” “Blame not the unhappy bird! ” replied the Youth; “rather blame thyself and thy destiny ; and leave me to keep beside me the companion of my woe.” Meanwhile Mops ceased not teasing the fair Lily ; and she re- plied to her transparent favourite, with friendly gestures. She 1 Who are these three ? Faith, Hope and Charity, or others of that kin ? — D. T. Faith, Hope and Fiddlestick ! — 0. Y. 14 : 0 - APPENDIX. clapped her hands to scare him off ; then ran, to entice him after her. She tried to get him when he fled, and she chased him away when he attempted to press near her. The Youth looked on in silence, with increasing anger ; but at last, when she took the odious beast, which seemed to him unutterably ugly, on her arm, pressed it to her white bosom, and kissed its black snout with her heavenly lips, his patience altogether failed him, and full of desperation he exclaimed : ‘ ‘ Must I, who by a baleful fate exist beside thee, perhaps to the end, in an absent presence ; who by thee have lost my all, my very self ; must I see before my eyes, that so unnatural a monster can charm thee into gladness, can awaken thy attachment, and enjoy thy embrace ? Shall I any longer keep wandering to and fro, measuring my dreary course to that side of the River and to this ? No, there is still a spark of the old heroic spirit sleeping in my bosom ; let it start this instant into its expiring flame ! If stones may rest in thy bosom, let me be changed to stone ; if thy touch kills, I will die by thy hands.” So saying he made a violent movement ; the Hawk flew from his finger, but he himself rushed towards the fair one ; she held out her hands to keep him off, and touched him only the sooner. Consciousness forsook him ; and* she felt with horror the beloved burden lying on her bosom. "With a shriek she started back, and the gentle youth sank lifeless from her arms upon the ground. The misery had happened ! The sweet Lily stood motionless gazing on the corpse. Her heart seemed to pause in her bosom ; and her eyes were without tears. In vain did Mops try to gain from her any kindly gesture ; with her friend, the world for her was all dead as the grave. Her silenl despair did not look round for help ; she knew not of any help. On the hand, the Snake bestirred herself the more actively, she seemed to meditate deliverance ; and in fact her strange move- ments served at least to keep away, for a little, the immediate consequences of the mischief. With her limber body, she formed a wide circle round the corpse, and seizing the end of her tail be- tween her teeth, she lay quite still. Ere long one of Lily’s fair waiting-maids appeared ; brought the ivory folding-stool, and with friendly beckoning constrained her mistress to sit down on it. Soon afterwards there came a second ; she had in her hand a fire-coloured veil, with which she rather decorated than concealed the fair Lily’s head. The third handed her the harp, and scarcely had she drawn the gorgeous instrument towards her, and struck some tones from its strings, when the first APPENDIX. 141 maid returned with a clear round mirror ; took her station opposite the fair one ; caught her looks in the glass, and threw back to her the loveliest image that was to be found in Nature . 1 Sorrow heightened her bea’utv, the veil her charms, the harp her grace ; and deeply as you wished to see her mournful situation altered, not less deeply did you wish to keep her image, as she now looked, forever present with you. With a still look at the mirror, she touched the harp ; now melt- ing tones proceeded from the strings, now her pain seemed to mount, and the music in strong notes responded to her woe ; sometimes she opened her lips to sing, but her voice failed her ; and ere long her sorrow melted into tears, two maidens caught her helpfully in their arms, the harp sank from her bosom, scarcely could the quick servant snatch the instrument and carry it aside. “ Who gets us the Man with the Lamp, before the Sun set ? ” hissed the Snake, faintly, but audibly : the maids looked at one another, and Lily’s tears fell faster. At this moment came the Woman with the Basket, panting and altogether breathless. “I am lost, and maimed for life ! ” cried she ; “ see how my hand is almost vanished ; neither Ferryman nor Giant would take me over, because I am the River’s debtor ; in vain did I promise hun- dreds of cabbages and hundreds of onions ; they will take no more than three ; and no artichoke is now to be found in all this quarter.” “ Forget your own care,” said the Snake, “ and try to bring help here ; perhaps it may come to yourself also. Haste with your utmost speed to seek the Will-o’-wisps ; it is too light for you to see them, but perhaps you will hear them laughing and hopping to and fro. If they be speedy, they may cross upon the Giant’s shadow, and seek the Man with the Lamp, and send him to us.” The Woman hurried off at her quickest pace, and the Snake seemed expecting as impatiently as Lily the return of the Flames. Alas ! the beam of the sinking Sun was already gilding only the highest summits of the trees in the thicket, and long shadows were 1 Does not man’s soul rest by Faith, and look in the mirror of Faith ? Does not Hope 1 decorate rather than conceal ? ’ Is not Charity (Love) the begin- ning of music ? — Behold too, how the Serpent, in this great hour, has made herself a Serpent-of-Eternity ; and (even as genuine Thought, in our age, has to do for so much) preserves the seeming-dead within her folds, that sus- pended animation issue not in noisome, horrible, irrevocable dissolution ! — D. T. 142 APPENDIX. stretching over lake and meadow ; the Snake hitched up and down impatiently, and Lily dissolved in tears. In this extreme need, the Snake kept looking round on all sides ; for she was afraid every moment that the Sun* would set, and cor- ruption penetrate the magic circle, and the fair youth immedi- ately moulder away. At last she noticed sailing high in the air, with purple-red feathers, the Prince’s Hawk, whose breast was catching the last beams of the Sun. She shook herself for joy at this good omen ; nor was she deceived ; for shortly afterwards the Man with the Lamp was seen gliding towards them across the Lake, fast and smoothly, as if he had been travelling on skates. The Snake did not change her posture ; but Lily rose and called to him: “What good spiiit sends thee, at the moment when we were desiring thee, and needing thee, so much ? ” “ The spirit of my Lamp,” replied the Man, “ has impelled me, and the Hawk has conducted me. My Lamp sparkles when I am needed, and I just look about me in the sky for a signal ; some bird or meteor points to the quarter towards which I am to turn. Be calm, fairest Maiden ! Whether I can help, I know not ; an indi- vidual helps not, but he who combines himself with many at the proper hour. We will postpone the evil, and keep hoping. Hold thy circle fast,” continued he, turning to the Snake ; then set him- self upon a hillock beside her, and illuminated the dead body. “ Bring the little Bird 1 hither too, and lay it in the circle ! ” The maidens took the little corpse from the basket, which the old Woman had left standing, and did as he directed. Meanwhile the Sun had set ; and as the darkness increased, not only the Snake and the old Man’s Lamp began shining in their fashion, but also Lily’s veil gave-out a soft light, which gracefully tinged, as with a meek dawning red, her pale cheeks and her white robe. The party looked at one another, silently reflecting ; care and sorrow were mitigated by a sure hope. It was no unpleasing entrance, therefore, that the Woman made, attended by the two gay Flames, which in truth appeared to have been very lavish in the interim, for they had again become extremely meagre ; yet they only bore themselves the more pret- tily for that, towards Lily and the other ladies. With great tact and expressiveness, they said a multitude of rather common things 1 What are the Hawk and this Canary-bird, which here prove so destructive to one another ? Ministering servants, implements, of these two divided Halves of the Human Soul ; name them I will not ; more is not written. — D. T. APPENDIX. 143 to these fair persons ; and declared themselves particularly rav- ished by the charm which the gleaming veil 1 spread over Lily and her attendants. The ladies modestly cast down their eyes, and the praise of their beauty made them really beautiful. All were peace- ful and calm, except the old Woman. In spite of the assurance of her husband, that her hand could diminish no farther, while the Lamp shone on it, she asserted more than once, that if things went on thus, before midnight this noble member would have utterly yanished. The Man with the Lamp had listened attentively to the conver- sation of the Lights ; and was gratified that Lily had been cheered, in some measure, and amused by it. And, in truth, midnight had arrived they knew not how. The old Man looked to the stars, and then began speaking : “We are assembled at the propitious hour ; let each perform his task, let each do his duty ; and a universal happiness will swallow-up our individual sorrows, as a universal grief consumes individual joys.” At these words arose a wondrous hubbub ; 2 for all the persons in the party spoke aloud, each for himself, declaring what they had to do ; only the three maids were silent ; one of them had fallen asleep beside the harp, another near the parasol, the third by the stool ; and you could not blame them much, for it was late. The Fiery Youths, after some passing compliments which they de- voted to the waiting-maids, had turned their sole attention to the Princess, as alone worthy of exclusive homage. “ Take the mirror,” said the Man to the Hawk ; “ and with the first sunbeam illuminate the three sleepers, and awake them, with light reflected from above.” The Snake now began to move ; she loosened her circle, and rolled slowly, in large rings forward to the River. The two Will- o’-wisps followed with a solemn air : you would have taken them for the most serious Flames in Nature. The old Woman and her husband seized the Basket, whose mild light they had scarcely observed till now ; they lifted it at both sides, and it grew still larger and more luminous ; they lifted the body of the Youth into 1 Have not your march -of-intellect Literators always expressed themselves particularly ravished with any glitter from the veil, of Hope ; with ‘progress of the species,’ and the like ? — D. T. 2 Too true : dost thou not hear it, reader ? In this our Revolutionary ‘ twelfth hour of the night,’ all persons speak aloud (some of them by cannon and drums !), ‘ declaring what they have to do ; ’ and Faith, Hope and Charity (after a few passing compliments from the Belles-Lettres Department), thou seest, have fallen asleep! — D. T. 144 APPENDIX. it, laying the Canary bird upon his breast ; the Basket rose into the air and hovered above the old "Woman's head, and she followed the Will-o’-wisps on foot. The fair Lily took Mops on her arm, and followed the Woman ; the Man with the Lamp concluded the procession ; and the scene was curiously illuminated by these many lights. But it was with no small wonder that the party saw, when they approached the Biver, a glorious arch mount over it, by which the helpful Snake was affording them a glittering path. If by day they had admired the beautiful transparent precious stones, of which the Bridge seemed formed ; by night they were astonished at its gleaming brilliancy. On the upper side the clear circle marked itself sharp against the dark sky, but below, vivid beams were darting to the centre, and exhibiting the airy firmness of the edifice. The procession slowly moved across it; and the Ferry- man, who saw it from his hut afar off, considered with astonish- ment the gleaming circle, and the strange lights which were pass- ing over it . 1 No sooner had they reached the other shore, than the arch began, in its usual way, to sway up and down, and with a wavy motion to approach the water. The Snake then came on land, the Basket placed itself upon the ground, and the Snake again drew her cir- cle round it. The old Man stooped towards her, and said : “ What hast thou resolved on ? ” “To sacrifice myself rather than be sacrificed,” replied the Snake ; “ promise me that thou wilt leave no stone on shore.” The old Man promised ; then addressing Lily : “ Touch the Snake,” said he, “ with thy left hand, and thy lover with thy right.” Lily knelt, and touched the Snake and the Prince's body. The latter in the instant seemed to come to life ; he moved in the Basket, nay he raised himself into a sitting posture ; Lily was about to clasp him ; but the old Man held her back, and himself assisted the Youth to rise, and led him forth from the Basket and the circle. The Prince was standing ; the Canary-bird was fluttering on his shoulder ; there was life again in both of them, but the spirit had not yet returned ; the fair youth’s eyes were open, yet he did not see, at least he seemed to look on all without participation. Scarcely had their admiration of this incident a little calmed, 1 Well he might, worthy old man ; as Pope Pius, for example, did, when he lived in Fontainebleau ! — D. T. As our Bishops, when voting for the Re- form Bill ?~0. Y. APPENDIX. 145 when they observed how strangely it had fared in the mean while with the Snake. Her fair taper body had crumbled into thousands and thousands of shining jewels : the old "Woman reaching at her Basket had chanced to come against the circle ; and of the shape or structure of the Snake there was now nothing to be seen, only a bright ring of luminous jewels was lying in the grass . 1 The old Man forthwith set himself to gather the stones into the Basket ; a task in which his wife assisted him. They next carried the Basket to an elevated point on the bank ; and here the man threw its whole lading, not without contradiction from the fail- one and his uife, who would gladly have retained some part of it, down into the Biver. Like gleaming twinkling stars the stones floated down with the waves ; and you could not say whether they lost themselves in the distance, or sank to the bottom. “ Gentlemen,” said he with the Lamp, in a respectful tone to the Lights, “ I will now show you the way, and open you the pas- sage ; but you will do us an essential service, if you please to un- bolt the door, by which the Sanctuary must be entered at jjresent, and which none but you can unfasten.” The Lights made a stately bow of assent, and kept their place. The old Man of the Lamp went foremost into the rock, which opened at his presence ; the Youth followed him, as if mechani- cally ; silent and uncertain, Lily kept at some distance from him ; the old Woman would not be left, and stretched-out her hand that the light of her husband’s Lamp might still fall upon it. The rear was closed by the two Will-o’-wisps, who bent the peaks of their flames towards one another, and appeared to be engaged in conversation. They had not gone far till the procession halted in front of a large brazen door, the leaves of which were bolted with a golden lock. The Man now called upon the Lights to advance ; who re- quired small entreaty, and rvith their pointed flames, soon ate both bar and lock. The brass gave a loud clang, as the doors sprang suddenly asun- der ; and the stately figures of the Kings appeared within the Sanctuary, illuminated by the entering Lights. All bowed before these dread sovereigns, especially the Flames made a profusion of the daintiest reverences. 1 So ! Your Logics, Mechanical Philosophies, Politics, Sciences, your whole modern System of Thought, is to decease ; and old Endeavour, ‘ grasping at her basket,’ shall ‘come against’ the inanimate remains, and ‘only a bright ring of luminous jewels ’ shall be left there! Mark well, however, what next becomes of it. — D. T. 10 146 APPENDIX. After a pause, the gold King asked : 1 ! Whence come ye ? ” “From the world,” said the old Man. — “ Whither go ye ?” said the silver King. “ Into the world,” replied the Man. — “What would ye with us ?” cried the brazen King. “Accompany you,” replied the Man. The composite King was about to speak, when the gold one ad- dressed the Lights, who had got too near him : “ Take yourselves away from me, my metal was not made for you.” Thereupon they turned to the silver King, and clasped themselves about him ; and his robe glittered beautifully in their yellow brightness. ‘ 1 You are welcome,” said he, “ but I cannot feed you ; satisfy yourselves elsewhere, and bring me your light.” They removed ; and glid- ing past the brazen King, who did not seem to notice them, they fixed on the compounded King. “ Who will govern the world ? ” cried he, with a broken voice. “He who stands upon his feet,” replied the old Man. — “I am he,” said the mixed King. “We shall see,” replied the Man ; “ for the time is at hand.” The fair Lily fell upon the old Man’s neck, and kissed him cor- dially. “Holy Sage!” cried she, “a thousand times I thank thee; for I hear that fateful word the third time.” She had scarcely spoken, when she clasped the old Man still faster ; for the ground began to move beneath them ; the Youth and the old Woman also held by one another ; the Lights alone did not re- gard it. You could feel plainly that the whole Temple was in motion ; as a ship that softly glides away from the harbour, when her anchors are lifted ; the depths of the Earth seemed to open for the Build- ing as it went along. It struck on nothing ; no rock came in its way. For a few instants, a small rain seemed to drizzle from the opening of the dome ; the old Man held the fair Lily fast, and said to her : “ We are now beneath the River ; we shall soon be at the mark. ” Erelong they thought the Temple made a halt ; but they were in an error; it was mounting upwards. And now a strange uproar rose above their heads. Planks and beams in disordered combination now came pressing and crashing in at the opening of the dome. Lily and the Woman started to a side ; the Man with the Lamp laid hold of the Youth, and kept standing still. The little cottage of the Ferryman, for it was this which the Temple in ascending had severed from the ground and carried up with it, sank gradually down, and covered the old Man and the Youth. APPENDIX. 147 The women screamed aloud, and the Temple shook, like a ship running unexioectedly aground. In sorrowful perplexity, the Prin- cess and her old attendant wandered round the cottage in the dawn ; the door was bolted, and to their knocking no one an- swered. They knocked more loudly, and were not a little struck, when at length the wood began to ring. By virtue of the Lamp locked up in it, the hut had been converted from the inside to the outside into solid silver. Erelong too its form changed ; for the noble metal shook aside the accidental shape of planks, posts, and beams, and stretched itself out into a noble case of beaten orna- mented workmanship. Thus a fair little temple stood erected in the middle of the large one ; or if you will, an Altar worthy of the Temple. 1 By a staircase which ascended from within, the noble Youth now mounted aloft, lighted by the old Man with the Lamp ; and, as it seemed, supported by another, who advanced in a white short robe, with a silver rudder in his hand ; and was soon recognised as the Perryman, the former possessor of the cottage. The fair Lily mounted the outer steps, which led from the floor of the Temple to the Altar ; but she was still obliged to keep her- self apart from her Lover. The old Woman, whose hand in the absence of the Lamp had grown still smaller, cried : “ Am 1 then to be unhappy after all ? Among so many miracles, can there be nothing done to save my hand?” Her husband pointed to the open door, and said to her: “See, the day is breaking; haste, bathe thyself in the Biver.” — “ What an advice!” cried she; “it will make me all black ; it will make me vanish altogether ; for my debt is not yet paid.” — “ Go,” said the Man, “ and do as I ad- rise thee ; all debts are now paid.” The old Woman hastened away ; and at that moment appeared the rising sun upon the rim of the dome. The old Man stept be- tween the Virgin and the Youth, and cried with a loud voice : “ There are three which have rale on Earth ; Wisdom, Appear- ance and Strength.” At the first .word, the gold King rose; at the second, the silver one ; and at the third, the brass King slowly rose, while the mixed King on a sudden very awkwardly plumped down. 2 1 Good ! The old Church, shaken down ‘ in disordered combination,’ is ad- mitted in this way, into the new perennial Temple of the Future ; and, clarified into enduring silver by the Lamp, becomes an Altar worthy to stand there. The Ferryman too is not forgotten. — D. T. 2 Dost thou note this, O reader ; and look back with new clearness on former things? A gold King, a silver and a brazen King ; Wisdom, dignified ■ 148 APPENDIX. Whoever noticed him could scarcely keep from laughing, solemn as the moment was ; for he was not sitting, he was not lying, he was not leaning, but shapelessly sunk together . 1 The Lights , 2 who till now had been employed upon him, drew to a side ; they appeared, although pale in the morning radiance, yet once more well-fed, and in good burning condition; with their peaked tongues, they had dexterously licked-out the gold veins of the colossal figure to its very heart. The irregular vacuities which this occasioned had continued empty for a time, and the fig- ure had maintained its standing posture. But when at last the very tenderest filaments were eaten out, the image crashed sud- denly together ; and that, alas, in the very parts which continue unaltered when one sits down ; whereas the limbs, which should have bent, sprawled themselves out unbowed and stiff. Whoever could not laugh was obliged to turn away his eyes ; this miserable shape and no-shape was offensive to behold. The Man with the Lamp now led the handsome Youth, who still kept gazing vacantly before him, down from the Altar, and straight to the brazen King. At the feet of this mighty Potentate lay a sword in a brazen sheath. The young man girt it round him. “ The sword on the left, the right free ! ” cried the brazen voice. They next proceeded to the silver King ; he bent his sceptre to the Youth the latter seized it with his left hand, and the King in a pleasing voice said : “ Feed the sheep ! ” On tinning to the golden King, he stooped with gestures of paternal blessing, and pressing his- oaken garland on the young man’s head, said : “ Understand what is highest ! ” During this progress, the old Man had carefully observed the Prince. After girding-on the sword, his breast swelled, his arms waved, and his feet trod firmer ; when he took the sceptre in his hand, his strength appeared to soften, and by an unspeakable charm to become still more subduing ; but as the oaken garland came to deck his hair, his features kindled, his eyes gleamed with inexpressible spirit, and the first word of his mouth was “ Lily ! ” “Dearest Lily ! ” cried he, hastening up the silver stairs to her, Appearance, Strength; these three harmoniously united bear rule ; dishar- moniously cobbled together in sham union (as iu the foolish composite King of our foolish ‘ transition era ’), they, once the gold (or wisdom) is all out of them, ‘very awkwardly plump down.’ — D. T. 1 As, for example, does not Charles X. (one of the poor fractional compos- ite Realities emblemed herein) rest, even now, ‘ shapelessly enough sunk to- gether.’ at Holyrood, in the city of Edinburgh ? — D. T. 2 March-of-intellect Lights were well capable of such a thing. — D. T. APPENDIX. 149 for she had viewed his progress from the pinnacle of the Altar , “Dearest Lily! what more precious can a man, equipt with all, desire for himself than innocence and the still affection which thy bosom brings me ? O my friend ! ” continued he, turning to the old Man, and looking at the three statues ; “ glorious and secure is the kingdom of our fathers ; but thou hast forgotten the fourth power, which rules the world, earlier, more universally, more cer- tainly, the power of Love.” With these words, he fell upon the lovely maiden’s neck ; she had cast away her veil, and her cheeks were tinged with the fairest, most imperishable red. Here the old Man said with a smile : “ Love does not rule ; but it trains, 1 and that is more.” Amid this solemnity, this happiness and rapture, no one had ob- served that it was now broad day ; and all at once, on looking through the open portal, a crowd of altogether unexpected objects met the eye. A large space surrounded with pillars formed the fore-court, at the end of which was seen a broad and stately Bridge stretching with many arches across the River. It was furnished, on both sides, with commodious and magnificent colonnades for foot-travellers, many thousands of whom were already there, busily passing this way or that. The broad pavement in the centre was thronged with herds and mules, with horsemen and carriages, flow- ing like two streams, on their several sides, and neither interrupt- ing the other. All admired the splendour and convenience of the structure ; and the new King and his Spouse were delighted with the motion and activity of this great people, as they were already happy in their own mutual love. “ Remember the Snake in honour,” said the Man with the Lamp, “ thou owest her thy life ; thy people owe her the Bridge, by -which these neighbouring banks are now animated and combined into one land. Those swimming and shining jewels, the remains of her sacrificed body, are the piers of this royal bridge ; upon these she has built and will maintain herself.” 2 The party were about to ask some explanation of this strange mystery, when there entered four lovely maidens at the portal of the Temple. By the Harp, the Parasol, and the Folding-stool, it was not difficult to recognise the waiting maids of Lily ; but the fourth, more beautiful than any of the rest, was an unknown fair 1 It fashions ( bildet ), or educates. — O. Y. 2 Honour to her indeed ! The Mechanical Philosophy, though dead, has not died and lived in vain ; but her works are there : ‘ upon these she ’ (Thought, newborn, in glorified shape) ‘ has built herself and will maintain herself ; ’ and the Natural and Supernatural shall henceforth, thereby, be one. — D. T. 150 APPENDIX. one, and in sisterly sportfulness slie hastened with them through the Temple, and mounted the steps of the Altar . 1 “Wilt thou have better trust in me another time, good wife?” said the Man with the Lamp to the fair one : “Well for thee, and every living thing that bathes this morning in the Elver ! ” The renewed and beautified old Woman, of whose former shape no trace remained, embraced with young eager arms the Man with the Lamp, who kindly received her caresses. “ If I am too old for thee,” said he, smiling, “ thou mayest choose another husband to-day ; from this hour no marriage is of force, which is not con- tracted anew.” “Dost thou not know, then,” answered she, “that thou too art grown younger ? “ It delights me if to thy young eyes I seem a handsome youth : I take thy hand anew, and am well content to live with thee another thousand years.” 2 The Queen welcomed her new friend, and went down with her into the interior of the Altar, while the King stood between his two men, looking towards the Bridge and attentively contemplating the busy tumult of the people. But his satisfaction did not last ; for erelong he saw an object which excited his displeasure. The great Giant, who appeared not yet to have awoke completely from his morning sleep, came stumbling along 'the Bridge, producing great confusion all around him. As usual, he had risen stupefied with sleep, and had meant to bathe in the well-known bay of the Eiver ; instead of which he found firm land, and plunged upon the broad pavement of the Bridge. Yet although he reeled into the midst of men and cattle in the clumsiest way, his presence, wondered at by all, was felt by none ; but as the sunshine came into his eyes, and he raised his hands to rub them, the shadows of his monstrous fists moved to and fro behind him with such force and awkwardness, that men and beasts were heaped together in great masses, were hurt by such rude contact, and in danger of being pitched into the Eiver . 3 The King, as he saw this mischief, grasped with an involuntary movement at his sword ; but he bethought himself, and looked 1 Mark what comes of bathing in the TlME-River, at the entrance of a New Era ! — D. T. 2 And so Reason and Endeavour being once more married, and in the honeymoon, need we wish them joy ? — D. T. 3 Thou rememberest the Catholic Relief Bill ; witnesseth the Irish Educa- tion Bill ? Hast heard, five hundred times, that the 1 Church ’ was * in danger ’ and now at length believest it ? — D. T. Is D. T. of the Fourth Estate, and Popish Infidel, then ? — O. Y. APPENDIX. 151 calmly at his sceptre, then at the Lamp and the Rudder of his attendants. “ I guess thy thoughts,” said the Man with the Lamp; “ but we and our gifts are powerless against this powerless mon- ster. Be calm ! He is doing hurt for the last time, and happily his shadow is not turned to us.” Meanwhile the Giant was approaching nearer ; in astonishment at -what he saw with open eyes, he had dropt his hands ; he was now doing no injury, and came staring and agape into the fore- court. He was walking straight to the door of the Temple, when all at once in the middle of the court, he halted, and was fixed to the ground. He stood there like a strong colossal statue, of reddish glittering stone, and his shadow pointed out the hours , 1 2 which were marked in a circle on the floor around him, not in numbers, but in noble and expressive emblems. Much delighted was the King to see the monster’s shadow turned to some useful purpose ; much astonished was the Queen, who, on mounting from within the Altar, decked in royal pomp, with her virgins, first noticed the huge figure, which almost closed the pros- pect from the Temple to the Bridge. Meanwhile the people had crowded after the Giant, as he ceased to move ; they were walking round him, wondering at his meta- morphosis. From him they turned to the Temple, which they now first appeared to notice,'-’ and pressed towards the door. At this instant the Hawk with the mirror soared aloft above the dome; caught the light of the Sun, and reflected it upon the group which was standing on the Altar. The King, the Queen, and their attendants, in the dusky concave of the Temple, seemed illuminated by a heavenly splendour, and the people fell upon their faces. "When the crowd had recovered and risen, the King with his followers had descended into the Altar, to proceed by secret passages into his palace ; and the multitude dispersed about the Temple to content their curiosity. The three Kings that were standing erect they r viewed with astonishment and rev- erence ; but the more eager were they to discover what mass it could be that was hid behind the hangings, in the fourth niche ; for by some hand or another, charitable decency had spread over the resting-place of the fallen King a gorgeous curtain, which no eye can penetrate, and no hand may dare to draw aside. 1 Bravo !^D. T. 2 Now first ; when the beast of a SUPERSTITION-Giant has got his quietus. Right !— D. T. 152 APPENDIX. The people would have found no end to their gazing and their admiration, and the crowding multitude would have even suffo- cated one another in the Temple, had not their attention been again attracted to the open space. Unexpectedly some gold-pieces, as if falling from the air, came tinkling down upon the marble flags ; the nearest passers-by rushed thither to pick them up ; the wonder was repeated several times, now here, now there. It is easy to conceive that the shower proceeded from our two retiring Flames, who wished to have a little sport here once more, and were thus gaily spending, ere they went away, the gold which they had licked from the members of the sunken King. The people still ran eagerly about, pressing and pulling one another, even when the gold had ceased to fall. At length they gradually dispersed, and went their way ; and to the present hour the Bridge is swarming with travellers, and the Temple is the most frequented on the whole Earth . 1 1 It is the Temple of the whole civilised Barth. Finally, may I take leave to consider this Mdhrchen as the deepest Poem of its sort in existence ; as the only true Prophecy emitted for who knows how many centuries ? — D. T. Certainly; England is a free country. — O. Y. CRITICAL ART) MISCELLANEOUS COLLECTED AND REPUBLISHED BY THOMAS CAELYLE VOL 7 ’AIRE. —NO YALIS NEW YORK: JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER, 1885. TROWS PRINTING AND G00K6INDING COMPANY, NEW YORK. VOLTAIRE. VOLTAIRE. Resistless and boundless power of true Literature. Every Life a well-spring, whose stream flows onward to Eternity. Present aspect of a man often strangely contrasted with his future influence ; Moses ; Mahomet ; the early Christians ; Tamerlane and Faust of Mentz. How noiseless is Thought ! (p. 5). — Voltaire’s European reputation. The biography of such a man cannot be unimportant. Differences of opin- ion : Necessity for mutual tolerance. Voltaire’s character : Adroitness, and multifarious success : Keen sense of rectitude ; and fellow-feeling for human suffering. (9). — Not a ‘ great character ; ’ essentially a Mocker. Ridicule not ' the test of truth. The glory of knowing and believing, all but a stranger to him ; only with that of questioning and qualifying is lie familiar. His tragicomical explosions, more like a bundle ot rockets than a volcano Character of the age into which he was cast. What is implied by a Lover of Wisdom Voltaire loved Truth, but chief ! y of the triumphant sort. His love of fame: ‘Necessity’ of lying: Can either fly or crawl, as the occasion demands. (20). — His view of the world a cool gently scornful, altogether prosaic one. His last ill-omened visit to Frederick the Great. His women, an embittered and embitter- ing set of wantons from the earliest to the last : Widow Denis ; the Marquise du Ch'telet. The greatest of all Persifleurs. (38). — His last and most striking appearance in society : The loudest and showiest homage ever paid to Literature. The last scene of all. (44).— Intellectual gifts: His power of rapid, perspicuous Arrangement : His Wit, a mere logical pleasantry ; scarcely a twinkle of Humour in the whole of his number- less sallies. Poetry of the toilette : Criticisms of Shakespeare, — Vpl- taire, and Frederick the Great : Let justice be shown even to French poetry. (51). — Voltaire chiefly conspicuous as a vehement opponent of the Christian Faith : Shallowness of his deepest insight : The Worship of Sorrow, godlike Doctrine of Humility, all unknown to him. The Christian Religion itself can never die. Voltaire’s whole character plain enough : A light, careless, courteous Man of the World : His chief merits belong to Nature and himself ; his chief faults are of his time and country. The strange ungodly Age of Louis XV. : Honour ; En- lightened Self-interest ; Force of Public Opinion. Novalis, on the worthlessness and worth of French Philosophy. The death-slab of modern Superstition. The burning of a little straw may hide the Stars ; but they are still there, and will again be seen. (62). VOLTAIRE . 1 [ 1829 .] Could ambition always choose its own path, and were will in human undertakings synonymous with faculty, all truly ambitious meu would be men of letters. Certainly, if we examine that love of power, which enters so largely into most practical calculations, nay which our Utilitarian friends have recognised as the sole end and origin, both motive and re- ward, of all earthly enterprises, animating alike the philan- thropist, the conqueror, the money-changer and the mission- ary, we shall find that all other arenas of ambition, compared with this rich and boundless one of Literature, meaning thereby whatever respects the promulgation of Thought, are poor, limited and ineffectual. For dull, unreflective, merely instinctive as the ordinary man may seem, he has neverthe- less, as a quite indispensable appendage, a head that in some degree considers and computes ; a lamp or rushlight of un- derstanding has been given him, which, through whatever dim, besmoked and strangely diffractive media it may shine, is the ultimate guiding light of his whole path : and here as w r ell as there, now as at all times in man’s history, Opinion rules the world. Curious it is, moreover, to consider in this respect, how 1 Foreign Review^, No. 6. — Memoires sur Voltaire , etsurses Outrages, par Longchamp et Wagniere, ses Secretaires ; suivis de divers Ecrits inedits de la Marquise du Chdtelet, du President [Z Jenav.lt, &c . , tons relatifs a Voltaire. (Memoirs concerning Voltaire and his Works, by Longchamp and Wagniere, his Secretaries ; with various unpublished Tieces by the Marquise du Chatelet, &c., all relating to Voltaire.) 2 tomes. Paris, 1826. 6 VOLTAIRE. different appearance is from reality, and under what singular shape and circumstances the truly most important man of any given period might he found. Could some Asmodeus, by simply waving his arm, open asunder the meaning of the Present, even so far as the Future will disclose it, what a much more marvellous sight should we have, than that mere bodily one through the roofs of Madrid ! For we know not what we are, any more than what w T e shall be. It is a high, solemn, almost awful thought for every individual man, that his earthly influence, which has had a commencement, will never through all ages, were he the very meanest of us, have an end ! What is done is done ; has already blended itself with the boundless, ever-living, ever-working Universe, and will also work there, for good or for evil, openly or secretly, throughout all time. But the life of every man is as the well-spring of a stream, whose small beginnings are indeed plain to all, but whose ulterior course and destination, as it winds through the expanses of infinite years, only the Om- niscient can discern. Will it mingle with neighbouring rivu- lets, as a tributary ; or receive them as their sovereign ? Is it to be a nameless brook, and will its tiny waters, among millions of other brooks and rills, increase the current of some world-river ? Or is it to be itself a Kkene or Danaw, whose goings-forth are to the uttermost lands, its flood an everlasting boundary-line on the globe itself, the bulwark and highway of whole kingdoms and continents ? We know not ; only in either case, we know, its path is to the great ocean ; its waters, were they but a handful, are here, and cannot be annihilated or permanently held back. As little can we prognosticate, with any certainty, the future influences from the present aspects of an individual. How many Demagogues, Croesuses, Conquerors fill their own age with joy or terror, with a tumult that promises to be perennial ; and in the next age die away into insignificance and oblivion ! These are the forests of gourds, that overtop the infant cedars and aloe-trees, but, like the Prophet's gourd, wither on the third day. What was it to the Pharaohs of Egypt, in that old era, if Jethro the Midianitish priest and VOLTAIRE. 7 grazier accepted the Hebrew outlaw as his herdsman ? Yet the Pharaohs, with all their chariots of war, are buried deep in the wrecks of time ; and that Moses still lives, not among his own tribe only, but in the hearts and daily business of all civilised nations. Or figure Mahomet, in his youthful years, ‘ travelling to. the horse-fairs of Syria.’ Nay, to take an in- finitely higher instance : who has ever forgotten those lines of Tacitus ; inserted as a small, transitory, altogether trifling circumstance in the history of such a potentate as Nero? To us it is the most earnest, sad and sternly significant pas- sage that we know to exist in writing : Ergo abolenclo rumori Nero subdidit reos, et qucesitissimis pcenis affecit, quos per Jlagitia invisos, vulgus Christianos appellabat. Auctor nominis ejus Christtts, qui, Tiberio imperitante, per Procuratorem Pon- tium Pilatum supplicio affectus erat. Pmpressaque in prcesens exitiabilis superstitio rursus erumpebat, non modo per Judceam originem ejus _ mali, sed per urbem eliam, quo cuncta undique atrocia aut pudenda conjiuunt celebranturque. ‘ So, for the ‘quieting of this rumour - , 1 Nero judicially charged -with the ‘ crime, and punished with most studied severities, that class, ‘ hated for their general wickedness, whom the vulgar call ‘ Christians. The originator of that name was one Christ, ‘ who, in the reign of Tiberius, suffered death by sentence of ‘ the Procurator, Pontius Pilate. The baneful superstition, ‘ thereby repressed for the time, again broke out, not only over ‘ Judea, the native soil of that mischief, but in the City also, ‘ where from every side all atrocious and abominable things ‘ collect and flourish.’ 2 Tacitus was the wisest, most penetrat- ing man of his generation ; and to such depth, and no deeper, has he seen into this transaction, the most important that has occurred or can occur in the annals of mankind. Nor is it only to those primitive ages, when religions took their rise, and a man of pure and high mind appeared not merely as a teacher and philosopher, but as a priest and prophet, that our observation applies. The same uncertainty, in estimating present things and men, holds more or less in all times ; for in all times, even in those which seem most - 1 Of liis having set fire to Rome. 2 Tacit. Annul, xv. 44. VOLTAIRE. _ 8 trivial, and open to research, human society rests on inscru- tably deep foundations ; which lie is of all others the most mistaken, who fancies he has explored to the bottom. Nei- ther is that sequence, which we love to speak of as ‘ a chain of causes,’ properly to be figured as a ‘ chain,’ or line, but rather as a tissue, or superficies of innumerable lines, ex- tending in breadth as well as in length, and with a complex- ity, which will foil and utterly bewilder the most assiduous computation. In fact, the wisest of us must, for by far the most part, judge like the simplest; estimate importance by mere magnitude, and expect that what strongly affects our own generation, will strongly affect those that are to follow. In this way it is that Conquerors and political Revolutionists come to figure as so mighty in their influences ; whereas truly there is no class of persons creating suet an uproar in the world, who in the long-run produce so very slight an impres- sion on its affairs. When Tamerlane had finished building his pyramid of seventy thousand human skulls, and was seen ‘ standing at the gate of Damascus, glittering in steel, with his battle-axe on his shoulder,’ till his fierce hosts filed out to hew victories and new carnage, the pale onlooker might have fancied that Nature was in her death-throes ; for havoc and despair had taken possession of the earth, the sun of manhood seemed setting in seas of blood. Yet, it might be on that very gala-day of Tamerlane, a little boy was playing nine-pins on the streets of Mentz, whose history was more important to men than that of twenty Tamerlanes. The Tartar Khan, with his shaggy demons of the wilderness, 1 passed away like a whirlwind,’ to be forgotten forever ; and that German artisan has wrought a benefit, which is yet im- measurably expanding itself, and will continue to expand itself through all countries and through all times. What are the conquests and expeditions of the whole corporation of captains, from Walter the Penniless to Napoleon Bonaparte, compared with these ‘movable types’ of Johannes Faust? Truly, it is a mortifying thing for your Conqueror to reflect, how perishable is the metal whiclx he hammers with such violence : how the kind earth will soon shroud-up his bloody VOLTAIRE. 9 footprints ; and all tliat lie achieved and skilfully piled to- gether will be but like his own ‘ canvas city ’ of a camp, — this evening loud with life, to-morrow all struck and van- ished, ‘ a few earth-pits and heaps of straw ! ' For here, as always, it continues true, that the deepest force is the stillest ; that, as in the Fable, the mild shining of the sun shall silently accomplish what the fierce blustering of the tempest has in vain essayed. Above all, it is ever to be kept in mind, that not by material, but by moral power, are men and their actions governed. How noiseless is thought ! No rolling of drums, no tramp of squadrons, or immeasurable tumult of baggage-wagons, attends its movements : in what obscure and sequestered places may the head be meditating, which is one day to be crowned with more than imperial authority ; for Kings and Emperors will be among its ministering ser- vants ; it will rule not over, but in, all heads, and with these its solitary combinations of ideas, as with magic formulas bend the world to its will ! The time may come, when Na- poleon himself will be better known for his laws than for his battles ; and the victory of Waterloo prove less momentous than the opening of the first Mechanics’ Institute. We have been led into such rather trite reflections, by these Volumes of Memoirs on Voltaire ; a man in whose history the relative importance of intellectual and physical power is again curiously evinced. This also was a private person, by birth nowise an elevated one ; yet so far as pres- ent knowledge will enable us to judge, it may be said that to abstract Voltaire and his activity from the eighteenth cen- tury, were to produce a greater difference in the existing figure of things, than the want of any other individual, up to this day, could have occasioned. Nay, with the single exception of Luther, there is perhaps, in these modern ages, no other man of a merely intellectual character, whose influ- ence and reputation have become so entirely European as that of Voltaire. Indeed, like the great German Keformer’s, his doctrines too, almost from the first, have affected not only the belief of the thinking world, silently propagating them- 10 VOLTAIRE. selves from mind to mind ; but in a high degree also, the conduct of the active and political -world ; entering as a dis- tinct element into some of the most fearful civil convulsions which European history has on record. Doubtless, to his own contemporaries, to such of them at least as had any insight into the actual state of men’s minds, Voltaire already appeared as a noteworthy and decidedly his- torical personage : yet, perhaps, not the wildest of his ad- mirers ventured to assign him such a magnitude as he now figures in, even with his adversaries and detractors. He has grown in apparent importance, as we receded from him, as the nature of his endeavours became more and more visible in their results. For, unlike many great men, but like all great agitators, Voltaire everywhere shows himself emphat- ically as the man of his century : uniting in his own person whatever spiritual accomplishments were most valued by that age ; at the same time, with no depth to discern its ulterior tendencies, still less with any magnanimity to attempt withstanding these, his greatness and his littleness alike fitted him to produce an immediate effect ; for he leads whither the multitude was of itself dimly minded to rim, and keeps the van not less by skill in commanding, than by cunning in obeying. Besides, now that we look on the matter from some distance, the efforts of a thousand coadjutors and dis- ciples, nay a series of mighty political vicissitudes, in the pro- duction of which these efforts had but a subsidiary share, have all come, naturally in such a case, to appear as if exclusively his work ; so that he rises before us as the paragon and epitome of a whole spiritual period, now almost passed away, yet re- markable in itself, and more than ever interesting to us, who seem to stand, as itwere, on the confines of a new and better one. Nay, had we forgotten that ours is the ‘Age of the Press,’ when he who runs may not only read, but furnish us with reading ; and simply counted the books, and scattered leaves, thick as the autumnal in Vallombrosa, that have been written and printed concerning this man, we might almost fancy him the most important person, not of the eighteenth century, but of all the centuries from Noah’s Flood downwards. W e have VOLTAIRE. 11 Lives of Voltaire by friend and by foe : Condorcet, Dover not, Lepan, have each given us a whole ; portions, documents and all manner of authentic or spurious contributions have been supplied by innumerable hands ; of which we mention only the labours of his various Secretaries : Collini’s, published some twenty years ago, and now these Tw t o massive Octavos from Longchamp and Wagniere. To say nothing of the Baron de Grimm’s Collections, unparalleled in more than one re- spect ; or of the six-and-tliirty volumes of scurrilous eaves- dropping, long since printed under the title of M'emoires de Bachaumont ; or of the daily and hourly attacks and defences that appeared separately in his lifetime, and all the judicial pieces, whether in the style of apotheosis or of excommunica- tion, that have seen the light since then ; a mass of fugitive writings, the very diamond edition of which might fill whole libraries. The peculiar talent of the French in all narrative, at least iu all auecdotic, departments, rendering most of these Avorks extremely readable, still farther favoured their circula- tion, both at home and abroad : so that uoav, in most coun- tries, Voltaire has been read of and talked of, till his name and life have grown familiar like those of a village accpiaint- ance. In England, at least, where for almost a century the study of foreign literature has, we may say, confined itself to that of the French, Avitli a slight intermixture from the elder Italians, Voltaire’s writings, and such Avritings as treated of him, Avere little likely to Avant readers. We suppose, there is no literary era, not even any domestic one, concerning which Englishmen in general have such information, at least haA r e gathered so many anecdotes and opinions, as concerning this of Voltaire. Nor have native additions to the stock been wanting, and these of a due variety in purport and kind : mal- edictions, expostulations and dreadful death-scenes painted like Spanish Sanbenitos, by Aveak well-meaning persons of the hostile class ; eulogies, generally of a gayer sorif, by open or secret friends : all this has been long and extensively carried on among us. There is even an English Life of Voltaire ; 1 1 ‘ By Frank Hall Standish, Esq.’ (London, 1821) •, a work, which we can recommend only to such as feel themselves in extreme want of in- 12 VOLTAIRE. nay, we remember to have seen portions of bis writings cited in terrorem, and witb criticisms, in some pamphlet, ‘ by a coun- try gentleman,’ either on the Education of the People, or else on the question of Preserving the Game. With the ‘ Age of the Press,’ and such manifestations of it on this subject, we are far from quarrelling. We have read great part of these thousancl-and-first ‘ Memoirs on Voltaire,’ by Longchamp and Wagniere, not without satisfaction ; and can cheerfully look forward to still other ‘ Memoirs ’ follow- ing in their train. Nothing can be more in the course of Nature than the wish to satisfy oneself with knowledge of all sorts about any distinguished person, especially of our own era ; the true study of his character, his spiritual individual- ity and peculiar manner of existence, is full of instruction for all. mankind : even that of his looks, sayings, habitudes and indifferent actions, were not the records of them generally lies, is rather to be commended ; nay, are not such lies themselves, when they keep within bounds, and the subject of them has been dead for some time, equal to snipe-shoot- ing, or Colburn-Novels, at least little inferior, in the great art of getting done with life, or, as it is technically called, killing time? For our own part, we say: Would that every Johnson in the world had his veridical Boswell, or leash of Boswells ! We could then tolerate his Hawkins also, though not veridical. With regard to Voltaire, in particular, it seems to us not only innocent but profitable, that the whole truth regarding him should be well understood. Surely, the biog- raphy of such a man, who, to say no more of him, spent his best efforts, and as many still think, successfully, in as- saulting the Christian religion, must be a matter of consider- able import ; what he did, and what he could not do ; how he did it, or attempted it, that is, with what degree of strength, formation on -this subject, and except in their own language unable to acquire any. It is written very badly, though with sincerity, and not without considerable indications of taleni ; to all appearance by a minor ; many of whose statements and opinions (forte seems an inquir- ing, honest-hearted, rather decisive character) must have begun to as- tonish even himself, several years ago. VOLTAIRE. 13 clearness, especially with what moral intents, what theories and feelings on man and man’s life, are questions that will hear some discussing. To Voltaire individually, for the last fifty-one years, the discussion has been indifferent enough ; and to us it is a discussion not on one remarkable person only, and chiefly for the curious or studious, but involving considerations of highest moment to all men, and inquiries which the utmost compass of our philosophy will be unable to embrace. Here, accordingly, we are about to offer some farther ob- servations on this qucestio vexata ; not without hope that the reader may accept them in good part. Doubtless, when we look at the whole bearings of the matter, there seems little prospect of any unanimity respecting it, either now, or within a calculable period : it is probable that many will continue, for a long time, to speak of this ‘universal genius,’ this ‘apostle of Reason,’ and ‘ father of sound Philosophy ; ’ and many again, of this ‘monster of impiety,’ this ‘sophist,’ and ‘atheist,’ and ‘ ape-demon ; ’ or, like the late Dr. Clarke, of Cambridge, dis- miss him more briefly with information that he is ‘a driveller neither is it essential that these two parties should, on the spur of the instant, reconcile themselves herein. Neverthe- less, truth is better than error, were it only ‘on Hannibal’s vinegar. ’ It may be expected that men’s opinions concerning Voltaire, which is of some moment, and concerning Voltair- ism, which is of almost boundless moment, will, if they cannot meet, gradually at every new comparison approach towards meeting ; and what is still more desirable, towards meeting somewhere nearer the truth than they actually stand. With honest wishes to promote such ^ approximation, there is one condition, which, above all others, in this inquiry, we must beg the reader to impose on himself : the duty of fair- ness towards Voltaire, of tolerance towards him, as towards all men. This, truly, is a duty, which we have the happiness to hear daily inculcated ; yet which, it has been well said, no mortal is at bottom disposed to practise. Nevertheless, if we really desire to understand the truth on any subject, not merely, as is much more common, to confirm our already ex- 14 VOLTAIRE. isting opinions, and gratify this and the other pitiful claim of vanity or malice in respect of it, tolerance may be regarded as the most indispensable of all pre-requisites ; the condition, indeed, by which alone any real progress in the question be- comes possible. In respect of our fellow-men, and all real in- sight into their characters, this is especially true. No char- acter, we may affirm, was ever rightly understood, till it had first been regarded with a certain feeling, not of tolerance only, but of sympathy. For here, more than in any other case, it is verified that the heart sees farther than the head. Let us be sure, our enemy is not that hateful being we are too apt to paint him. His vices and basenesses lie combined in far other order before his own mind, than before ours ; and under colours which palliate them, nay perhaps exhibit them as virtues. Were he the wretch of our imagining, his life would be a burden to himself : for it is not by bread alone that the basest mortal lives ; a certain approval of conscience is equally essential even to physical existence ; is the fine all- pervading cement by which that wondrous union, a Self, is held together. Since the man, therefore, is not in Bedlam, and has not shot or hanged himself, let us take comfort, and conclude that he is one of two things : either a vicious dog, in man’s guise, to be muzzled and mourned over, and greatly marvelled at ; or a real man, and consequently not without moral, worth, which is to be enlightened, and so far approved of. But to judge rightly of his character, we must learn to look at it, not less with his eyes, than with our own ; we must learn to pity him, to see him as a fellow-creature, in a word, to love him ; or his real spiritual nature will ever be mistaken by us. In interpreting Voltaire, accordingly, it will be needful to bear some things carefully in mind, and to keep many other things as carefully in abeyance. Let us forget that our opinions were ever assailed by him, or ever de- fended ; that we have to thank him, or upbraid him, for pain or for pleasure ; let us forget that we are Deists or Millen- narians, Bishops or Radical Reformers, and remember only that we are men. This is a European subject, or there never was one ; and must, if we would in the least comprehend it, VOLTAIRE. 15 be looked at neither from the parish belfry, nor any Peterloo platform ; but, if possible, from some natural and infinitely higher point of vision. It is a remarkable fact, that throughout the last fifty years of his life, Voltaire was seldom or never named, even by his detractors, without the epithet ‘ great ’ being appended to him ; so that, had the syllables suited such a junction, as they did in the happier case of Charle-Magne, we might al- most have expected that, not Voltaire, but Voltaire-ce-grand- homme would be his designation with posterity. However, posterity is much more stinted in its allowances on that score ; and a multitude of things remain to be adjusted, and questions of very dubious issue to be gone into, before such coronation-titles can be conceded with any permanence. The million, even the wiser part of them, are apt to lose them dis- cretion, when ‘ tumultuously assembled ; ’ for a small object, near at hand, may subtend a large angle ; and often a Pen- nenden Heath has been mistaken for a Field of Eunnymead ; whereby the couplet on that immortal Dalhousie proves to be the emblem of many a man’s real fortune with the public : And thou, Dalhousie, the great God of War, Lieutenant-Colonel to the Earl of Mar ; the latter end corresponding poorly with the beginning. To ascertain what was the true significance of Voltaire’s history, both as respects himself and the world ; what was his specific character and value as a man ; what has been the character and value of his influence on society, of his appearance as an active agent in the culture of Europe : all this leads us into much deeper investigations ; on the settlement of which, however, the whole business turns. To our own view, we confess, on looking at Voltaire’s life, the chief quality that shows itself is one for which adroitness seems the fitter name. Greatness implies several conditions, the existence of which in his case it might be difficult to demonstrate ; but of his claim to this other praise there can be no disputing. Whatever be his aims, high or low, just or the contrary, he is, at all times and to the utmost degree, 16 VOLTAIRE. expert in pursuing them. It is to be observed, moreover, that his aims in general were not of a simple sort, and the attainment of them easy : few literary men have had a course so diversified with vicissitudes as Voltaire’s. His life is not spent in a corner, like that of a studious recluse, but on the open theatre of the world ; in an age full of commotion, when society is rending itself asunder, Superstition already armed for deadly battle against Unbelief ; in which battle he himself plays a distinguished part. From his earliest years, we find him in perpetual communication with the higher per- sonages of his time, often with the highest : it is in circles of authority, of reputation, at lowest of fashion and rank, that he lives and works. Ninon de l’Enclos leaves the boy a legacy to buy books ; he is still young, when he can say of his supper companions, “We are all Princes or Poets.” In after life, he exhibits himself in company or correspondence with all man- ner of principalities and powers, from Queen Caroline of England to the Empress Catherine of Russia, from Pope Benedict to Frederick the Great. Meanwhile, shifting from side to side of Europe, hiding in the country, or living sump- tuously iu capital cities, he quits not his pen ; with which, as with some enchanter’s rod, more potent than any king’s scep- tre, he turns and winds the mighty machine of European Opinion ; approves himself, as his schoolmaster had pre- dicted, the Coryphee du Dtisme ; and, not content with this elevation, strives, and nowise ineffectually, to unite with it a poetical, historical, philosophic and even scientific preeminence. Nay, we may add, a pecuniary one ; for he speculates in the funds, diligently solicits pensions and promotions, trades to America, is long a regular victualling-contractor for armies ; and thus, by one means and another, independently of litera- ture which would never yield much money, raises his income from eight hundred francs a-year to more than centuple that sum . 1 And now, having, besides all this commercial and economical business, written some thirty quartos, the most popular that were ever written, he returns after long exile to his native city, to be welcomed there almost as a religious 1 See Tome ii. p. 32S of these Memoires. VOLTAIRE. 17 idol ; and closes a life, prosperous alike in the building of country-seats, and the composition of Henriades and Philo- sophical Dictionaries, by the most appropriate demise, — by drowning, as it were, in an ocean of applause ; so that as he lived for fame, he may be said to have died of it. Such various, complete success, granted only to a small portion of men in any age of the world, presupposes at least, with every allowance for good fortune, an almost unrivalled expertness of management. There must have been a great talent of some kind at work here ; a cause proportionate to the effect. It is wonderful, truly, to observe with what per- fect skill Voltaire steers his course through so many conflict- ing circumstances : how he weathers this Cape Horn, darts lightly through that Mahlstrom ; always either sinks his enemy, or shuns him ; here waters, and careens, and traffics with the rich savages ; there lies land-locked till the hurri- cane is overblown ; and so, in spite of all billows, and sea- monsters, and hostile fleets, finishes his long Manilla A'oj'age, with streamers flying, and deck piled with ingots ! To say nothing of his literary character, of which this same dexter- ous address will also be found to be a main feature, let us glance only at the general aspect of his conduct, as mani- fested both in his writings and actions. By turns, and ever at the right season, he is imperious and obsequious ; now shoots abroad, from the mountain tops, Hyperion-like, his keen innumerable shafts ; anon, when danger is advancing, flies to obscure nooks ; or, if taken in the fact, swears it was but in sport, and that he is the peaceablest of men. He bends to occasion ; can, to a certain extent, blow hot or blow cold ; and never attempts force, where cunning will serve his turn. The beagles of the Hierarchy and of the Monarchy, proverbi- ally quick of scent and sharp of tooth, are out in quest of him ; but this is a lion-fox which cannot be captured. By wiles and a thousand doublings, he utterly distracts, his pur- suers ; he can burrow in the earth, and all the trace of him is gone . 1 With a strange system of anonymity and publicity, of 1 Of one such ‘ taking to cover’ we have a curious and rather ridicu- lous account in this Work, by Longchamp. It was with the Duchess du 2 18 VOLTAIRE. denial and assertion, of Mystification in all senses, has Vol- taire surrounded himself. He can raise no standing armies for his defence, j r et he too is a ‘ European Power,’ and not undefended ; an invisible, impregnable, though hitherto un- recognised bulwark, that of Public Opinion, defends him. With great art, he maintains this stronghold ; though ever and anon sallying out from it, far beyond the permitted lim- its. But he has his coat of darkness, and his shoes of swift- ness, like that other Killer of Giants. We find Voltaire a supple courtier, or a sharp satirist ; he can talk blasphemy, and build churches, according to the signs of the times. Frederick the Great is not too high for his diplomacy, nor the poor Printer of his Zadig too low ; 1 he manages the Car- dinal Fleuri, and the Cure of St. Sulpiee ; and laughs in his sleeve at all the world. We should pronounce him to be one of the best politicians on record ; as we have said, the adroit- est of all literary men. At the same time, Voltaire’s worst enemies, it seems to us, will ndt deny that he had naturally a keen sense for rectitude, indeed for all virtue : the utmost vivacity of temperament characterises him ; his quick susceptibility for every form of beauty is moral as well as intellectual. Nor was his practice without indubitable and highly creditable proofs of this. To the lielp-needing he was at all times a ready benefactor : many were the hungry adventurers who profited of his bounty, and then bit the hand that had fed them.. If we enumerate his generous acts, from the case of the Abbe Des- fontaines down to that of the Widow Galas, and the Serfs of Saint-Claude, we shall find that few private men have had so wide a circle of charity, and have watched over it so well. Should it be objected that love of reputation entered largely into these proceedings, Voltaire can afford a handsome de- Maine fhat^he sought shelter, and on a very slight occasion: neverthe- less lie had to lie perdue, for two month’s, at the Castle of Sceaux; and, with closed windows, and burning candles in daylight, compose Zadig , Baboue , Memnon, &c., for his amusement. 'See in Longchamp (pp. 154-168) how, by natural legerdemain, a knave may be caught, and the change rendu d des inijgrimeurs infideks. VOLTAIRE. 19 duction on that head : should the uncharitable even calculate that love of reputation was the sole motive, we can only re- mind them that love of such reputation is itself the effect of a social, humane disposition ; and wish, as an immense im- provement, that all men were animated with it. Voltaire was not without his experience of human baseness ; but he still had a fellow-feeling for human sufferings ; and delighted, were it only as an honest luxury, to relieve them. His at- tachments seem remarkably constant and lasting : even such sots as Tliiriot, whom nothing but habit could have endeared to him, he continues, and after repeated injuries, to treat and regard as friends. Of his equals we do not observe him en- vious, at least not palpably and despicably so ; though this, we should add, might be in him, who was from the first so paramountly popular, no such hard attainment. Against Montesquieu, perhaps against him alone, he cannot, help en- tertaining a small secret grudge ; yet ever in public he does him the amplest justice ; V Arlequin-Grotius of the fireside be- comes, on all grave occasions, the author of the Esprit des Loix. Neither to his enemies, and even betrayers, is Voltaire implacable or meanly vindictive ; the instant of their submis- sion is also the instant of his forgiveness ; their hostility itself provokes only casual sallies from him ; his heart is too kindly, indeed too light, to cherish any rancour, any continuation of revenge. If he has not the virtue to forgive, he is seldom without the prudence to forget : if, in his life-long conten- tions, he cannot treat his opponents with any magnanimity, he seldom, or perhaps never once, treats them quite basely ; seldom or never with that absolute unfairness, which the law of retaliation might so often have seemed to justify. We would say that, if no heroic, he is at all times a perfectly civ- ilised man ; which, considering that his war was with exas- perated theologians, and a ‘ war to the knife ’ on their part, may be looked upon as rather a surprising circumstance. He exhibits many minor virtues, a due appreciation of the high- est ; and fewer faults than, in his situation, might have been expected, and perhaps pardoned. All this is well, and may fit out a highly expert and much 20 VOLTAIRE. esteemed man of business, in the widest sense of that term « but is still far from constituting a ‘great character.’ In fact, there is one deficiency in Voltaire’s original structure, which, it appears to us, must be quite fatal to such claims for him : we mean his inborn levity of nature, his entire want of Ear- nestness. Voltaire was by 'birth a Mocker, and light Pococu- rante ; which natural disposition his way of life confirmed into a predominant, indeed all-pervading, habit. Ear be it from us to say, that solemnity is an essential of greatness ; that no great man can have other than a rigid vinegar aspect of countenance, never to be thawed or warmed by billows of mirth ! There are things in this world to be laughed at, as well as things to be admired ; and his is no complete mind, that cannot give to each sort its due. Nevertheless, con- tempt is a dangerous element to sport in ; a deadly one, if we habitually live in it. How, indeed, to take the lowest view of this matter, shall a man accomplish great enterprises ; en- during all toil, resisting temptation, laying aside every 'weight, — unless he zealously love wdiat he pursues ? The faculty of love, of admiration, is to be regarded as the sign and the measure of high souls : unwisely directed, it leads to many evils ; but without it, there cannot be any good. Ridicule, on the other hand, is indeed a faculty much prized by its possessors ; yet, intrinsically, it is a small faculty ; we may say, the smallest of all faculties that other men are at the pains to repay with any esteem. It is directly opposed to Thought, to Knowledge, properly, so called ; its nourishment and essence is Denial, which hovers only on the surface, while Knowledge dwells far below. Moreover, it is by nature sel- fish and morally trivial ; it cherishes nothing but our Vanity, which may in general be left safely enough to shift for itself. Little ‘discourse of reason,’ in any sense, is implied in Ridi- cule : a scoffing man is in no lofty mood, for the time ; shows more of the imp than of the angel. This too when his scof- fing is what w r e call just, and has some foundation on truth ; wdnle again the laughter of fools, that vain sound said in Scripture to resemble the ‘ crackling of thorns under the pot ’ (which they cannot heat, but only soil and begrime), must be VOLTAIRE. 21 regarded, in these latter times, as a very serious addition to the sum of human wretchedness ; nor perhaps will it always, when the Increase of Crime in the Metropolis comes to he debated, escape the vigilance of Parliament. We have, oftener than once, endeavoured to attach some meaning to that aphorism, vulgarly imputed to Shaftesbury, which, however, we can find nowhere in his works, that ridi- cule is the test of truth. But of all chimeras that ever advanced themselves in the shape of philosophical doctrines, this is to us the most formless and purely inconceivable. Did or could the unassisted human faculties ever understand it, much more believe it ? Surely, so far as the common nrind can discern, laughter seems to depend not less on the laugher than on the laughee ; and now, who gave laughers a patent to be always just and always omniscient ? If the philosophers of Nootka Sound were pleased to laugh at the manoeuvres of Cook’s sea- men, did that render these manoeuvres useless ; and were the seamen to stand idle, or to take to leather canoes, till the laughter abated ? Let a discerning public judge. But, leaving these questions for the present, we may observe at least that all great men have been careful to subordinate this talent or habit of ridicule ; nay, in the ages which we consider the greatest, most of the arts that contribute to it have been thought disgraceful for freemen, and confined to the exercise of slaves.. With Voltaire, however, there is no such subordination visible : by nature, or by practice, mockery has grown to be the irresistible bias of his disposition ; so that for him, in all matters, the first question is, not what is true, but what is false ; not what is to be loved, and held fast, and earnestly laid to heart, but what is to be contemned, and derided, and sportfully cast out of doors. Here truly he earns abundant triumph as an image-breaker, but pockets little real wealth. Vanity, with its adjuncts, as we have said, finds rich solacement ; but for aught better, there is not much. Bever- ence, the highest feeling that man’s nature is capable of, the crown of his whole moral manhood, and precious, like fine gold, were it in the rudest forms, he seems not to understand, or have heard of even by credible tradition. The glory. of 22 VOLTAIRE. knowing and believing is all but a stranger to him ; only with that of questioning and qualifying is he familiar. Accordingly, he sees but a little way into Nature : the mighty All, in its beauty, and infinite mysterious grandeur, humbling the small Me into nothingness, has never even for moments been re- vealed to him ; only this or that other atom of it, and the differences and discrepancies of these two, has he looked into and noted down. His theory of the world, his picture of man and man’s life, is little ; for a Poet and Philosopher, even piti- ful. Examine it in its highest developments, you find it an altogether vulgar picture ; simply a reflex, with more or fewer mirrors, of Self and the poor interests of Self. ‘ The Divine Idea, that which lies at the bottom of Appearance,’ was never more invisible to any man. He reads History not with the eye of a devout seer, or even of a critic ; but through a pair of mere anti-catholic spectacles. It is not a mighty drama, enacted on the theatre of Infinitude, with Suns for lamps, and Eternity as a background ; whose author is God, and whose purport and thousandfold moral lead us up to the c dark with excess of light ’ of the Throne of God ; but a poor wearisome debating club dispute, spun through ten centuiies, between the Encyclop'edie and the Sorhonne. Wisdom or folly, noble- ness or baseness, are merely superstitious or unbelieving : God’s Universe is a larger Patrimony of St. Peter, from which it were well and pleasant to hunt out the Pope. In this way, Voltaire’s nature, which was originally vehe- ment rather than deep, came, in its maturity, in spite of all his wonderful gifts, to be positively shallow. We find no heroism of character in him, from first to last ; nay there is not, that we know of, one great thought in all his six-and-tlrirty quartos. The high worth implanted in him by Nature, and still often manifested in his conduct, does not shine there like a light, but like a coruscation. The enthusiasm, proper to such a mind, visits him ; but it has no abiding virtue in his thoughts, no local habitation and no name. There is in him a rapidity, but at the same time a pettiness ; a certain violence, and fitful abruptness, which takes from him all dignity. Of his emportemeJm and tragicomical explosions, a thousand VOLTAIRE. 23 anecdotes are on record ; neither is he, in these cases, a terrific volcano, hut a mere bundle of rockets. He is nigh shooting poor Dorn, the Frankfort constable ; actually fires a pistol, into the lobby, at him ; and this, three days after that m'elan- - choly business of the ‘CEuure cle Poeshie du Roi mon MaUre. had been finally adjusted. A bookseller, who, with the natural instinct of fallen mankind, overcharges him, receives from this Philosopher, by way of payment at sight, a slap on the face. ‘ Poor Longchamp, with considerable tact, and a praiseworthy air of second-table respectability, details various scenes of this kind : howYoltaire dashed away his combs, and maltreated his wig, and otherwise fiercely comported himself, the very first morning : how once, having a keenness of appetite, sharpened by walking and a diet of weak tea, he became un- commonly anxious for supper ; and Clairaut and Madame du Chatelet, sunk in algebraic calculations, twice promised to come down, but still kept the dishes cooling, and the Philoso- pher at last desperately battered open their locked door with his foot ; exclaiming, “ Vous etes done de concert pour me faire mourir ? ” — And yet Voltaire had a true kindness of heart ; all his domestics and dependents loved him, and continued with him. He has many elements of goodness, but floating loosely ; nothing 1 is combined in steadfast union. It is true, he presents in general a surface of smoothness, of culturechregularity ; yet, under it, there is not the silent rock-bound strength of a World, but the wild tumults of a Chaos are ever bursting through. He is a man of power, but not of beneficent authority ; w-e fear, but cannot reverence him ; we feel him to be stronger, not higher. Much of this spiritual shortcoming and perversion might be due to natural defect ; but much of it also is due to the age into which he was cast. It was an age of discord and di- vision ; the approach of a grand crisis in human affairs. Al- ready we discern in it all the elements of the French Revo- lution ; and v'onder, so easily do w^e forget how entangled and hidden the meaning of the present generally is to us, that all men did not foresee the comings-on of that fearful convul- sion. On the one hand, a high all-attempting activity of In- 24 VOLTAIRE. tellect ; tlie most peremptory spirit of inquiry abroad on every subject ; things human and things divine alike cited ■without misgivings before the same boastful tribunal of so- called Reason, which means here a merely argumentative Logic ; the strong in mind excluded from his regular influ- * ence in the state, and deeply conscious of that injury. On the other hand, a privileged few, strong in the subjection of the many, yet in itself weak ; a piebald, and for most part alto- gether decrepit battalion of Clergy, of purblind Nobility, or rather of Courtiers, for as yet the Nobility is mostly on the other side : these cannot fight with Logic, and the day of Persecution is wellnigh done. The whole force of law, in- deed, is still in their hands ; but the far deeper force, which alone gives efficacy to law, is hourly passing from them. Hope animates one side, fear the other ; and the battle will be fierce and desperate. For there is wit without wisdom on the part of the self-styled Philosophers ; feebleness with exas- peration on the part of then.’ opponents ; pride enough on all hands, but little magnanimity ; perhaps nowhere any pure love of truth, only everywhere the purest, most ardent love of self. In such a state of things, there lay abundant principles of discord : these two influences hung like fast-gathering elec- tric clouds as yet on opposite sides of the horizon, but with a malignity of aspect, which boded, whenever they might meet, a sky of fire and blackness, thunderbolts to waste the earth ; and the sun and stars, though but for a season, to be blotted out from the heavens. For there is no conducting medium to unite softly these hostile elements ; there is no true virtue, no true wisdom, on the one side or on the other. Never per- haps was there an epoch, in the history of the world, when universal corruption called so loudly for reform ; and they who undertook that task were men intrinsically so worthless. Not by Gracchi but by Catilines, not by Luthers but by Are- tines, was Europe to be renovated. The task has been a long and bloody one ; and is still far from done. In this condition of affair’s, what side such a man as A ol- taire was to take could not be doubtful. A\ hether he ought to have taken either side ; whether he should not rather have VOLTAIRE. 25 ' stationed himself in the middle ; the partisan of neither, per- haps hated by both ; acknowledging and forwarding, and striv- ing to reconcile, what truth w r as in each ; and preaching forth a far deeper truth, which, if his own century had neglected it, had persecuted it, future centuries would have recognised as priceless : all this was another question. Of no man, how- ever gifted, can rve require what he has not to give : but Vol- taire called himself Philosopher, nay the Philosopher. And such has often, indeed generally, been the fate of great men, and Lovers of Wisdom : their own age and country have treated them as of no account ; in the great Corn-Exchange of the world, their pearls have seemed but spoiled barley, and been ignonjiniously rejected. Weak in adherents, strong only in their faith, in their indestructible consciousness of w T orth * and well-doing, they have silently, or in words, appealed to coming ages, when their own ear would indeed be shut to the voice of love and of hatred, but the Truth that had dwelt in them would speak with a voice audible to all. Bacon left his works to future generations, when some centuries should have elapsed. ‘ Is it much for me,’ said Kepler, in his isolation, and extreme need, ‘ that men should accept my discovery ? 1 If the Almighty waited six thousand years for one to see what 1 He had made, I may surely wait two hundred for one to un- ‘ derstand what. I have seen ! ’ All this, and more, is implied in love of wisdom, in genuine seeking of truth : the noblest function that can be appointed for a man, but requiring also the noblest man to fulfil it. With Voltaire, however, there is no symptom, perhaps there was no conception, of such nobleness ; the high call for which, indeed, in the existing state of things, his intellect may have had as little the force to discern, as his heart had the force to obey. He follows a simpler course. Heedless of remoter is- sue_s, he adopts the cause of his own party ; of that class with whom he lived, and was most anxious to stand well : he en- lists in their ranks, not without hopes that he may one day rise to be their general. A resolution perfectly accordant with his prior habits, and temper of mind ; and from which his whole subsequent procedure, and moral aspect as a man, 26 VOLTAIRE. naturally enough, evolves itself. Not that we would say, Vol- taire was a mere prize-fighter ; one of ‘ Heaven’s Swiss,’ con- tending for a cause which he only half, or not at all approved of. Far from it. Doubtless he loved truth, doubtless he partially felt himself to be advocating truth ; nay we know not that he has ever yet, in a single instance, been convicted of wilfully perverting his belief ; of uttering, in all his contro- versies, one deliberate falsehood. Nor should this negative praise seem an altogether slight one ; for greatly were it to be wished that even the best of his better-intention ed opponents had always deserved the like. Nevertheless, his love of truth is not that deep infinite love, which beseems a Philosopher ; which many ages have been fortunate enough to witness ; nay, of which his own age had still some examples. It is a far in- ferior love, we should say, to that of poor Jean Jacques, half- sage, half-maniac as he was ; it is more a prudent calculation than a passion. Voltaire loves Truth, but chiefly of the tri- umphant sort : we have no instance of his fighting for a quite discrowned and outcast Truth ; it is chiefly when she walks abroad, in distress it may be, but still with queenlike insignia, and knighthoods and renown are to be earned in her battles, that he defends her, that he charges gallantly against the Cades and Tylers. Nay. at all times, belief itself seems, with him, to be less the product of Meditation than of Argument. His first question with regard to any doctrine, perhaps his final test of its worth and genuineness is : Can others be convinced of this ? Can I truck it, in the market, for power ? ‘ To such questioners,’ it has been said, ‘ Truth, who buys not, and sells ‘ not, goes on her way, and makes no answer.’ In fact, if we inquire into Voltaire’s ruling motive, we shall find that it was at bottom but a vulgar one : ambition, the de- sire of ruling, by such means as he had, over other men. He acknowledges no higher divinity than Public Opinion ; for whatever he asserts or performs, the number of votes is the measure of strength and value. Yet let us be just to him ; let us admit that he in some degree estimates his votes, as well as counts them. If love of fame, which, especially for such a man, we can only call another modification of "V anitv, VOLTAIRE. -7 is always bis ruling passion, be bas a certain taste in gratifying it. His vanity, which cannot be extinguished, is ever skilfully concealed ; even bis just claims are never boisterously insisted on ; throughout bis whole life be shows no single feature of the quack. Nevertheless, even in the height of his glory, he has a strange sensitiveness to the judgment of the world : could he have contrived a Dionysius’ Ear, in the Rue Traversiere, we should have found him watching at it, night and day. Let but any little evil-disposed Abbe, any Ereron or Piron, Pauvre Piron , qui ne fut jamais rien, Pas meme Academician, write a libel or epigram on him, what a fluster he is in ! We grant he forbore much, in these cases ; manfully consumed his own spleen, and sometimes long held his peace ; but it was his part to have always done so. Why should such a man ruffle himself with the spite of exceeding small persons ? Why not let these poor devils write ; why should not they earn a dishonest penny, at his expense, if they had no readier way ? But Voltaire cannot part with his ‘ voices,’ his ‘ most sweet voices : ’ for they are his gods ; take these, and what has he left '? Accordingly, in literature and morals, in all his comings and goings, we find him striving, with a religious care, to sail strictly with the wind. In Art, the Parisian Parterre is his court of last appeal : he consults the Cafe de Procope, on his wisdom or his folly, as if it were a Delphic Oracle. The fol- lowing adventure belongs to his fifty-fourth year, when his fame might long have seemed abundantly established. We trans- late from the Sieur Longchamp’s thin, half-roguish, mildly obsequious, most lackey-like Narrative : ‘Judges could appreciate the merits of Semiramis, which has continued on the stage, and always been seen there with pleasure. Every one knows how the two principal parts in this piece contributed to the celebrity of two great tragedians, Mademoiselle Dumesnil and M. le Kain. The enemies of M. de Voltaire renewed their attempts in the subsequent repre- sentations ; but it only the better confirmed his triumph. 28 VOLTAIRE. Piron, to console himself for tlie defeat of his party, had re- course to his usual remedy ; pelting the piece with some paltry epigrams, which did it no harm. ‘ Nevertheless, M. de Voltaire, who always loved to correct his works, and perfect them, became desirous to leam, more specially and at first hand, what good or ill the public were saying of his Tragedy ; and it appeared to him that he could nowhere learn it better than in the Cafe, de Procope, which was also called the Antre (Cavern) de Procope, because it was very dark even in full day, and ill-lighted in the evenings ; and because you often saw there a set of lank, sallow poets, who had somewhat the ah’ of apparitions. In this Cafe, which fronts the Comedie Franchise, had been held, for more than sixty years, the tribunal of those self-called Aristarchs, who fancied they could pass sentence without appeal, on plays, authors and actors. M. de Voltaire wished to compear there, but in disguise and altogether incognito. It was on coming out from the playhouse that the judges usually pro- ceeded thither, to open what they called then' great sessions. On the second niglit-of Semiramis, he borrowed a clergyman's clothes ; dressed himself in cassock and long cloak ; black stockings, girdle, bands, breviary itself ; nothing was forgot- ten. He clapt on a large peruke, unpowdered, very ill combed, which covered more than the half of his cheeks, and left nothing to be seen but the end of a long nose. The peruke was surmounted by a large three-cornered hat, corners half bruised-in. In this equipment, then, the author of Semi- rarnis proceeded on foot to the Cafe de Procope, where he squatted himself in a corner ; and waiting for the end of the play, called for a bavaroise, a small roll of bread and the Gazette. It w r as not long till those familiars of the Parterre and tenants of the Cafe stept in. They instantly began dis- cussing the new Tragedy. Its partisans and its adversaries pleaded their cause, with warmth ; each giving his reasons. Impartial persons also spoke their sentiment ; and repeated some fine verses of the piece. During all this time, M. de Voltaire, with spectacles on nose, head stooping over the Gazette which he pretended to be reading, was listening to the debate ; profiting by reasonable observations, suffering much to hear very absurd ones, and not answer them, which irritated him. Thus during an hour and a half, had he the courage and patience to hear Semiramis talked of and babbled of, without speaking a word. At last, all these pretended judges of the fame of authors having gone their ways, with- VOLTAIRE. 29 out converting one another, M. de Voltaire also went off; took a coach in the Rue Mazarine, ancl returned home about eleven o’clock. Though I knew of his disguise, I confess I was struck and almost frightened to see him accoutred so. I took him for a spectre, or shade of Ninus, that was appearing to me ; or, at least, for one of those ancient Irish debaters, arrived at the' end of their career, after wearing themselves out in school-syllogisms. I helped him to doff all that ap- paratus, which I carried next morning to its true owner, — a Doctor of the Sorbonne.’ This stroke of art, which cannot in anywise pass for sub- lime might have its uses and rational purpose in one case, and only in one : -if Semiramis rvas meant to be a popular’ show, that was to live or die by its first impression on the idle multitude ; which accordingly we must infer to have been its real, at least its chief destination. In any other case, we cannot but consider this Haroun-Alraschid visit to the Cafe de Procope as questionable, and altogether inadequate. If Semiramis was a Poem, a living Creation, won from the empyrean by the silent power and long-continued Prome- thean toil of its author, what could the Cafe de Procope know of it, what could all Paris know of it, ‘ on the second night ? ’ Had it been a Milton’s Paradise Lost, they might have de- spised it till after the fiftieth year ! True, the object of the Poet is, and must be, to ‘ instruct by pleasing,’ yet not by pleasing this man and that man ; only by pleasing man, by speaking to the pure nature of man, can any real ‘ instruc- tion,’ in this sense, be conveyed. Vain does it seem to search for a judgment of this kind in the largest Cafe, in the largest Kingdom, ‘on the second night,’ The deep, clear conscious- ness of one mind comes infinitely nearer it, than the loud outcry of a million that have no such consciousness ; whose ‘talk,’ or whose ‘babble,’ but distracts the listener; and to most genuine Poets has, from of old, been in a great measure indifferent. For the multitude of voices- is no authority ; a thousand voices may not, strictly examined, amount to one vote. Mankind in this world are divided into flocks, and follow their several bell-wethers. Now, it is well known, let 30 VOLTAIRE. the bell-wether rush through any gap, the rest rush after him, were it into bottomless quagmires. Nay, so conscientious are sheep in this particular, as a quaint naturalist and moralist has noted, ‘if you hold a stick before the wether, so that he ‘ is forced to vault in his passage, the w'hole flock will do the ‘ like when the stick is withdrawn ; and the thousandth sheep ‘ shall be seen vaulting impetuously over air, as the first did ‘over an otherwise impassable barrier ! ’ A farther peculiarity, which, in consulting Acts of Parliament, and other authentic records, not only as regards ‘ Catholic Disabilities,’ but many other matters, you may find curiously verified in the human species also !-— On the whole, we must consider this excursion to Procope’s literary Cavern as illustrating; Voltaire in rather pleasant style ; but nowise much to his honour. Fame seems a far too high, if not the highest object with him ; nay some- times even popularity is clutched at : we see no heavenly polestar in this voyage of his ; but only the guidance of a proverbially uncertain wind. Voltaire reproachfully says of St. Louis, that ‘he ought to have been above his age ; ’ but in his own case we can find few symptoms of such heroic superiority. The same perpetual appeal to his contemporaries, the same intense regard to rep- utation, as he viewed it, prescribes for him both his enter- prises and his manner of conducting them. His aim is to please the more enlightened, at least the politer part of the world ; and he offers them simply what they most wish for, be it in theatrical shows for their pastime. Or iu sceptical doc- trines for their edification. For this latter purpose, Bidicule is the weapon he selects, and it suits him well. This was not the age of deep thoughts ; no Due de Bichelieu, no Prince Conti, no Frederick the Great would have listened to such : only sportful contempt, and a thin conversational logic will avail. There may be wool-quilts, winch the lath-sword of Harlequin will pierce, when the club of Hercules has re- bounded from them in vain. As little was this an age for high virtues ; no heroism, in any form/ is required, or even acknowledged ; but only, in all forms, a certain bienscance. To this rule also Voltaire readily conforms ; indeed, he finds VOLTAIRE. 9 1 oi no small advantage in it. For a las public morality not omy allows him the indulgence of many a little private vice, and brings him in this and the other windfall of menus plaisirs, but opens him the readiest resource in many enterprises of danger. Of all men, Voltaire has the least disposition to in- crease the Army of Martyrs. No testimony will he seal with bis blood ; scarcely any will he so much as sign with ink. His obnoxious doctrines, as we have remarked, he publishes under a thousand concealments ; with underplots, and wheels within wheels ; so that his whole track is in darkness, only his works see the light. No Proteus is so nimble, or assumes so many shapes : if, by rare chance, caught sleeping, he whisks through the smallest hole, and is out of sight, while the noose is getting ready. Let his judges take him to task, he will shuffle and evade ; if directly questioned, he will even lie. In regard to this last point, the Marquis de Condorcet has set up a defence for him, which has at least the merit of being frank enough. ‘ The necessity of lying in order to disavow any work,’ says he, ‘is an extremity equally repugnant to conscience and no- bleness of character : but the crime lies with those unjust men, who. render such disavowal necessary to the safety of him whom they force to it. If you have made a crime of what is not one ; if, by absurd or by arbitrary laws, you, have in- fringed the natural right, which all men have, not only to form an opinion, but to render it public ; then you deserve to lose the right which every man has of hearing the truth from the mouth of another ; a right, which is the sole basis of that rig- orous obligation, not to lie. If it is not permitted to deceive, the reason is, that to deceive any one, is to do him a wrong, or expose yourself to do him one ; but a wrong supposes a right ; and no one has the right of seeking to secure himself the means of committing an injustice .’ 1 It is strange, how scientific discoveries do maintain them- selves : here, quite in other hands, and in an altogether differ- ent dialect, we have the old Catholic doctrine, if it ever was more than a Jesuitic one, ‘ that faith need not be kept with 1 Vie de Voltaire, p. 32. 32 VOLTAIRE. heretics.’ Truth, it appears, is too precious an article for our enemies ; is fit only for friends, for those who will pay us if we tell it them. It may he observed, however, that granting Condorcet’s premises, this doctrine also must be granted, as indeed is usual with that sharp-sighted writer. If the doing of right depends on the receiving of it ; if our fellow-men, in this world, are not persons, but mere things, that for services bestowed will return services, — steam-engines that will manu- facture calico, if we put in coals and water,— then doubtless, the calico ceasing, our coals and water may also rationally cease ; the questioner threatening to injure us for the truth, we may rationally tell him lies. But if, on the other hand, our fellow-man is no steam-engine, but a man ; united with us, and with all men, and with the Maker of all men, in sacred, mysterious, indissoluble bonds, in an All-Embracing Love, that encircles alike the seraph and the glow-worm ; then will our duties to him rest on quite another basis than this very humble one of quid pro quo ; an'd the Marquis de Condorcet’s conclusion will be false ; and might, in its practical extensions, be infinitely pernicious. Such principles and habits, too lightly adopted by Voltaire, acted, as it seems to us, with hostile effect on his moral nat- ure, not originally of the noblest sold, but which, under other influences, might have attained to far greater nobleness. As it is, we see in him simply a Man of the World, such as Paris and the eighteenth century produced and approved of : a po- lite, attractive, most cultivated, but essentially self interested man ; not without highly amiable qualities ; indeed, with a general disposition which we could have accepted without disappointment in a mere Man of the World, but must find very defective, sometimes altogether out of place, in a Poet and Philosopher. Above this character of a Parisian ‘honour- able man,’ he seldom or never rises ; nay sometimes we find him hovering on the very lowest, boundaries of it, or perhaps even fairly below it. We shall nowise accuse him of excessive regard for money, of any wish to shine .by the influence of mere wealth : let those commercial speculations, including even the victualling-contracts, pass for laudable prudence, for VOLTAIRE. 33 love of independence, and of the power to do good. But what are we to make of that hunting after pensions, and even after mere titles ? There is an assiduity displayed here, which sometimes almost verges towards sneaking. Well might it provoke the scorn of Aliieri ; for there is nothing better than the spirit of ‘ a French plebeian ’ apparent in it. Much, we know, very much should be allowed for difference of national manners, which in general mainly determine the meaning of such things : nevertheless, to our insular feelings, that famous Trajan est-il content ? especially when we consider who the Trajan was, will always remain an unfortunate saying. The more so, as Trajan himself turned his back on it, without answer ; declining, indeed, through life, to listen to the voice of this charmer, or disturb his own ‘ time paisible,’ for one moment, though with the best philosopher in Nature. Nay, Pompadour herself was applied to ; and even some consider- able progress made, by that underground passage, had not an envious hand too soon and fatally intervened. D’Alembert says, there are two things that can reach the top of a pyramid, the eagle and the reptile. Apparently, Voltaire wished to combine both methods ; and he had, with one of them, but indifferent success. The truth is, we are trying Voltaire by too high a standard ; comparing him with an ideal, which he himself never strove after, perhaps never seriously aimed at. He is no great Man, but only a great Persijieur ; a man for whom life, and all that pertains to it, has, at best, but a despicable meaning ; who meets its difficulties not with earnest force, but with gay agil- ity ; and is found always at the top, less by power in swim- ming, than by lightness in floating. Take him in his charac- ter, forgetting that any other was ever ascribed to him, and we find that he enacted it almost to perfection. Never man better understood the whole secret of Persiflage ; meaning thereby not only the external faculty of polite contempt, but that art of general inward contempt, by vfliich a man of this sort endeavours to subject the circumstances of his Destiny to his Volition, and be, what is the instinctive effort of all men, though in the midst of material Necessity, morally Free. Vol- 3 34 VOLTAIRE. taire’s latent derision is as light, copious and all-pervading as the derision which he utters. Nor is this so simple an attain- ment as we might fancy ; a certain kind and degree of Stoi- cism, or approach to Stoicism, is necessary for the completed Persifieur ; as for moral, or even practical completion, in any other way. The most indifferent-minded man is not by nature indifferent to his own pain and pleasure : this is an indifference which he must by some method study to acquire, or acquire the show of ; and which, it is fair to say, Voltaire manifests in a rather respectable degree. Without murmuring, he has reconciled himself to most things : the human lot, in this lower world, seems a strange business, yet, on the'whole, with more of the farce in it than of the tragedy ; to him it is nowise heart-rending, than this Planet of ours should be sent sailing through Space, like a miserable aimless Ship-of-Fools, and he himself be a fool among the rest, and only a very little wiser than they. He does not, like Bolingbroke, ‘ patronise Provi- dence,’ though such sayings as Si Dieu n’existait pas, il fau- drait Vinventer, seem now and then to indicate a tendency of that sort : but, at all events, he never openly levies war against Heaven ; well knowing that the time spent in frantic male- diction, directed thither , might be spent otherwise with more profit. There is, truly, no Werterism in him, either in its bad or its good sense. If he sees no unspeakable majesty in heaven and earth, neither does he see any unsufferable horror there. His view of the world is a cool, gently scornful, altogether prosaic one : his sublimest Apocalypse of Nature lies in the microscope and telescope ; the Earth is a place for producing corn ; the Starry Heavens are admirable as a nautical time- keeper. Yet, like a prudent man, he has adjusted himself to his condition, such as it is : he does not clraunt any Miserere over human life, calculating that no charitable dole, but only laughter, would be the reward of such an enterprise ; does not hang or drown himself, clearly understanding that death of itself will soon save him that trouble. Affliction, it is true, has not for him any precious jewel in its head ; on the con- trary, it is an unmixed nuisance ; yet, happily, not one to be howled over, so much as one to be speedily removed out of VOLTAIRE. 35 sight : if he does not learn from it Humility, and the sublime lesson of Resignation, neither does it teach him hard-hearted- ness and sickly discontent ; but he bounds lightly over it, leaving both the jewel and the toad at a safe distance behind him. Nor was Voltaire’s history without perplexities enough to keep this principle in exercise ; to try whether in life, as in literature, the ridicul um were really better than the acre. We must own, that on no occasion does it altogether fail him, never does he seem perfectly at a nonplus ; no adventure is so hideous, that he cannot, in the long run, find some means to laugh at it, and forget it. Take, for instance, that last ill- omened visit of his to Frederick the Great. This was, prob- ably, the most mortifying incident in Voltaire’s whole life : an open experiment, in the sight of all Europe, to ascertain whether French Philosophy had virtue enough in it to found any friendly union, in such circumstances, even between its great master and his most illustrious disciple ; and an experi- ment which answered in the negative. As was natural enough ; for Vanity is of a divisive, not of a uniting nature ; and be- tween the King of Letters and the King of Armies there ex- isted no other tie. They should have kept up an interchange of flattery, from afar: gravitating towards one another like •celestial luminaries, if they reckoned themselves such ; yet always with a due centrifugal force ; for if either shot madly from his sphere, nothing but collision, and concussion, and mutual recoil, could be the consequence. On the whole, we must pity Frederick, environed with that cluster of Philoso- phers : doubtless he meant rather well ; yet the French at Rosbach, with guns in their hands, were but a small matter, compared with these French in Sans-Souci. Maupertuis sits sullen, monosyllabic ; gloomy like the bear of his own arctic zone : Voltaire is the mad piper that will make him dance to tunes and amuse the people. In this royal circle, with its parasites and bashaws, what heats and jealousies must there not have been ; what secret heartburnings, smooth-faced mal- ice, plottings, counter-plottings, and laurel-water pharmacy, in all its branches, before the ring of etiquette fairly burst 30 VOLTAIRE. asunder, and tlie establishment, so to speak, exploded ! Yet over all these distressing matters Voltaire has thrown a soft veil of gaiety ; he remembers neither Dr. Akakia, nor Dr. Akakia’s patron, with any animosity ; but merely as actors in the grand farce of life along with him, a new scene of which has now commenced, quite displacing the other from the stage. The arrest at Frankfort, indeed, is a sour morsel ; but this too he swallows, with an effort, Frederick, as we are given to understand, had these whims by kind ; was, indeed, a won- derful scion from such, a stock ; for what could equal the ava- rice, malice and rabid snappishness of old Frederick ’W illiam the father ? ‘He had a minister at the Hague, named Luicius,’ says the wit ; ‘ this Luicius w r as, of all royal ministers extant, the worst paid. The poor man, with a Hew to warm himself, had a few trees cut down, in the garden of Honslardik, then belonging to the House of Prussia ; immediately thereafter he received despatches from the King his master, keeping back a year of his salary. Luicius, in despair, cut his throat with the only razor he had ( aoec le seul rasoir qu’il eat ) ; an old lackey came to his assistance, and unfortunately saved his life. At an after period, I myself saw his Excellency at the Hague, and gave him an alms at the gate of that Palace called La Vieille Cour, which belongs to the King of Prussia, where this unhappy Ambassador had lived twelve years.’ With the Roi-Philosophe himself Voltaire, in a little while, recommences correspondence ; and, to all appearance, pro- ceeds quietly in his office of ‘ buckwasher,’ that is, of verse-cor- rector to his Majesty, as if nothing whatever had happened. Again, what human pen can describe the troubles this un- fortunate philosopher had with his women? A gadding, feather-brained, capricious, old-coquettish, embittered and embittering set of wantons from the earliest to the last ! Widow Denis, for example, that disobedient XieCe. whom he rescued from furnished lodgings and spare diet, into pomp and plenty, how did she pester the last stage of his existence, for twenty-four years long ! Blind to the peace and roses of Ferney ; ever hankering and fretting after Parisian display ; VOLTAIRE. 37 not without flirtation, though advanced in life ; losing money at play, and purloining wherewith to make it good ; scolding his servants, quarrelling with his secretaries, so that the too- indulgent uncle must turn off his beloved Collini, nay almost be run through the body by him, for her sake ! The good Wagniere, who succeeded this fiery Italian in the secretary- ship, and loved Voltaire with a most creditable affection, can- not, though a simple, humble and philanthropic mau, speak of Madame Denis without visible overflowings of gall. He openly accuses her of hastening her uncle’s death by her im- portunate stratagems to keep him in Paris, where was her heaven. Indeed it is clear that, his goods and chattels once made sure of, her chief care was that so fiery a patient might die soon enough ; or, at best, according to her own confes- sion, ‘how she was to get him buried.’ We have known superannuated grooms, nay effete saddle-horses, regarded with more real sympathy in their home, than w r as the best of uncles by the worst of nieces. Had not this surprising old man retained the sharpest judgment, and the gayest, easiest temper, his last days and last years must have been a con- tinued scene of violence and tribulation. Little better, w^orse in several respects, though at a time when he could better endure it, was the far-famed Marquise du Chatelet. Many a tempestuous day and wakeful night had he with that scientific and too-fascinating shrew. She speculated in mathematics and metaphysics ; but was an adept also in far, very far different acquirements. Setting aside its whole criminality, which, indeed, perhaps went for little there, this literary amour wears but a mixed aspect ; short sun- gleams, with long tropical tornadoes ; touches of guitar-music, soon followed by Lisbon earthquakes. Marmon- tel, we remember, speaks of knives being used, at least bran- dished, and for quite other purposes than carving. Madame la Marquise was no saint, in any sense ; but rather a Socrates’ spouse, who would keep patience, and the whole philosophy of gaiety, in constant practice. Like Queen Elizabeth, if she had the talents of a man, she had more than the caprices of a woman. We shall take only one item, and that a small one, in this 33 VOLTAIRE. mountain of misery : her strange habits and methods of loco- motion. She is perpetually travelling : a peaceful philosopher is lugged over the world, to Cirev, to Luneville, to that pied d terre in Paris ; resistance avails not ; here, as in so many other cases, il faut se ranger. Sometimes, precisely on the eve of such a departure, her domestics, exasperated by hunger and ill usage, will strike work, in a body ; and a new set has to be collected at an hour’s warning. Then Madame has been known to keep the postilions cracking and sacre-ing at the gate from dawn till dewy eve, simply because she was playing cards, and the games went against her. But figure a lean and vivid-tempered philosopher starting from Paris at last ; under cloud of night ; during hard frost ; in a huge lumbering coach, or rather wagon, compared with which, indeed, the general- ity of modern wagons were a luxurious conveyance. "With four starved, and perhaps spavined hacks, he slowly sets forth, ‘ under a mountain of bandboxes : ’ at his side sits the wandering virago ; in front of him, a serving-maid, with addi- tional bandboxes ‘ et divers effets de sa ma'dresse.’ At the next stage, the postilions have to be beat up ; they come out swear- ing. Cloaks and fur-pelisses avail little against the January cold ; ‘ time and hours ’ are, once more, the only hope ; but, lo, at the tenth mile, this Tyburn-coach ' breaks down! One many-voiced discordant wail shrieks through the soli- tude, making night hideous, — but in vain ; the axletree has given way, the vehicle has overset, and marchionesses, cham- bermaids, bandboxes and philosophers, are weltering in inex- tricable chaos. ‘ The carriage was in the stage next Nangis, about half-way to that town, when the hind axletree broke, and it tumbled on the road, to M. de Voltaire’s side : Madame du Chatelet, and her maid, fell above him, with all their bundles and band- boxes, for these were not tied to the front, but only piled up on both hands of the maid ; and so, observing the laws of equilibrium and gravitation of bodies, they rushed towards the corner where M. de Voltaire lay squeezed together. Under so many burdens, which half suffocated him, he kept shout- ing bitterly ( poussait des cris aigus) ; but it was impossible to change place ; all had to remain as it was, till the two lackeys, VOLTAIRE. 39 one of whom was hurt by the fall, could come up, with the postilions, to disencumber the vehicle ; they first drew out all the luggage, next the women, then M. de Voltaire. Nothing could be got out except by the top, that is, by the coach-door, v'hicli now opened upwards ; one of the lackeys and a pos- tilion clambering aloft, and fixing themselves on the body of the vehicle, drew them up, as from a well ; seizing the first limb that came to hand, whether arm or leg ; and then passed them down to the two stationed below, who set them finally on the ground.’ 1 What would Dr. Kitchiner, with his Travellers Oracle, have said to all this? For there is snow on the ground : and four peasants must be roused from a village half a league off, be- fore that accursed vehicle can so much as be lifted from its beam-ends ! Vain it is for Longchamp, far in advance, shel- tered in a hospitable though half-dismantled chateau, to pluck pigeons and be in haste to roast them : they will never, never be eaten to supper, scarcely to breakfast next morning ! — Nor is it now only, but several times, that this unhappy axletree plays them foul ; nay once, beggared by Madame’s gambling, they have not cash to pay for mending it, and the smith, though they are in keenest flight, almost for their lives, will not trust them. We imagine that these are trying things for any philoso- pher. Of the thousand other more private and perennial grievances ; of certain discoveries and explanations, especial- ly, which it still seems surprising that human philosophy could have tolerated, we make no mention ; indeed, with re- gard to the latter, few earthly considerations could tempt a Reviewer of sensibility to mention them in this place. The Marquise du Chatelet, and her husband, have been much wondered at in England : the calm magnanimity with which M. le Marquis conforms to the custom of the country, to the wishes of his helpmate, and leaves her, he himself meanwhile fighting, or at least drilling, for his King, to range over Space, in quest of loves and lovers ; his friendly discre- tion, in this particular ; no less so, his blithe benignant gulli- 1 Vol. ii. p. 160. 40 VOLTAIRE. bility, the instant a contretemps de famille renders his counte- nance needful, — have had all justice done them among us. His lady too is a wonder ; offers no mean study to psycholo- gists : she is a fair experiment to try how far that Delicacy, which we reckon innate in females, is only incidental and the product of fashion ; how far a woman, not merely immodest, but without the slightest fig-leaf of common decency remain- ing, with the whole character, in short, of a male debauchee, may still have any moral worth as a woman. We ourselves have wondered a little over both these parties ; and over the goal to which so strange a ‘ progress of society ’ might be tending. But still more wonderful, not without a shade of the sublime, has appeared to us the cheerful thraldom of this maltreated philosopher ; and with what exhaustless patience, not being wedded, he endured all these forced-marches, whims, irascibilities, delinquencies and thousandfold unrea- sons ; braving ‘ the battle and the breeze,’ on that wild Bay of Biscay, for such a period. Fifteen long years, and was not mad, or a suicide at the end of them ! But the like fate, it would seem, though worthy D’Israeli has omitted to enumer- ate it in his Calamities of Authors, is not unknown in litera- ture. Pope also had his Mrs. Martha Blount ; and, in the midst of that warfare with united Duncedom, his daily tale of Egyptian bricks to bake. Let us pity the lot of genius, in this sublunary sphere ! Every one knows the earthly termination of Madame la Marquise ; and how, by a strange, almost satirical Nemesis, she was taken in her own nets, and her worst sin became her final punishment. To no purpose was the unparalleled credu- lity of M. le Marquis ; to no p impose, the amplest toleration, and even helpful knavery of M. de Voltaire ; ‘ les assiduites di M. de Saint- Lambert ’ and the unimaginable consultations to which they gave rise at Cirey, were frightfully parodied in the end. The last scene was at Luneville, in the peaceable court of King Stanislaus. ‘ Seeing that the aromatic vinegar did no good, we tried to recover her from the sudden lethargy by rubbing her feet, VOLTAIRE. 41 and striking in the -palms of her hands ; but it was of no use : she had ceased to be. The maid was sent off to Madame de Boufflers’ apartment, to inform the company that Madame du Chatelet was worse. Instantly they all arose from the sup- per-table : M. du Chatelet, M. de Voltaire, and the other guests, rushed into the room. So soon as they understood the truth, there was a deep consternation ; to tears, to cries, succeeded a mournful silence. The husband was led away, the other individuals went out successively, expressing the keenest sorrow. M. de Voltaire and M. de Saint-Lambert re- mained the last by the bedside, from which they could not be drawn away. At length, the former, absorbed in deep grief, left the room, and with difficulty reached the main door of the Castle, not knowing whither he went. Arrived there, he fell down at the foot of the outer stairs, and near the box of a sentry, -where his head came on the pavement. His lackey, who was following, seeing him fall and struggle on the ground, ran forward and tried to lift him. At this moment, M. de Saint-Lambert, retiring by the same way, also arrived ; and observing M. de Voltaire in that situation, hastened to assist the lackey. No sooner was M. de Voltaire on his feet, than opening his eyes, dimmed with tears, and recognising M. de Saint-Lambert, he said to him, with sobs and the most pa- thetic accent : “ Ah, my friend, it is you that have killed her ! ” Then, all on a sudden, as if he were starting from a deep sleep, he exclaimed in a tone of reproach and despair : “Eh! mon Dieu ! Monsieur, de quoi vous avisiez-vous de lui faire un enfant? ” They parted thereupon, without adding a single word ; and retired to them several apartments, over- whelmed and almost annihilated by the excess of them sorrow.’ 1 Among all threnetical discourses on record, this last, be- tween men overwhelmed and almost annihilated by the excess of their sorrow, has probably an unexampled character. Some days afterwards, the first paroxysm of ‘ reproach and despair ’ being somewhat assuaged, the sorrowing widower, not the glad legal one, composed this quatrain : L'unirers a perdu la sublime Emilie. EUe aima les plaisirs, les arts, la write : Les dieux, en lui donnant leur dme et leur genie , N’avaient garde pour eux que Vimmortalite. 1 Vol. ii. p. 250. 42 VOLTAIRE. After which, reflecting, perhaps, that with this sublime Emilia, so meritoriously singular in loving pleasure, ‘ his happiness had been chiefly on paper,’ he, like the bereaved Universe, consoled himself, and went on his way. Woman, it has been sufficiently demonstrated, was given to man as a benefit, and for mutual support ; a precious orna- ment and staff whereupon to lean in many trying situations : but to Voltaire she proved, so unlucky was he in this matter, little else than a broken reed, which only ran into his hand. We confess that, looking over the manifold trials of this poor philosopher with the softer, or as he may have reckoned it, the harder sex, — from that Dutchwoman who published his juvenile letters, to the Niece Denis who as good as killed him with racketing, — we see, in this one province, very great scope for almost all the cardinal virtues. And to these internal con- vulsions add an incessant series of controversies and persecu- tions, political, religious, literary, from without ; and we have a life quite rent asunder, horrent with asperities and chasms, where even a stout traveller might have faltered. Over all which Chamouni-Needles and Staubbaeh-Falls the great Persi- jieur skims along in this his little poetical air-ship, more softly than if he travelled the smoothest of merely prosaic roads. Leaving out of view the worth or worthlessness of such a temper of mind, we are bound, in all seriousness, to say, both that it seems to have been Voltaire’s highest conception of moral excellence, and that he has pursued and realised it with no small success. One great praise therefore he deserves, — that of unity with himself ; that of having an aim, and sted- fastly endeavouring after it, nay, as we have found, of attain- ing it ; for his ideal Voltaire seems, to an unusual degree, manifested, made practically apparent in the real one. There can be no doubt but this attainment of Persifleur, in the wide sense we here give it, was of all others the most admired and sought after in Voltaire’s age and country ; nay, in our own age and country we have still innumerable admirers of it, and unwearied seekers after it, on every hand of us : nevertheless, we cannot but believe that its acme is past ; that the best sense of our generation has already weighed its significance, VOLTAIRE. 43 and found it wanting. Voltaire liimself, it seems to us, were he alive at this day, w 7 ould find other tasks than that of mock- ery, especially of mockery in that style : it is not by Derision and Denial, but by far deeper, more earnest, diviner means that aught truly great has been effected for mankind ; that the fabric of man’s life has been reared, through long centuries, to its present height. If we admit that this chief of Persifleurs had a steady conscious aim in life, the still higher praise of having had a right or noble aim cannot be conceded him with- out many limitations, and may, plausibly enough, be altogether denied. At the same time, let it not be forgotten, that amid all these blighting influences, Voltaire maintains a certain in- destructible humanity of nature ; a soul never deaf to the cry of wretchedness ; never utterly blind to the light of truth, beauty, goodness. It is even, in some measure, poeti- cally interesting to observe this fine contradiction in him : the heart acting without directions from the head, or perhaps against its directions ; the man virtuous, as it were, in spite of himself. For at all events, it will be granted that, as a private man, his existence was beneficial, not hurtful, to his fellow-men : the Calases, the Sirvens, and so many orphans and outcasts whom he cherished and protected, ought to cover a multitude of sins. It was his own sentiment, and to all appearance a sincere one : Paifait un "peU de bien ; c'est mon meilleur ouvrage. Perhaps there are few men with such principles and such temptations as his were, that could have led such a life ; few that could have done his work, and come through it with cleaner hands. If we call him the greatest of all Persifleurs, let us add that, morally speaking also, he is the best : if he excels all men in universality, sincerity, polished clearness of Mockery, he perhaps combines with it as much worth of heart as, in any man, that habit can admit of. It is now wellnigh time that we should quit this part of our subject : nevertheless, in seeking to form some picture u VOLTAIRE. of Voltaire’s practical life, and the character, outward as well as inward, of his appearance in society, our readers will not grudge us a few glances at the last and most striking scene he enacted there. To our view, that final visit to Paris has a strange half-frivolous, half-fateful aspect ; there is, as it were, a sort of dramatic justice in this catastrophe, that he, who had all his life hungered and thirsted after public fa- vour, should at length die by exces's of it ; should find the door of his Heaven-on-earth unexpectedly thrown wide open, and enter there, only to be, as he himself said, ‘ smothered under roses.’ Had Paris any suitable theogony or theology, as Borne and Athens had, this might almost be reckoned, as those Ancients accounted of death by lightning, a sacred death, a death from the gods ; from their many-headed god, Popularity. In the benignant quietude of Perney, Voltaire had lived long, and as his friends calculated, might still have lived long ; but a series of trifling causes lures him to Paris, and in three months he is no more. At all hours of his his- tory, he might have said with Alexander : “ O Athenians, what toil do I undergo to please you ! ” and the last pleasure his Athenians demand of him is, that he would die for them. Considered with reference to the world at large, this jour- ney is farther remarkable. It is the most splendid triumph of that nature recorded in these ages ; the loudest and show- iest homage ever paid to what we moderns call Literature ; to a man that had merely thought, and published his thoughts. Much false tumult, no doubt, there was in it ; yet also a cer- tain deeper significance. It is interesting to see how univer- sal and eternal in man is love of wisdom : how the highest and the lowest, how supercilious princes and rude peasants, and all men must alike show honour to Wisdom, or the ap- pearance of Wisdom ; nay, properly speaking, can show hon- our to nothing else. For it is not in the power of all Xerxes’ hosts to bend one thought of our proud heart: these ‘may destroy the case of Anaxarchus ; himself they cannot reach : ’ only to spiritual worth can the spirit do reverence ; only in a soul deeper and better than ours can we see any heavenly mystery, and in humbling ourselves feel ourselves exalted. VOLTAIRE. 45 That the so ebullient enthusiasm of the French was in this case perfectly well directed, we cannot undertake to say : yet we rejoice to see and know that such a principle exists per- ennially in man’s inmost bosom ; that there is no heart so sunk and stupefied, none so withered and pampered, but the felt presence of a nobler heart will inspire it and lead it captive. Few royal progresses, few Roman triumphs, have equalled this long triumph of Voltaire. On his journey, at Bourgen Bresse, ‘he was recognised,’ says Wag-mere, ‘while the horses ‘ were changing, and in a few moments the whole town crowd- ‘ ed about the carriage ; so that he w 7 as forced to lock himself ‘ for some time in a room of the inn.’ The Maitre-de-poste ordered his postilion to yoke better horses, and said to him with a broad oath : “ Va bon train, creve mes chevaux, je m’en f - — ; tu mines M. de Voltaire.” At Dijon, there were persons of distinction that wished even to dress themselves as waiters, that they might serve him at supper, and see him by this stratagem. ‘ At the barrier of Paris,’ continues Wagniere, ‘ the officers asked if we had nothing with us contrary to the King’s regu- lations : “On my word, gentlemen, Ma foi, Messieurs,” re- plied M de Voltaire, “I believe there is nothing contraband here except myself.” I alighted from the carriage, that the inspector might more readily examine it. One of the guards said to his comrade: G’est, pardieu! M. de Voltaire. He plucked at the coat of the person who w T as searching, and re- peated the same words, looking fixedly at me. I could not help laughing ; then ail gazing with the greatest astonish- ment mingled with respect, begged M. de Voltaire to pass on whither he pleased.’ 1 Intelligence soon circulated over Paris ; scarcely could the arrival of Kien-Long, or the Grand Lama of Thibet, have ex- cited greater ferment. Poor Longchamp, demitted, or rather dismissed from Voltaire’s service, eight-and-twenty years be- fore, and now, as a retired map-dealer (having resigned in favour of his son), living quietly ‘ dans un petit logement d 1 Vol. i. p. 121. 46 VOLTAIRE. part ,’ a fine, smooth, garrulous old man, — heard the news next morning in his remote logement, in the Estrapade ; and in- stantly huddled on his clothes, though he had not been out for two days, to go and see what truth was in it. ‘ Several persons of my acquaintance, whom I met, told me that they had heard the same. I went purposely to the Cafe Procope, where this news formed the subject of conversation among several politicians, or men of letters, who talked of it with warmth. To assure myself still farther, I walked thence towards the Quai des Theatins, where he had alighted the night before, and, as was said, taken up his lodging in a man- sion near the church. Coming out from the Rue de la Seine, I saw afar off a great number of people gathered on the Quai, not far from the Pont-RpyaL Approaching nearer, I obseiwed that this crowd was collected in front of the Marquis de Vil- lette’s Hotel, at the corner of the Roe de Beaune. I inquired what the matter was. The people answered me, that M. de Voltaire was in that house ; and they were waiting to see him when he came out. They were not sure, however, whether he would come out that day ; for it was natural to think that an old man of eighty-four might need a day or two of rest. Prom that moment, I no longer doubted the arrival of M. de Voltaire in Paris .’ 1 By dint of address, Longchamp, in process of time, con- trived to see his old master ; had an interview of ten min- utes ; was for fading at his feet ; and wept, with sad presen- timents, at parting. Ten such minutes were a great matter ; for Voltaire had his levees, and couchees, more crowded than those of any Emperor ; princes and peers thronged his ante- chamber ; and when he went abroad, his carriage was as the nucleus of a comet, whose train extended over whole districts of the city. He himself, says Wagniure, expressed dissatis- faction at much of this. Nevertheless, there were some plau- dits which, as he confessed, went to his heart. Condorcet mentions that once a person in the crowd inquiring who this great man was, a poor woman answered, “ C’est le sauveur des Calas.” Of a quite different sort was the tribute paid him by 1 Yol. ii. p. 353. VOLTAIRE. 47 a quack, in the Place Louis Quinze, haranguing a mixed mul- titude on the art of juggling with cards : “ Here, gentlemen,” said he, “ is a trick I learned at Ferney, from that great man who makes so much noise among you, that famous M. de Vol- taire, the master of us all ! ” In fact, mere gaping curiosity, and even ridicule, was abroad, as well as real enthusiasm. The clergy too were recoiling into ominous groups ; already some Jesuitic drums ecclesiastic had beat to arms. Figuring the lean, tottering, lonely old man in the midst of all this, how he looks into it, clear and alert, though no longer strong and calm, we feel drawn towards him by some tie of affection, of kindly sympathy. Longchamp says, he ap- peared ‘ extremely worn, though still in the possession of all ‘ his senses, and with a very firm voice.’ The following little sketch, by a hostile journalist of the day, has fixed itself deeply with us : ‘ M. de Voltaire appeared in full dress, on Tuesday, for the first time since his arrival in Paris. He had on a red coat lined with ermine ; a large peruke, in the fashion of Louis XIV., black, unpowdered ; and in which his withered visage was so buried that you saw only his two eyes shining like car- buncles. His head was surmounted by a square red cap in the form of a crown, which seemed only laid on. He had in his hand a small nibbed cane ; and the public of Paris, not accustomed to see him in this accoutrement, laughed a good deal. This personage, singular in all, wishes doubtless to have nothing in common with ordinary men.’ 1 This head, — this wondrous microcosm in the grande per- ruque d la Louis XIV., — was so soon to be distenanted of all its cunning gifts ; these eyes, shining like carbuncles, were so soon to be closed in long night ! — We must now give the coronation ceremony, of which the reader may have heard, so much: borrowing from this same sceptical hand, which, however, is vouched for by Wagniere.; as, indeed, La Harpe’s more lieroical narrative of that occurrence is well known, and hardly differs from the following, except in style : Vol. ii. p. 466. 43 VOLTAIRE. ‘ On Monday, M. de Voltaire, resolving to enjoy the tri- umph which had been so long promised him, mounted his carriage, that azure-coloured vehicle, bespangled with gold stars, which a wag called the chariot of the empyrean ; and so repaired to the Academie Franyaise, which that day had a special meeting. Twenty -two members were present. None of the prelates, abbes or other ecclesiastics w r ho belong to it, would attend, or take part in these singular deliberations. The sole exceptions were the Abbes de Boismont and Millot ; the one a court rake-hell [rout), with nothing but the guise of his profession ; the other a varlet ( cuistre ), having no favour to look for, either from the Court or the Church. ‘ The Academie went out to meet M. de Voltaire : he was led to the Director’s seat, which that office-bearer and the meeting invited him to accept. His portrait had been hung up above it. The company, without drawing lots, as is the custom, proceeded to work, and named him, by acclamation, Director for the April quarter. The old man, once set a-going, was about to talk a great deal ; but they told him, that they valued his health too much to hear him, — that they would reduce him to silence. M. d’Alembert accordingly occupied the session, by reading his Eloge de Despreaux, which had already been communicated on a public occasion, and where he had inserted various flattering things for the present visitor. ‘ M. de Voltaire then signified a wish to visit the Secretary of the Academie, whose apartments are above. With this gentleman he stayed some time ; and at last set out for the Comedie Franc aise. The court of the Louvre, vast as it is, was full of people waiting for him. So soon as his notable vehicle came in sight, the cry arose, Le voild ! The Savoyards, the apple-women, all the rabble of the quarter had assembled there ; and the acclamations, Vive Voltaire ! resounded as if they would never end. The Marquis de Viliette, who had arrived before, came to hand him out of his carriage, where the Procureur Clos was seated beside him : both these gave him their arms, and could scarcely extricate him from the press. On his entering the playhouse, a crowd of more ele- gance, and seized with true enthusiasm for genius, surrounded him : the ladies, above all, threw themselves in his way, and stopped it, the better to look at him ; some were seen squeez- ing forward to touch his clothes ; some plucking hair from his fur. M. le Due de Chartres , 1 not caring to advance too ! Afterwards Egalite. VOLTAIRE. 49 near, showed, though at a distance, no less curiosity than others. ‘ The saint, or rather the god, of the evening, was to occupy the bos belonging to the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber,' op- posite that of the Comte d’Artois. Madame Denis and Madame de Villette were already there ; and the pit was in convulsions of joy, awaiting the moment when, the poet should appear. There was no end till he placed himself on the front seat, be- side the ladies. Then rose a cry : La Couronne ! and Brizard, the actor, came and put the garland on his head. “ Ah, Heav- en ! will you hill me then ? (Ah, Dieu ! vous voulez done me faire mourir ?) ” cried M. de Voltaire, weeping -with joy, and resisting this honour. He took the crown in his hand, and presented it to Belle-et- Bonne : 2 she withstood ; and the Prince de Beauvau, seizing the laurel, replaced it on the head of our Sophocles, -who could refuse no longer. ‘ The piece (Irene) was played, and with more applause than usual, though scarcely with enough to correspond to this tri- umph of its author. Meanwhile the players were in straits as to what they should . do ; and during their deliberations the tragedy ended ; the curtain fell, and the tumult of the people was extreme, till it rose again, disclosing a show like that of the Centenaire. M. de Voltaire’s bust, which had been placed shortly before in the foyer (greenroom) of the Comedie Fran- caiise, had been brought upon the stage, and elevated on a pedestal; the whole body of comedians stood round it in a semicircle, with palms and garlands in their hands ; there was a crown already on the bust. The pealing of musical nour- ishes, of drums, of trumpets, had announced the ceremony ; and Madame Vestris held in her hand a paper, which was soon understood to contain verses, lately composed by the Marquis de Saint-Marc. She recited them with an emphasis propor- tioned to the extravagance of the scene. They ran as follows : Aux yeux de Paris encliante , Recoin en ce jour un homrnage, Que confirmer a d’dge en age La severe postiriti! Nan tu n'as pas lesoin d’atteindre au noir rivage Pour jouir des honneurs de V immorlalite ! 1 He himself, as is perhaps too well known, was one. ! The Marquise de Villette, a foster-child of his. 4 50 VOLTAIRE. Voltaire, re^ois la couronne Que Von vient de te presenter ; II est beau de la meriter, Quand c'est la France qui la, donne ! 1 This was encored : the actress recited it again. Nest, each of them went forward and laid his garland round the bust. Mademoiselle Fanier, in a fanatical ecstasy, kissed it, and all the others imitated her. 1 This long ceremony, accompanied with infinite vivats, be- ing over, the curtain again dropped ; and when it rose for Ha- nine, one of M. de Voltaire’s comedies, his bust was seen on the right-hand side of the stage, where it remained during the whole play. ‘ M. le Comte d’ Artois did not choose to show himself too openly, but being informed, according to his orders, as soon as M. de Voltaire appeared in the theatre, he had gone thither incognito ; and it is thought that the old man, once when he went out for a moment, had the honour of a short interview with his Royal Highness. ‘ Nanine finished, comes a new huiiyburly ; a new trial for the modesty of our philosopher ! He had got into his car- riage, but the people would not let him go ; they threw themselves on the horses, they kissed them : some young poets even cried to unyoke these animals, and draw the mod- ern Apollo home with their own arms ; unhappily, there were not enthusiasts enough to volunteer this service, and he at last got leave to depart, not without vivats, which he may have heard on the Pout-Royal, and even in his own house. . . ‘ M. de Voltaire, on reaching home, wept anew ; and mod- estly protested that if he had known the people were to play so many follies, he would not have gone.’ On all these wonderful proceedings we shall leave our read- ers to their own reflections ; remarking only, that this hap- pened on the 30th of March (1778), and that on the 30th of May, about the same hour, the object of such extraordinary adulation was in the article of death : the hearse already pre- pared to receive his remains, for which even a grave had to be stolen. ‘ He expired.’ says Wagniere, ‘ about a quarter 1 As Dryden said of Swift, so may we say : Our. cousin Saint-Marc lias no turn for poetry. VOLTAIRE. 51 ‘ past eleven at night, with the most perfect tranquillity, after ‘having suffered the cruellest pains, in consequence of those ‘ fatal drugs, which his own imprudence, and especially that * of the persons who should have looked to it, made him swal- * low. Ten minutes before his last breath, he took the hand of ‘ Morand, his valet-de-chambre, who was watching by him ; ‘ pressed it, and said, “ Adieu, mon cher Morand, je me mews, ‘ Adieu, my dear Morand, I am gone.” These are the last ‘ words uttered byM. de Voltaire .’ 1 "We have still to consider this man in his specially intellec- 1 On this sickness of Voltaire, and his deatli-hed deportment, many foolish hooks have been written ; concerning which it is not necessary to say anything. The conduct of the Parisian clerg)', on that occasion, seems totally unworthy of their cloth ; nor was their reward, so far as concerns these individuals, inappropriate : that of finding themselves once more bilked, once more persifies by that strange old man, in his last decrepitude, who, in his strength, had wrought them and others so many griefs. Surely the parting agonies of a fellow mortal, when the spirit of our brother, rapt in the whirlwinds and thick ghastly vapours of death, clutches blindly for help, and no help is there, are not the scenes where a wise faith would seek to exult, when it can no longer hope to alleviate ! For the rest, to touch farther on those their idle tales of dying horrors, remorse and the like ; to write of such, to believe them, or disbelieve them, or in anywise discuss them, were hut a con- tinuation of the same ineptitude. He who, after the imperturbable exit of so many Cartouches and Tliurtells, in every age of the world, can con- tinue to regard the manner of a man’s death as a test of his religious or- thodoxy, may boast himself impregnable to merely terrestrial logic. Vol- taire had enough of suffering, and of mean enough suffering, to encounter, without any addition from theological despair. His last interview with the clergy, who had been sent for by his friends, that the rites of burial might not be denied him, is thus described by Wagniere, as it has been by all other credible, reporters of it : ‘ Two days before that mournful death, M. l’Abbe Mignot, his ‘ nephew, went to seek the Cure of Saint-Sulpice, and the Abbe Guatier, ‘ and brought them into his uncle’s sick-room ; who, being informed ‘ that the Abbe Guatier was there, “Ah, well ! ” said he, “ give him ‘ my compliments and my thanks.” The Abbe spoke some words to ‘ him, exhorting him to patience. The Cure of Saint-Sulpice then ‘ came forward, having announced himself, and asked of M. de Voltaire, ‘ elevating his voice, if he acknowledged the divinity of our Lord Jesus ‘ Christ ? The sick man pushed one of his hands against the Cure’s 52 VOLTAIRE. tual capacity ; which, as with every man of letters, is to be regarded as the clearest, and, to ah practical intents, the most important aspect of him. Voltaire’s intellectual endowment and acquirement, his talent or genius as a literary man, lies opened to us in a series of Writings, unexampled, as we be- lieve, in two respects, — their extent, and their diversity. Perhaps there is no writer, not a mere compiler, but writing from his own invention or elaboration, who has left so many volumes behind him ; and if to the merely arithmetical, we add a critical estimate, the singularity is still greater ; for these volumes are not written without an appearance of due care and preparation ; perhaps there is not one altogether feeble and confused treatise, nay one feeble and confused sen- tence, to be found in them. As to variety, again, they range nearly over ah human subjects ; from Theology down to Do- mestic Economy ; from the Familiar Letter to the Political History ; from the Pasquinade to the Epic Poem. Some strange gift, or union of gifts, must have been at work here ; for the result is, at least, in the highest degree uncommon, and to be wondered at, if not to be admired. If, through all this many-coloured versatility, we try to de- cipher the essential, distinctive features of Voltaire’s intellect, it seems to us that we find there a counterpart to our theory of his moral character ; as, indeed, if that theory was accu- rate, we must do : for the thinking and the moral nature, dis- tinguished by the necessities of speech, have no such distinc- tion in themselves ; but, rightly examined, exhibit in every case the strictest sympathy and correspondence, are, indeed, but different phases of the same indissoluble unity, — a firing mind. In fife, Voltaire was found to be without good claim to the title of philosopher ; and now, in literature, and for similar reasons, we find in him the same deficiencies. Here 1 calotte (coif), shoving him hack, and cried, turning abruptly to the ‘ other side, “ Let me die in peace ( Laissez-inoi mourir enpaix ) ! ” The ‘ Cure seemingly considered his person soiled, and his coif dishonoured, ‘ by the touch of a philosopher. He made the sicknurse give him a ‘ little brushing, and then went out with the Abbe Guatier.’ Yol. i. p. 161 . VOLTAIRE. 53 too it is not greatness, but the very extreme of expertness, that we recognise ; not strength, so much as agility, not depth, but superficial extent. That truly surprising ability seems rather the unparalleled combination of many common talents, than the exercise of any finer or higher one : for here too the want of earnestness, of intense continuance, is fatal to him. He has the eye of a lynx ; sees deeper, at the first glance, than any other man ; but no second glance is given. Thus Truth, which to the philosopher, has from of old been said to live in a well, remains for the most part hidden from him ; we may say forever hidden, if we take the highest, and only philosophical species of Truth ; for this does not reveal itself to any mortal, without quite another sort of meditation than Yoltaire ever seems to have bestowed on it. In fact, his deductions are uniformly of a forensic, argumentative, imme- diately practical nature ; often true, we will admit, so far as they go ; but not the whole truth ; and false, when taken for the whole. In regard to feeling, it is the same with him : he is, in general, humane, mildly affectionate, not without touches of nobleness ; but light, fitful, discontinuous ; ‘ a smart free- thinker, all things in an hour.’ He is no Poet and Philoso- pher, but a popular sweet Singer and Haranguer : in all senses, and in all styles, a Concionator, which, for the most part, will turn out to be an altogether different character. It is true, in this last province he stands unrivalled ; for such an audi- ence, the most fit and perfectly persuasive of all preachers : but in many far higher provinces, he is neither perfect nor unrivalled ; has been often surpassed ; was surpassed even iu his own age and nation. For a decisive, thorough-going, in any measure gigantic force of thought, he is far inferior to Diderot : with all the liveliness he has not the soft elegance, with more than the wit he has but a small portion of the wis- dom, that belonged to Fontenelle : as in real sensibility, so in the delineation of it, in pathos, loftiness and earnest eloquence, he cannot, making all fair abatements, and there are many, be compared with Piousseau. Doubtless, an astonishing fertility, quickness, address ; an openness also, and universal susceptibility of mind, must 54 : VOLTAIRE. have belonged to him. As little can we deny that he mani- fests an assiduous perseverance, a capability of long-continued exertion, strange in so volatile a man ; and consummate skill in husbanding and wisely directing his exertion. The very knowledge he had amassed, granting, which is but partly true, that it was superficial remembered knowledge, might have distinguished him as a mere Dutch commentator. From Newton’s Principia to the Shatter and Veclam, nothing has escaped him : he has glanced into all literatures and all sciences ; nay studied in them, for he can speak a rational word on all. It is known, for instance, that he understood Newton when no other man in France understood him : in- deed, his countrymen may call Voltaire their discoverer of intellectual England ; — a discovery, it is true, rather of the Curtis than of the Columbus sort, yet one which in his day still remained to be made. Nay from all sides he brings new light into his country : now, for the first time, to the up- turned wondering eyes of Frenchmen in general, does it be- come clear that Thought has actually a kind of existence in other kingdoms ; that some glimmerings of civilisation had dawned here and there on the human species, prior to the Siecle de Louis Quatorze. Of Voltaire’s acquaintance with History, at least with what he called History, be it civil, relig- ious, or literary ; of his innumerable, indescribable collec- tion of facts, gathered from all sources, — from European Chronicles and State Papers, from eastern Zends and Jewish Talmuds, we need not remind any reader. It has been ob- jected that his information was often borrowed at second- hand ; that he had his plodders and pioneers, whom, as living dictionaries, he skilfully consulted in time of need. This also seems to be partly true, but deducts little from our esti- mate of him : for the skill so to borrow is even rarer than the power to lend. Voltaire’s knowledge is not a mere show-room of curiosities, but truly a museum for purposes of teaching ; every object is in its place, and there for its uses, nowhere do we find confusion or vain display ; everywhere intention, in- structiveness and the clearest order. Perhaps it is this very power of Order, of rapid perspicu- VOLTAIRE. 55 ous Arrangement, that lies at the root of Voltaire’s best gifts ; or rather, we should say, it is that keen, accurate intellectual ■vision, from which, to a mind of any intensity, Order natur- ally arises. The clear quick vision, and the methodic arrange- ment which springs from it, are looked upon as peculiarly French qualities ; and Voltaire, at all times, manifests them in a more than French degree. Let him but cast his eye over any subject, in a moment he sees, though indeed only to a short depth, yet with instinctive decision, where the main bearings of it for that short depth lie ; what is, or appears to be, its logical coherence ; how causes connect themselves with effects ; how the whole is to be seized, and in lucid sequence represented to his own or to other minds. In this respect, moreover, it is happy for him that, below the short depth al- luded to, his view does not properly grow dim, but altogether terminates : thus there is nothing farther to occasion him misgivings ; has he not already sounded into that basis of bottomless Darkness on which all things firmly rest ? What lies below r is delusion, imagination, some form of Superstition or Folly ; which he, nothing doubting, altogether casts away. Accordingly, he is the most intelligible of writers ; everywhere transparent at a glance. There is no delineation or disquisi- tion of his, that has not its whole purport written on its fore- head ; all is precise, all is rightly adjusted ; that keen spirit of Order shows itself in the whole, and iu every line of the ■whole. If we say that this power of Arrangement, as applied both to the acquisition and to the communication of ideas, is Vol- taire’s most serviceable faculty in all his enterprises, w r e say nothing singular : for take the word in its largest acceptation, and it comprehends the whole office of Understanding, logi- cally so called ; is the means whereby mail accomplishes what- ever, in the way of outward force, has been made possible for him ; conquers all practical obstacles, and rises to be the ‘ king of this lower world.’ It is the organ of all that Knowl- edge which can properly be reckoned synonymous with Power ; for hereby man strikes with wise aim, into the infinite agencies of Nature, and multiplies his own small strength to unlimited 56 VOLTAIRE. degrees. It has been said also that man may rise to he the ‘ god of this lower world ; ’ but that is a far loftier height, not attainable by such power-knowledge, but by quite another sort, for which Yoltaire in particular shows hardly any apti- tude. In truth, readily as we have recognised his spirit of Method, with its many uses, w r e are far from ascribing to him any per- ceptible portion of that greatest praise in thinking, or in writ- ing, the praise of philosophic, still less of poetic Method ; which, especially the latter, must be the fruit of deep feeling as well as of clear vision, — of genius as well as talent ; and is much more likely to be found in the compositions of a Hooker or a Sliakspeare than of a Yoltaire. The Method discernible in Voltaire, and this on all subjects whatever, is a purely business Method. The order that arises from it is not Beauty, but, at best, Regularity. His objects do not lie round him in pictorial, not always in scientific grouping ; but rather in com- modious rows, where each may be seen and come at, like goods in a well-kept warehouse. We might say, there is not the deep natural symmetry of a forest oak, but the simple artifi- cial symmetry of a parlour chandelier. Compare, for example, the plan of the Henriade to that of our so barbarous Hamlet. The plan of the former is a geometrical diagram by Fermat ; that of the latter a cartoon by Raphael. The Henriade, as Ave see it completed, is a polished square-built Tuileiies : Hamlet is a mysterious star-paved Valhalla and dwelling of the gods. Nevertheless, Voltaire’s style of Method is, as we have said, a business one ; and for his purposes more available than any other. It carries him SAviftly through his work, and carries liis reader swiftly through it ; there is a prompt intelli- gence between the two ; the whole meaning is communi- cated clearly, and comprehended Avithout effort. From this also it may folloAA', that Voltaire will please the young more than he does the old ; that the first perusal of him will please better than the second, if indeed any second be thought neces- sary. But what merit (and it is considerable) the pleasure and profit of this first perusal presupposes, must be honestly al- VOLTAIRE. 57 lowed him. Herein, it seems to us, lies the grand quality in all his performances. These Histories of his, for instance, are felt, in spite of their sparkling rapidity, and knowing ah' of philosophic insight, to he among the shallowest of all his- tories ; mere beadrolls of exterior occurrences, of battles, edi- fices, enactments, and other quite superficial phenomena ; yet being clear beadrolls, well adapted for memory, and recited in a lively tone, we listen with satisfaction, and learn somewhat ; learn much, if we began knowing nothing. Nay sometimes the summary, in its skilful though crowded arrangement, and brilliant well-defined outlines, has almost a poetical as well as a didactic merit. Charles the Twelfth may still pass for a model in that often-attempted species of Biography : the clearest details are given in the fewest words ; we have sketches of strange men and strange countries, of wars, ad- ventures, negotiations, in a style which, for graphic brevity rivals that of Sallust. It is a line-engraving, on a reduced scale, of that Swede and his mad life ; without colours, yet not without the fore-shortenings and perspective observances, nay not altogether without the deeper harmonies, which be- long to a true Picture. In respect of composition, whatever may be said of its accuracy or worth otherwise, w T e cannot but reckon it greatly the best of Voltaire’s Histories. In his other prose works, in his Novels, and innumerable Essays and fugitive pieces, the same clearness of order, the same rapid precision of view, again forms a distinguishing- merit. His Zadigs and JBaboucs and Candides, which, con- sidered as products of imagination, perhaps rank higher with foreigners than any of his professedly poetical performances, are instinct with this sort of intellectual life : the sharpest glances, though from an oblique point of sight, into at least the surface of human life, into the old familiar world of busi- ness ; which truly, from his oblique station, looks oblique enough, and yields store of ridiculous combinations. The Wit, manifested chiefly in these and the like performances, but ever flowing, unless purposely restrained, in boundless abundance from Voltaire’s mind, has been often and duly celebrated. It lay deep-rooted in his nature ; the inevitable 53 VOLTAIRE. produce of such an understanding with such a character, and was from the first likely, as it actually proved in the latter period of his life, to become the main dialect in which he spoke and even thought. Doing all justice to the inexhausti- ble readiness, the quick force, the polished acuteness of Vol- taire’s Wit ; we may remark, at the same time, that it was nowise the highest species of employment for such a mind as his ; that, indeed, it ranks essentially among the lowest species even of Bidicule. It is at all times mere logical pleasantry ; a ’gaiety of the head, not of the heart ; there is scarcely a twinkling of Humour in the whole of his number- less sallies. Wit of this sort cannot maintain a demure se- dateness ; a grave yet infinitely kind aspect, warming the inmost soul with true loving mirth ; it has not even the force to laugh outright, but can only sniff and titter. It grounds itself, not on fond sportful sympathy, but on contempt, or at best on indifference. It stands related to Humour as Prose does to Poetry ; of which, in this department at least, Vol- taire exhibits no symptom. The most determinedly ludi- crous composition of his, the Pucelle, which cannot, on other grounds, be recommended to any reader, has no higher merit than that of an audacious caricature. True, he is not a buf- foon ; seldom or never violates the rules, we shall not say of propriety, yet of good breeding : to this negative praise he is entitled. But as for any high claim to positive praise, it cannot be made good. We look in vain, through his whole writings, for one lineament of a Quixote or a Shandy ; even of a Hudibras or Battle of the Books. Indeed it has been more than once observed, that Humour is not a national gift with the French in late times ; that since Montaigne's day it seems to have wellnigh vanished from among them. Considered in his technical capacity of Poet, Voltaire need not, at present, detain us very long. Here too his excellence is chiefly intellectual, and shown in the way of business-like method. Everything is well calculated for a given end ; there is the utmost logical fitness of sentiment, of incident, of gen- eral contrivance. Nor is he without an enthusiasm that some- times resembles inspiration ; a clear fellow-feeling for the VOLTAIRE. 59 personages of his scene he always has ; with a chameleon sus- ceptibility he takes some hue of every object ; if he cannot be that object, he at least plausibly enacts it. Thus we have a result everywhere consistent with itself ; a contrivance, not without nice adjustments and brilliant aspects, which pleases with that old pleasure of ‘ difficulties overcome,’ and the visible correspondence of means to end. That the deeper portion of our soul sits silent, unmoved under all this ; recognising' no universal, everlasting Beauty, but only a modish Elegance, less the work of a poetical creation than a process of the toilette, need occasion no surprise. It signifies only that Vol- taire was a French poet, and wrote as the French people of that day required and approved. We have long known that French poetry aimed at a different result from ours; that its splendour was what we should call a dead, artificial one ; not the manifold soft summer glories of Nature, but a cold splen- dour, as of polished metal. On the whole, in reading Voltaire’s poetry, that adventure of the Cafe cle Procope should ever be held in mind. He was not without an eye to have looked, had he seen others looking - , into the deepest nature of poetry ; nor has he failed here and there to cast a glance in that direction : but what preferment could such enterprises earn for him in the Cafe de Procope ? What could it profit his all-precious ‘ fame ’ to pursue them farther ? In the end, he seems to have heartily reconciled himself to use and wont, and striven only to do better what he saw all others doing. Yet his private poetical creed, which could not be a catholic one, was, nevertheless, scarcely so bigoted as might have been looked for. That censure of Shakspeare, which elicited a re-censure in England, perhaps rather deserved a ‘recommendatory epistle,’ all things being considered. He calls Shakspeare ‘ a genius full of force and ‘fertility, of nature and sublimity,’ though unhappily ‘without ‘ the smallest spark of good taste, or the smallest acquaintance ‘ with the rules ; ’ which, in Voltaire’s dialect, is not so false ; Shakspeare having really almost no Parisian bon gout whatever, and walking through ‘ the rules,’ so often as he sees good, with the most astonishing tranquillity. After a fair enough account 60 VOLTAIRE. of Hamlet, tlae best of those £ farces monstrueuses qu’on appette tragedies,’ where, however, there are ‘ scenes so beautiful, pas- sages so grand and' so terrible,’ Voltaire thus proceeds to resolve two great problems : ‘ The first, how so many wonders could accumulate in a single head ; for it must be confessed that all the divine Shakspeare’s plays are written in this taste : the second, how men s minds could have been elevated so as to look at these plays with transport ; and how they are still followed after, in a centurv which has produced Addison s Colo ? ‘ Our astonishment at the first wonder will cease, when we understand that Shakspeare took all his tragedies from his- tories or romances ; and that in this case he only turned into verse the romance of Claudius, Gertrude and Hamlet, written in full by Saxo-Grammaticus, to whom be the praise. ‘ The second part of the problem, that is to say, the pleasure men take in these tragedies, presents a little more difficulty ; but here is (en void) the solution, according to the deep re- flections of certain philosophers. ‘The English chairmen, the sailors, hackney-coachmen, shop-porters, butchers, clerks even, are passionately fond of shows give them cock-fights, bull-baitings, fencing-matches, burials, duels, gibbets, witchcraft, apparitions, they run thither in crowds ; nay there is more than one patrician as curious as the populace. The citizens of -London found, in Shak- speare’s tragedies, satisfaction enough for such a turn of mind. The courtiers were obliged to follow the torrent : how can vou help admiring what the more sensible part of the town admires? There was nothing better for a hundred and fifty years : the admiration grew with age, and became an idoltarv. Some touches of genius, some happy verses full of force and nature, which you remember in spite of yourself, atoned for the remainder, and soon the whole piece succeeded by the help of some beauties of detail. ’ 1 Here, truly, is a comfortable little theory, which throws light on more than one thing. However, it is couched in mild terms, comparatively speaking. Frederick the Great, for example, thus gives his verdict : ‘ To convince yourself of the wretched taste that up to this day prevails in Germany, you have only to visit the public 1 CEuxres, t. xlvii. p. 300. VOLTAIRE. 61 theatres. You will there see, in action, the abominable plays of Shakspeare, translated into our language ; and the whole audience fainting with rapture ( se pumer d’aise) in listening to those ridiculous farces, worthy of the savages of Canada. I call them such, because they sin against all the rules of the theatre. One may pardon those mad sallies in Shakspeare, for the birth of the arts is never the point of their maturity. But here, even now, we have a Goetz de Berlichingen, which has just, made its appearance on the scene ; a detestable imi- tation of those miserable English pieces ; and the pit ap- plauds, and demands with enthusiasm the repetition of these disgusting ineptitudes {de ces degoutantes platitudes ).'’ 1 We have not cited these criticisms with a view to impugn them ; but simply to ascertain where the critics themselves are standing. This passage of Frederick’s has .even a touch of pathos in it ; may be regarded as the expiring cry of ‘ Gout ’ in that country, who sees himself suddenly belea- guered by strange, appalling Supernatural Influences, which he mistakes for Lapland wdtchcraft or Cagliostro jugglery ; which nevertheless swell up round him, irrepressible, higher, ever higher ; and so he drowns, grasping his opera-hat, in an ocean of ‘ degoutantes platitudes.’ On the whole, it would appear that Voltaire’s view of poetry was radically different from ours ; that, in fact, of what we should strictly call poetry, he had almost no view whatever. A Tragedy, a Poem, with him is not to be ‘ a manifestation of man’s Reason in forms suitable to his Sense ; ’ but rather a highly complex egg-dance, to be danced before the King, to a given tune and without breaking a single egg. Nevertheless, let justice be shown to him, and to French poetry at large. This latter is a peculiar growth of our modern ages ; has been laboriously cultivated, and is not without its own value. We have to remark also, as a curious fact, that it has been, at. one time or other, transplanted into all countries, England, Germany, Spain ; but though under the sunbeams of royal protection, it would strike root nowhere. Nay, now it seems falling into 1 Re la Litter ature AUemande ; Berlin, 1780. We quote from the compilation, Goethe in den Zeugnmen der Mitlebenden, s. 124. 62 VOLTAIRE. tlie sere and yellow leaf in its own natal soil : the axe has already been seen near its- root ; and perhaps, in no great lapse of years, this species of poetry may be to the French, what it is to all other nations, a pleasing reminiscence. Yet the elder French loved it with zeal ; to them it must have had a true worth : indeed we can understand how, when Life itself consisted so much in Display, these representations of Life may have been the only suitable ones. And now, when the nation feels itself called to a more grave and nobler des- tiny among nations, the want of a new literature also begins to be felt. As yet, in looking at their too purblind, scram- bling controversies of Romanticists and Classicists , we cannot find that our ingenious neighbours have done much more than make a commencement in this enterprise ; however, a commencement seems to be made : they are in what may be called the eclectic state ; trying all things, German, English, Italian, Spanish, with a candour and real love of improve- ment, which, give the best omens of a still higher success. From the peculiar gifts of the French, and their peculiar spiritual position, we may expect, had they once more at- tained to an original style, many important benefits, and im- portant accessions to the Literature of the World. Mean- while, in considering and duly estimating what that people has, in past times, accomplished, Voltaire must always be reckoned among their most meritorious Poets. Inferior in what we may call general poetic temperament to Racine ; greatly inferior, in some points of it, to Corneille, he has an intellectual vivacity, a quickness both of sight and of inven- tion, which belongs to neither of these two. We believe that, among foreign nations, his Tragedies, such works as Zaire and Mahomet, are considerably the most esteemed of this school. However, it is nowise as a Poet, Historian or Novelist, that Voltaire stands so prominent in Europe ; but chiefly as a re- ligious Polemic, as a vehement opponent of the Christian Faith. Viewed in this last character, he may give rise to many grave reflections, only a small portion of which can here be so much as glanced at. We may say, in general, that VOLTAIRE. 03 his style of controversy is of a piece with, himself ; not a higher, and scarcely a lower style than might have been ex- pected from him. As, in a moral point of view, Voltaire nowise wanted a love of truth, yet had withal a still deeper love of his own interest in truth ; was, therefore, intrinsically no Philosopher, but a highly accomplished Trivialist ; so like- wise, m an intellectual point of view, he manifests himself ingenious and adroit, rather than noble or comprehensive ; fights for truth or victory, not by patient meditation, but by light sarcasm, whereby victory may indeed, for a time, be gained ; but little Truth, what can be named Truth, especially in such matters as this, is to be looked for. No one, we suppose, ever arrogated for Voltaire any praise of originality in this discussion ; we sujDpose there is not a single idea, of any moment, relating to the Christian Religion, in all liis multifarious writings, that had not been set forth again and again before his enterprises commenced. The labours of a very mixed multitude, from Porphyry down to Shaftesbury, including Hobbeses, Tindals, Tolands, some of them sceptics of a much nobler class, had left little room for merit in this kind ; nay, Bayle, his own countryman, had just finished a life spent in preaching scepticism precisely similar, and by methods precisely similar, when Voltaire appeared on the arena. Indeed, scepticism, as we have before observed, was at this period universal among the higher ranks in France, with whom Voltaire chiefly associated. It is only in the merit and demerit of grinding down this grain into food for the people, and inducing so many to eat of it, that Voltaire can claim any singularity. However, we quarrel not with him on this head : there may be cases where the 'want of originality is even a moral merit. But it is a much more serious ground of offence that he intermeddled in Religion, without being himself, in any measure, religious ; that he en- tered the Temple and continued there, with a levity, which, in any Temple where men worship, can beseem no brother man ; that, in a word, he ardently, and with long-continued effort, warred against Christianity, without understanding be- yond the mere superficies what Christianity wns. VOLTAIRE. 64 His polemical procedure in this matter, it appears to us, must now be admitted to have been, on the whole, a shallow one. Through all its manifold ' forms, and involutions, and repetitions, . it turns, we believe exclusively, on one point : what Theologians have called the ‘ plenary Inspiration of the Scriptures.’ This is the single wall, against which, through long years, and with innumerable battering-rams and cata- pults and pop-guns, he unweariedly batters. Concede him this, and his ram swings freely to and fro through space : there is nothing farther it can even aim at. That the Sacred Books could be aught else than a Bank-of-Faith Bill, for such and such quantities of Enjoyment, payable at sight in the other world, value received ; which bill becomes waste paper, the stamp being questioned : — that the Christian Religion could have any deeper foundation than Books, could possibly be written in the purest nature of man, in mysterious, in- effaceable characters, to which Books, and all Revelations, and authentic traditions, were but a subsidiary matter, were but as the light whereby that divine writing was to be read ; — nothing of this seems to have, even in the faintest manner, occurred to him. Yet herein, as we believe that the whole world has. now begun to discover, lies the real essence of the question ; by the negative or affirmative decision of which the Christian Religion, anything that is worth calling by that name, must fall or endure forever. We believe also, that the wiser minds of oiu' age have already come to agreement on this question ; or rather never were divided regarding it. Christianity, the ‘Worship of Sorrow,’ has been recognised as divine, on far other grounds than ‘ Essays on Miracles,’ and by considerations infinitely deeper than would avail in any mere ‘ trial by jury.’ He who argues against it, or for it, in this manner, may be regarded as mistaking its nature : the Ithuriel, though to our eyes he wears a body and the fashion of armour, cannot be wounded with material steel. Our fathers were wiser than we, when they said in deepest earnestness, what we often hear in shallow 7 mockery, that Religion is ‘ not of Sense, but of Faith ; ’ not of Understanding, but of Reason. He who finds himself without the latter, who by all his study- VOLTAIRE. 65 ing lias failed to unfolci it in himself, may have studied to great or to small purpose, we say not which ; but of the Christian Religion, as of many other things, he has and can have no knowledge. The Christian Doctrine we often hear likened to the Greek Philosophy, and found, on all hands, some measurable way superior to it : but this also seems a mistake. The Christian Doctrine, that Doctrine of Humility, in all senses godlike and the parent of all godlike virtues, is not superior, or inferior, or equal, to any doctrine of Socrates or Thales ; being of a totally different nature ; differing from these, as a perfect Ideal Poem does from a correct Computation in Arithmetic. He who compares it with such standards may lament that, beyond the mere letter, the purport of this divine Humility has never been disclosed to him ; that the loftiest feeling hitherto vouchsafed to mankind is as yet hidden from his eyes. For the rest, the question how Christianity originated is doubtless a high question ; resolvable enough, if we view only its surface, which was all that Voltaire saw of it ; in- volved in sacred, silent, unfathomable depths, if we investi- gate its interior meanings ; which meanings, indeed, it may be, every new age will develop to itself in a new manner and with new degrees of light ; for the whole truth may be dalled infinite, and to man’s eye discernible only in parts ; but the question itself is nowise the ultimate one in this matter. We understand ourselves to be risking no new assertion, but simply reporting what is already the conviction of the greatest of our age, when we say, — that cheerfully recognis- ing, gratefully appropriating whatever Voltaire has proved, or any other man has proved, or shall prove, the Christian Relig- ion, once here, cannot again pass away ; that in one or the other form, it will endure through all time ; that as in Script- ure, so also in the heart of man, is written, ‘ the Gates of Hell shall not prevail against it.’ Were the memory of this Faith never so obscured, as, indeed, in all times, the coarse passions and perceptions of the world do all but obliterate it in the hearts of most ; yet in every pure soul, in evejy Poet 5 66 VOLTAIRE. and Wise Man, it finds a new Missionary, a new Martyr, till the great volume of Universal History is finally closed, and man’s destinies are fulfilled in this earth. ‘It is a height ‘ to which the human species were fated and enabled to at- tain ; and from which, having once attained it, they can ‘ never retrograde.’ . ° « These things, which it were far out of our place to attempt adequately elucidating here, must not be left out of sight, in appreciating Voltaire’s polemical worth. We find no trace of these, or of any the like essential considerations having been present with him, in examining the Christian Religion ; nor indeed was it consistent with his general habits that they should be so. Totally destitute of religious Reverence, even of - common practical seriousness ; by nature or habit, unde- vout both in heart and head ; not only without any Belief, in other than a material sense, but without the possibility of acquiring any, he can be no safe or permanently useful guide in this investigation. We may consider him as having opened the way to future inquirers of a truer spirit ; but for his own part, as having engaged in an enterprise, the real nature of which was wellnigh unknown to him ; and engaged in it with the issue to be anticipated in such a case ; producing chiefly confusion, dislocation, destruction, on all hands ; so that *the good he achieved is still, in these times, found mixed with an alarming proportion of evil, from which, in- deed, men rationally doubt whether much of it will in any time be separable. We should err widely too, if, in estimating what quantity, altogether overlooking what quality, of intellect Voltaire may have manifested on this occasion, we took the result pro- duced as any measure of the force applied. His task was not one of Affirmation, but of Denial ; not a task of erecting and rearing up, which is slow and laborious ; but of destroying and oyerturning, which in most cases is rapid and far easier. The force necessary for him was nowise a great and noble one ; but a small, in some respects a mean one ; to be nimbly and seasonably put in use. The Ephesian Temple, which it had employed many wise heads and strong arms for a life- VOLTAIliE. 67 time to build, could be unbuilt by one madman, in a single hour. Of such errors, deficiencies and positive misdeeds, it ap- pears to us a just criticism must accuse Voltaire : at the same time, we can nowise joiu in the condemnatory clamour which so many worthy persons, not without the best intentions, to this day keep up against him. His wdiole character seems to be plain enough, common enough, had not extraneous influ- ences so perverted our views regarding it : nor, morally speaking, is it a worse character, but considerably a better one, than belongs to the mass of men. Voltaire’s aims in op- posing the Christian Religion were unhappily of a mixed nat- ure ; yet, after all, very nearly such aims as we have often seen directed against it, and often seen directed in its favour : a little love of finding Truth, with a great love of making Proselytes ; which last is in itself a natural, universal feeling ; and if honest, is, even in the worst cases, a subject for pity, rather than for hatred. As a light, careless, courteous Man of the World, he offers no hateful aspect ; on the contrary, a kindly, gay, rather amiable one : hundreds of men, with half his worth of disposition, die daily, and their little world laments them. It is time that he too should be judged of by his intrinsic, not by his accidental qualities ; that justice should be done to him also ; for injustice can profit no man and no cause. Iu fact, Voltaire’s chief merits belong to Nature and him- self ; his chief faults are of his time and country. In that famous era of the Pompadours and Encyclopcdies, he forms the main figure ; and was such, we have seen, more by re- sembling the multitude, than by differing from them. It was a strange age that of Louis XV. ; in several points a novel one in the history of mankind. In regard to its luxury and de- pravity, to the high culture of all merely practical and ma- terial faculties, and the entire torpor of all the purely con- templative and spiritual, this era considerably resembles that of the Roman Emperors. There too was external splendour and internal squalor ; the highest completeness in all sensual arts, including among these not cookery and its adjuncts 68 VOLTAIRE. alone, but even ‘ effect-painting ’ and ‘ effect-writing ; ’ only the art of virtuous living was a lost one. Instead of Love for Poetry, there was ‘Taste ’ for it ; refinement in manners, with utmost coarseness in morals : in a word, the strange spectacle of a Social System, embracing large, cultivated portions of the human species, and founded only on Atheism. With .the Romans, things went what we should call their natural course : Liberty, public spirit quietly declined into caput- mortuum ; Self-love, Materialism, Baseness even to the dis- belief in all possibility of Virtue, stalked more and more im- periously abroad ; till the body-politic, long since deprived of its vital circulating fluids, had now become a putrid car- cass, and fell in. pieces to be the prey of ravenous wolves. Then was there, under these Attilas and Alarics a world- spectacle of destruction and despair, compared with which the often-commemorated ‘ horrors of the French Revolution,’ and all Napoleon’s wars, were but the gay jousting of a tour- nament to the sack of stormed cities. Our European com- munity has escaped the like dire consummation ; and by causes which, as may be hoped, will always secure it from such. Nay, were there no other cause, it may be asserted, that in a commonwealth where the Christian Religion ex- ists, where it once has existed, public and private Virtue, the basis of all Strength, never can become extinct ; but in every new age, and even from the deepest decline, there is a chance, and in the course of ages a certainty of renovation. That the Christian Religion, or any Religion, continued to exist ; that some martyr heroism still lived in the heart of Europe to rise against mailed Tyranny when it rode trium- phant, — was indeed no merit in the age of Louis XV., but a happy accident which it could not altogether get rid of. For that age too is to be regarded as an experiment, on the great scale, to decide the question, not yet, it would appear, settled to universal satisfaction : With what degree of vigour a political system, grounded on pure Self-interest, never so enlightened, but without a God or any recognition of the god-like in man, can be expected to flourish ; or whether, in such circumstances, a political system can be expected to flourish, or even to sub- VOLTAIRE. 69 sist at all ? It is contended by .many that our mere love of personal Pleasure, or Happiness as it is called, acting on every individual, with such clearness as he may easily have, -will of itself lead him to respect the rights of others, and wisely em- ploy his own ; to fulfil, on a mere principle of economy, all the duties of a good patriot ; so that, in what respects the State, or the mere social existence of mankind, Belief, beyond the testimony of the senses, and Virtue, beyond the very com- mon Virtue of loving what is pleasant and hating what is pain- ful, are to be considered as supererogatory qualifications, as ornamental, not essential. Many there are, on the other hand, who pause over this doctrine ; cannot discover, in such a uni- verse of conflicting atoms, any principle by which the whole shall cohere ; for if every man’s selfishness, infinitely expansive, is to be hemmed-in only by the infinitely-expansive selfishness of every other man, it seems as if we should have a world of mutually repulsive bodies with no centripetal force to bind them together ; in which case, it is well known, they would, by and by, diffuse themselves over space, and constitute a re- markable Chaos, but no habitable Solar or Stellar System. If the age of Louis XV. was not made an experimentum crucis in regard to this question, one reason may be, that such experiments are too expensive. Nature cannot afford, above once or twice in the thousand years, to destroy a whole world, for purposes of science ; but must content herself with de- stroying one or two kingdoms. The age of Louis XV., so far as it went, seems a highly illustrative experiment. Me are to remark also, that its operation was clogged by a very consid- erable disturbing force ; by a large remnant, namely, of the old faith in Religion, in the invisible, celestial nature of Virtue, which our - French Purifiers, by their utmost efforts’ of lavation, had not been able to wash away. The men did their best, but no man can do more. Their worst enemy, we imag- ine, will not accuse them of any undue regard to things un- seen and spiritual : far from practising this invisible sort of Virtue, they cannot even believe in its possibility. The high exploits and endurances of old ages were no longer virtues, but ‘ passions ; ’ these antique persons had a taste for being 70 VOLTAIRE. lieroes, a certain fancy to clie for the' truth : the more fools they ! With our Philosophes, the only virtue of any civilisa- tion was what they call ‘ Honour,’ the sanctioning deity of which is that wonderful ‘ Force of Public Opinion.’ Concern- ing which virtue of Honour, we must be permitted to say, that she reveals herself too clearly as the daughter and heiress of our old acquaintance Vanity, who indeed has been known enough ever since the foundation of the world, at least since the date of that ‘Lucifer, son of the Morning;’ but known chiefly in her proper character of strolling actress, or cast- clothes Abigail ; and never, till that new era, had seen her issue set up as Queen and all-sufficient Dictatress of man’s whole soul, prescribing with nicest precision what, in all prac- tical and all moral emergencies, he was to do and to forbear. Again, with regard to this same Force of Public Opinion, it is a force well known to all of us ; respected, valued as of in- dispensable utility, but nowise recognised as a final or divine force. We might ask, What divine, what truly great thing had ever been effected by this force? Was it the Force of Public Opinion that drove Columbus to America ; John Kep- ler, not to fare sumptuously among Piodolph’s Astrologers and Fire-eaters, but to perish of want, discovering the tine System of the Stars ? Still more ineffectual do we find it as a basis of public or private Morals. Nay, taken by itself, it may be called a baseless basis : for without some ulterior sanction, common to all minds ; without some belief in the necessary, eternal, or which is the same, in the supramundane, divine nature of Virtue, existing in each individual, what could the moral judgment of a thousand or a thousand-thousand indi- viduals avail us ? Without some celestial guidance, whence- soever derived, or howsoever named, it appears to us the Force of Public Opinion would, by and by, become an extremely un- profitable one. “ Enlighten Self-interest ! ” cries the Philoso- phe ; “ do but sufficiently enlighten it ! ” We ourselves have seen enlightened Self-interests, ere now ; and truly, for most part, their light was only as that of a horn-lantern, sufficient to guide the bearer himself out of various puddles ; but to us and the world of comparatively small advantage. And figure VOLTAIRE. 71 tlie human species, like an endless host, seeking its way on- wards through undiscovered Time, in black ’ darkness, save that each had his horn-lantern, and the vanguard some few of glass ! However, we will not dwell on controversial niceties. What we had to remark was, that this era, called of Philosophy, was in itself but a poor era ; that any little morality it had was chiefly borrowed, and from those very ages which it ac- counted so barbarous. For this ‘ Honour,’ this ‘ Force of Public Opinion,’ is not asserted, on any side, to have much renovating, but only a sustaining or preventive power ; it can- not create new Virtue, but at best may preserve what is al- ready there. Nay, of the age of Louis XV., we may say that its very Power, its material strength, its knowledge, all that it had, was borrowed. It boasted itself to be an age of illumina- tion ; and truly illumination there was of its kind : only, ex- cept the illuminated windows, almost nothing to be seen there- by. None of those great Doctrines or Institutions that have ‘ made man in all points a man ; ’ none even of those Discov- eries that have the most subjected external Nature to his pur- poses, were made in that age. What Plough or Printing-press, what Chivalry or Christianity, nay what Steam-engine, or Quakerism, or Trial by Jury, did these Encyclopedists invent for mankind ? They invented simply nothing : not one of man’s virtues, not one of man’s powers, is due .to them ; in all these respects the age of Louis XV. is among the most barren of recorded ages. Indeed, the whole trade of our Fhilosophes was directly the opposite of invention : it was not to produce, that they stood there ; but to criticise, to quarrel with, to rend in pieces, what had been already produced ; — a quite inferior trade : sometimes a useful, but on the wliole a mean trade ; often the fruit, and always the parent, of meanness, in every mind that permanently follow's it. Considering the then position of affairs, it is not singular that the age of Louis XV. should have been what it w-as ; an age without nobleness, without high virtue, or high manifes- tations of talent ; an age of shallow clearness, of polish, self- conceit, scepticism and all forms of Persiflage. As little does 72 VOLTAIRE. it seem surprising, or peculiarly blamable, that Voltaire, the leading man of that age, should have partaken largely of all its qualities. True his giddy activity took serious effect ; the light firebrands, which he so carelessly scattered abroad, kindled fearful conflagrations : but in these there has been good as well as evil ; nor is it just that, even for the latter, he, a limited mortal, should be charged with more than mor- tal’s responsibility. After all, that parched, blighted period, and the. period of earthquakes and tornadoes which followed it, have now well-nigh cleared away : they belong to the Past, and for us, and those that come after us, are not withcfut their benefits* and calm historical meaning. ‘ The thinking heads of all nations,’ says a deep observer, ! had in secret come to majority ; and in a mistaken feeling of their vocation, rose the more fiercely against antiquated constraint. The Man of Letters is, by instinct, opposed to a Priesthood of old standing : the literary class and the clerical must wage a war of extermination, when they are divided ; for both strive after one place. Such division became more and more perceptible, the nearer we approached the period of European manhood, the epoch of triumphant Learning ; and Knowledge and Faith came into more decided contradic- tion. In the prevailing Faith, as was thought, lay the reason of the universal degradation ; and by a more and more search- ing Knowledge men hoped to remove it. On all hands, the Religious feeling suffered, under manifold attacks against its actual manner of existence, against the forms in which hitherto it had embodied itself. The result of that modern way of thought was named Philosophy ; and in this all was included that opposed itself to the ancient way of thought, especially, therefore, all that opposed itself to Religion, The original personal hatred against the Catholic Faith passed, by degrees, into hatred against the Bible, against the Christian Religion, and at last against Religion altogether. Nay more, this hatred -of Religion naturally extended itself over all objects of en- thusiasm in general ; proscribed Fancy and Feeling, Morality and love of Art, the Future and the Antique ; placed man, with an effort, foremost in the series of natural productions ; and changed the infinite, creative music of the Universe into the monotonous clatter of a boundless Mill, which, turned by the stream of Chance, and swimming thereon, was a Mill of VOLTAIRE. 73 itself, without Architect and Miller, properly a genuine per- petuum mobile, a real self-grinding Mill. ‘ One enthusiasm was generously left to poor mankind, and rendered indispensable as a touchstone of the highest culture, for all jobbers in the same : Enthusiasm for this inagnamimous Philosophy, and above all, for these its priests and mysta- gogues. France was so happy as to be the birthplace and dwelling of this new Faith, whieh had thus, from patches of pare knowledge, been pasted together. Low as Poetry ranked in this new Church, there were some poets among them, who, for effect’s sake, made use of the old ornaments and old lights ; but in so doing, ran a risk of kindling the new world-system by ancient fire. More cunning brethren, however, were at hand to help ; and always in season poured cold water on the warming audience. The members of this Church were rest- lessly employed in clearing Nature, the Earth, the Souls of men, the Sciences, from all Poetry ; obliterating every vestige of the Holy ; disturbing, by sarcasms, the memory of all lofty occurrences and lofty men ; disrobing the world of all its va- riegated vesture. * * * Pity that Nature continued so wondrous and incomprehensible, so poetical and infinite, all efforts to modernise her notwithstanding ! However, if any- where an old superstition, of a higher world and the like, came to light, instantly, on all hands, was a springing of rat- tles ; that, if possible, the dangerous spark might be extin- guished, by appliances of philosphy and wit : yet Tolerance was the watchword of the cultivated ; and in France, above all, synonymous with Philosophy. Highly remarkable is this history of modern Fnbelief ; the key to all the vast phenomena of recent times. Not till last century, till the latter half of it, does the novelty begin ; and in a little while, it expands to an immeasurable bulk and variety : a second Reformation, a more comprehensive, and more specific, was unavoidable ; and naturally it first visited that land which was the most modernised, and had the longest lain in an asthenic state, from want of freedom. ' * * * ‘ At the present epoch, however, we stand high enough to look back with a friendly smile on those bygone days ; and even in those marvellous follies to discern curious crystallisa- tions of historical matter. Thankfully will we stretch out our . hands to those Men of Letters and Philosophes : for this de- lusion too required to be exhausted, and the scientific side of things to have full value given it. More beauteous and many- coloured stands Poesy, like a leafy India, when contrasted 74 VOLTAIRE. with the cold, dead Spitsbergen of that Closet-Logic. That in the middle of the globe, an India, so warm and lordly, might exist, must also a cold motionless sea, dead cliffs, mist instead of the starry sliy, and a long night make both poles uninhabitable. The deep meaning of the laws of Mecha nism lay heavy on those anchorites in the deserts of Understand- ing : the charm of the first glimpse into it overpowered them : the Old avenged itself on them ; to the first feeling of self- consciousness, they sacrificed, with wondrous devotedness, what was holiest and fairest in the world ; and were the first that, in practice, again recognised and preached forth the sa- credness of Nature, the infinitude of Art, the independence of Knowledge, the worth of the Practical, and the all-presence of the Spirit of History ; and so doing, put an end to a Spec- tre-dynasty, more potent, universal and terrific than perhaps they themselves were aware of .’ 1 How far our readers will accompany Novalis in such high- soaring speculation, is not for us to say. Meanwhile, that the better part of them have already, in their own dialect, united with him, and with us, in candid tolerance, in clear acknowledgment, towards French Philosophy, towards this Voltaire and the spiritual period which bears his name, we do not hesitate to believe. Intolerance, animosity can for- ward no cause ; and least of 'all beseems the cause of moral and religious truth. A "wise man has well reminded us, that ‘in any controversy, the instant we feel angry, we have al- ‘ ready ceased striving for Truth, and begun striving for ‘Ourselves.’ Let no man doubt but Voltaire and his disciples, like all men and all things that live and act in God’s world, will one day be found to have ‘worked together for good.’ Nay that, with all his evil, he has already accomplished good, must be admitted in the soberest calculation. How much do we include in this little word : He gave the death-stab to modern Superstition ! That horrid incubus, which dwelt in darkness, shunning the light, is passing away ; with all its racks, and poison-chalices, and foul sleeping-draughts, is passing away without return. It was a most weighty service. Does not the cry of “No Popery,” and some vague terror or 1 Novalis Scliriften, i. s. 198. VOLTAIRE. 75 sham-terror of ‘ Smithfield fires,’ still act on certain minds in these very days ? He who sees even a little way into the signs of the times, sees well that both the Smithfield fires, and the Edinburgh thumb screws (for these too must be held in remembrance) are things which have long, very long, lain be- hind us ; divided from us by a wall of Centuries, transparent indeed, but more impassable than adamant. For, as we said, Superstition is in its death-lair : the last agonies may endure for decades, or for centuries ; but it carries the iron in its heart, and will not vex the earth any more. That, with Superstition, Eeligion is also passing away, seems to us a still moi’e ungrounded fear. Eeligion cannot pass away. The burning of a little straw may hide the stars of the sky ; but the stars are there, and will re-appear. On the whole, we must repeat the often-repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion ; or with any other feeling than regret, and hope, and brotherly commiseration. If he seek Truth, is he not our brother, and to be pitied ? If he do not seek Truth, is he not still our brother, and to be pitied still more ? Old Ludovicus Vives has a story of a clown that killed his ass because it had drunk up the moon, and he thought the world could ill spare that luminary. * So he killed his ass, ut lunam redderet. The clown was well-intentioned, but unwise. Let us not imitate him : let us not slay a faithful servant, who has carried us far. He has not drunk the moon ; but only the reflection of the moon, in his own poor water-pail, where too, it may be, he was drinking with purposes the most harmless. NOVALIS NOVALIS. No good Book, or good thing of any sort, shows its best face at first : Improvisators, and their literary soap-bubbles. Men of genius : The wise man's errors more instructive than the truisms of a fool. What is called ‘ reviewing ; ’ showing how a small Reviewer maj triumph over a great Author, and what his triumph is worth. The writings of Novalis of too much importance to be lightly passed by. (p. 79). — Novalis’s birth and parentage : Religious and secluded Childhood : Schooling. Applies himself honestly to business. Death of his first love C'om- nnmings with Eternity. Influence on his character of this wreck of his first passionate wish : Doctrine of ‘ Renunciation.’ Peace and cheer- fulness of his life : Interest in the physical sciences. Acquaintance and literary cooperation with Schlegel and Tieck. Alarming illness : Hopeful literary projects : Gradual bodily decline, and peaceful death. Manners, and personal aspect. (86). — Wonderful depth and originality of his writings : His philosophic mysticism. Idealism not confined to Germany. The Kantean view of the material Universe : Its intellectual and moral bearing on the practical interests of men. Influence on the deep, religious spirit of Novalis : Nature no longer dead, hostile Blat- ter ; but the veil and mysterious Garment of the Unseen : The Beauty of Goodness, the only real, final possession. (98). — Extracts from the Lehrlinffle su Sais , &c. ; Manifold significance of all natural phenomena to the true observer ; Beauty and omnipotence of childlike intuition ; How the chastened understanding may be brought into harmony with the deepest intuitions, and the most rigid facts : Nature, as viewed by the superstitious fanatic, the utilitarian inquirer, the sceptical idealist, and the regenerate Soul of man : The mechanics and dynamics of Thought ; Eclectic Philosophers : Philosophic Fragments. (107). — No- valis as a Poet : Extracts from Hymns to the Night, and Heinrich von Of- terdingen. His writings an unfathomed mine, where the keenest intel- lect may find occupation enough : His power of intense abstraction : His chief fault a certain undue passiveness. Likeness to Dante and Pascal. Intelligent, well-informed minds should endeavour to under- stand even Mysticism. Mechanical Superciliousness versus living Be- lief in God ; the victory not doubtful. (121). •NOYALIB . 1 [ 1829 .] A number of years ago, Jean Paul's copy of Novalis led him to infer that the German reading-world was of a quick dispo- sition ; inasmuch as, with respect to books that required more than one perusal, it declined perusing them at all. .Paul’s Novalis, we suppose, was of the first Edition, uncut, dusty, and lent him from the Public Library with willingness, nay with joy. But times, it would appear, must be considerably changed since then ; indeed, were we to judge of German reading habits from these Volumes of ours, we should draw quite a different conclusion to Paul’s ; for they are of the fourth Edition, perhaps therefore the ten-thousandth copy, and that of a Book demanding, whether deserving or not, to be oftener read than almost any other it has ever been our lot to examine. Without at all entering into the merits of Novalis, we may observe that we should reckon it a happy sign of Literature, were so solid a fashion of study here and there established in all countries : for directly in the teeth of most c intellectual tea-circles,’ it may be asserted that no good Book, or good thing of any sort, shows its best face at first ; nay that the commonest quality in a true work of Art, if its excellence have any depth and compass, is that at first sight it occasions a certain disappointment ; perhaps even, mingled with its un- 1 Foreign Review, No. 7. — Novalis Schriften. Hercnisgegehen ton Ludicig Tieck und Friedrich Schlegel (Novalis’ Writings. Edited 'by- Ludwig Tieck and Friedrich Sclilegel). Fourth Edition. 2 vols. Berlin, 1826. 80 NOV ALTS. deniable beauty, a certain feeling of aversion. Not as if we meant, by this remark, to cast a stone at the old guild of liter- ary Improvisators, or any of that diligent brotherhood, whose trade it is to blow soap-bubbles for their fellow-creatures ; which bubbles, of course, if they are not seen and admired this moment, will be altogether lost to men’s eyes the next. Considering the use of these blowers, in civilised communi- ties, we rather wish them strong lungs, and all manner of prosperity : but simply we would contend that such soap- bubble guild should not become the sole one in Literature, that being indisputably the strongest, it should content itself with this preeminence, and not tyrannically annihilate its less prosperous neighbours. For it should be recollected that Literature positively has other aims than this of amusement from hour to hour ; nay perhaps that this, glorious as it may be, is not its highest or true aim. We do say, therefore, that the Improvisator corporation should be kept within limi ts ; and readers, at least a certain small class of readers, should understand that some few departments of human inquiry have still their depths and difficulties ; that the abstruse is not pre- cisely synonymous with the absurd ; nay that light itself may be darkness, in a certain state of the eyesight ; that, in short, cases may occur when a little patience and some attempt at thought would not be altogether superfluous in reading. Let the mob of gentlemen keep their own ground, and be happy and applauded there : if they overstep that ground, they in- deed may flourish the better for it, but the reader will suffer damage. For in this wav, a reader accustomed to see through everything in one second of time, comes to forget that his wisdom and critical penetration are finite and not infinite ; and so commits more than one mistake in his conclusions. The Reviewer too, who indeed is only a preparatory reader, as it were a sort of sieve and drainer for the use of more lux- urious readers, soon follows his example : these two react still farther on the mob of gentlemen ; and so among them all, with this action and reaction, matters grow worse and worse. It rather seems to us as if, in this respect of faithfulness in reading, the Germans were somewhat ahead of us English ; at NOYALIS. 81 least we have no such proof to show of it as that fourth Edition of Novalis. Our Coleridge’s Friend, for example, and Bio- grapKia Literaria are but a slight business compared with these Schriften ; little more than the Alphabet, and that in gilt let- ters, of such Philosophy and Art as is here taught in the form of Grammar and Rhetorical Compend : yet Coleridge’s works were triumphantly condemned by the whole reviewing world, as clearly unintelligible ; and among readers they have still but an unseen circulation ; like living brooks, hidden for the present under mountains of froth and theatrical snow-paper, and which only at a distant day, when these mountains shall have decomposed themselves into gas and earthly residuum, may roll forth in them true limpid shape, to gladden the gen- eral eye with what beauty and everlasting freshness does re- side in them. It is admitted too, on all hands, that Mr. Coleridge is a man of ‘genius,’ that is, a man having more intellectual insight than other men ; and strangely enough* it is taken for granted, at the same time, that he has less intellectual insight than any other. For why else are his doctrines to be thrown out of doors, without examination, as false and worthless, simply because they are obscure ? Or how is their so palpable falsehood to be accounted for to our minds, except on this extraordinary ground : that a man able to originate deep thoughts (such is the meaning of genius) is unable to see them when originated ; that the creative intellect of a Philosopher is destitute of that mere faculty of logic which belongs to ‘ all Attorneys, and men educated in Edin- burgh ? ’ The Cambridge carrier, when asked whether his horse could “ draw inferences,” readily replied, “ Yes, any- thing in reason ; ” but here, it seems, is a man of genius who has no similar gift. We ourselves, we confess, are too young in the study of human nature to have met with any such anomaly. Never yet has it been our fortune to fall in with any man of genius, whose conclusions did not correspond better with his premises, and not worse, than those of other men ; whose genius, when it once came to be understood, did not manifest itself in a deeper, fuller, truer view of all things human and divine, than 6 82 NOVALIS. the clearest of your so laudable ‘ practical men ’ had claim to. Such, we say, has been our uniform experience ; so uniform, that we now hardly ever expect to see it contradicted. True it is, the old Pythagorean argument of ‘ the master said it,’ has long since ceased to be available : in these days, no man, except the Pope of Rome, is altogether exempt from error of judgment ; doubtless a man of genius may chance to adopt false opinions ; nay rather, like all other sons of Adam, except that same enviable Pope, must occasionally adopt such. Never- theless, we reckon it a good maxim, That no error is fully con- futed till we have seen not only that it is an error, but how it became one ; till finding that it clashes with the principles of truth established in our own mind, we find also in what •way it had seemed to harmonise with the principles of truth established in that other mind, perhaps so unspeakably su- perior to ours. Treated by this method, it still appears to us, according to the the old saying, that the errors of a wise man are literally more instructive than the truths of a fool. For the wise man travels in lofty, far-seeing regions ; the fool, in low-lying, high-fenced lanes : retracing the footsteps of the former, to discover where he deviated, whole provinces of the Universe are laid open so us ; in the path of the latter, grant- ing even that he have not deviated at all, little is laid open to us but two wheel-ruts and two hedges. On these grounds we reckon it more profitable, in almost any case, to have to do with men of depth, than with men of shallowness : and, were it possible, we would read no book that was not written by one of the former class ; all members of which we would love and venerate, how perverse soever they might seem to us at first ; nay though, after the fullest investigation, we still found many things to pardon in them. Such of our readers as at all participate in this predilection will not blame us for bringing them acquainted with Novalis, a man of the most indisputable talent, poetical and philosophi- cal ; whose opinions, extraordinary, nay altogether wild and baseless as they often appear, are not without a strict cohe- rence in his own mind, and will lead any other mind, that examines them faithfully, into endless considerations ; opening NOVAIIS. 83 tlie strangest inquiries, new truths, or new possibilities of truth, a whole unexpected world of thought, where, whether for belief or denial, the deepest questions await us. In what is called reviewing such a book as this, we are aware that to the judicious craftsman two methods present themselves. The tirst and most convenient is, for the Re- viewer to perch himself resolutely, as it were, on the shoulder of his Author, and therefrom to show as if he commanded him and looked down on him by natural superiority of stature. Whatsoever the great man says or does, the little man shall treat with an air of knowingness and light condescending mockery ; professing, with much covert sarcasm, that this and that other is beyond his comprehension, and cunningly asking his readers if they comprehend it ! Herein it will help him mightily, if, besides description, he can quote a few passages, which, in their detached state, and taken most probably in quite a wrong acceptation of the words, shall sound strange, and, to certain hearers, even absurd ; all which will be easy enough, if he have any handiness in the business, and address the right audience ; truths, as this world goes, being true only for those that have some understanding of them ; as, for in- stance, in the Yorkshire Wolds, and Thames Coal-ships, Chris- tian men enough might be found, at this da} r , who, if you read them the Thirty-ninth of the Principia , would ‘ grin intelli- gence from ear to ear.’ On the other hand, should our Re- viewer meet with any passage, the wisdom of which, deep, plain and palpable to the simplest, might cause misgivings in the reader, as if here were a man of half-unknown endowment, whom perhaps it were better to wonder at than laugh at, our Reviewer either suppresses it, or citing it with an air of meri- torious candour, calls upon his Author, in a tone of command and encouragement, to lay aside his transcendental crotchets, and write always thus, and he will admire him. Whereby the reader again feels comforted ; proceeds swimmingly to the conclusion of the ‘ Article,’ and shuts it with a victorious feel- ing, not only that he and the Reviewer understand this man, but also that, with some rays of fancy and the like, the man is little better than a living mass of darkness. 84 NO VALIS. In this way does the small Reviewer triumph over great Authors ; but it is the triumph of a fool. In this way too does he recommend himself to certain readers, but it is the recommendation of a parasite, and of no true servant. The servant would have spoken truth, iu this case ; truth, that it might have profited, however harsh : the parasite glozes his master with sweet speeches, that he may filch applause, and certain ‘ guineas per sheet,’ from him ; substituting for igno- rance which was harmless, error which is not so. And yet to the vulgar reader, naturally enough, that flattering unction is full of solacement. In fact, to a reader of this sort few things can be more alarming than to find that his own little Parish, Avhere he lived so snug and absolute, is, after all, not the whole Universe ; that beyond the hill which screened his house from the west wind, and grew his kitchen-vegetables so sweetly, there are other hills and other hamlets, nay mountains and towered cities ; with all which, if he would continue to pass for a geographer, he must forthwith make himself acquainted. Now this Reviewer, often his fellow Parishioner, is a safe man ; leads him pleasantly to the hill-top ; shows him that indeed there are, or seem to be, other expanses, these too of bound- less extent : but with only cloud mountains, and fala-morgana cities ; the true character of that region being Vacuity, or at best a stony desert tenanted by Gryphons and Chimeras. Surely, if printing is not, like courtier speech, ‘ the art of concealing thought,’ all this must be blamable enough. Is it the Reviewer’s real trade to be a pander of laziness, self- conceit and all manner of contemptuous stupidity on the part of his reader ; carefully ministering to these propensities ; carefully fencing off whatever might invade that fool’s-para- dise with news of disturbance ? Is he the priest of Litera- ture and Philosophy, to interpret their mysteries to the common man ; as a faithful preacher, teaching him to under- stand what is adapted for his understanding, to reverence what is adapted for higher understandings than his ? Or merely the lackey of Dulness, striving for certain wages of pudding or praise, by the month or quarter, to perpetuate the reign of presumption and triviality on earth ? If the NO VALIS. 85 latter, will lie not be counselled to pause for an instant, and reflect seriously, whether starvation were worse or were bet- ter than such a dog’s-existence ? Our reader perceives that we are for adopting the second method with regard to Novalis ; that we wish less to insult over this highly-gifted man, than to gain some insight into him ; that we look upon his mode of being and thinking as very singular, but not therefore necessarily very contempti- ble ; as a matter, in fact, worthy of examination, and difficult beyond most others to examine wisely and with profit. Let no man expect that, in this case, a Samson is to be led forth, blinded and manacled, to make him sport. Nay, might it not, in a spiritual sense, be death, as surely it would be damage, to the small man himself ? For is not this habit of sneering at all greatness, of forcibly bringing down all greatness to his own height, one chief cause which keeps that height so very inconsiderable ? Come of it what may, we have no refreshing dew for the small man’s vanity in this place ; nay rather, as charitable brethren, and fellow- sufferers from that same evil, we would gladly lay the sickle to that reed-grove of self-conceit, which has grown round him, and reap it altogether away, that so the true figure of the world, and his own true figure, might no longer be utterly hidden from him. Does this our brother, then, refuse to accompany us, without such allurements ? He must even retain our best wishes, and abide by his own hearth. Farther, to the honest few w T ho still go along with us on this occasion, we are bound in justice to say that, far from looking down on Novalis, we cannot place either them or ourselves on a level with him. To explain so strange an individuality, to exhibit a mind of this depth and singularity before the minds of readers so foreign to him in every sense, would be a vain pretension in us. With the best will, and after repeated trials, we have gained but a feeble notion of Novalis for ourselves : his Volumes come before us with every disadvantage ; they are the posthumous works of a man cut off in early life, while his opinions, far from being matured for the public eye, were still lying crude and disjointed be- 86 NO VALIS. fore Ills own ; for- most part written down in the shape of detached aphorisms, ‘none of them,’ as he says himself, ‘ untrue or unimportant to his own mind,’ but naturally re- quiring to be remodelled, expanded, compressed, as the mat- ter cleared up more and more into logical unity ; at best but fragments of a great scheme which he did not live to realise. If his Editors, Friedrich Schlegel and Ludwig Tieck, declined commenting on these Writings, we may well be excused for declining to do so. ‘ It cannot be our puipose here,’ says Tieck, ‘ to recommend the following Works, or to judge ‘ them ; probable as it must be that any judgment delivered ‘ at this stage of the matter would be a premature and unripe ‘ one : for a spirit of such originality must first be compre- ‘ hended, his will understood, and his loving intention felt and ‘ replied to ; so that not till his ideas have taken root in other ‘ minds, and brought forth new ideas, shall we see rightly, ‘ from the historical sequence, what place he himself occupied, ‘ and what relation to his country he truly bore.’ Meanwhile, Novaks is a figure of such importance in Ger- man Literature, that no student of it can pass him by without attention. If we must not attempt interpreting this Work for our readers, we are bound at least to point out its exist- ence, and according to our best knowledge, direct such of them as take an interest in the matter how to investigate it farther for their own benefit. For this purpose, it may be well that we leave our Author to speak chiefly for himself ; subjoining only such expositions as cannot be dispensed with for even verbal intelligibility, and as we can offer on our own surety with some degree of confidence. By way of basis to the whole inquiry, we prefix some particulars of his short life ; a part of our task which Tieck’s clear and graceful Narrative, given as ‘Preface to the Third Edition,’ renders easy for us. Friedrich von Hardenberg, better known in Literature by the pseudonym ‘Novalis,’ was born on the 2d of May, 1772, at a country residence of his family in the Grafschaft of Mans- feld, in Saxony. His father, who had been a soldier in youth, and still retained a liking for that profession, was at this time NO VALTS. 87 Director of the Saxon Salt-works ; an office of some consider- able trust and dignity. Tieck says, ‘ lie was a vigorous, un- ‘ weariedly active man, of open, resolute character, a true * German. His religious feelings made him a member of the ‘ Herrnhut Communion ; yet his disposition continued gay, ‘frank, rugged and downright’ The mother also was dis- tinguished for her worth ; ‘ a pattern of noble piety and Christian mildness ; ’ virtues which her subsequent life gave opportunity enough for exercising. On the young Friedrich, whom we may continue to call Novalis, the qualities of his parents must have exercised more than usual influence ; for he was brought up in the most re- tired manner, with scarcely any associate but a sister one year older than himself, and the two brothers that were next to him in age. A decidedly religious temper seems to have infused itself, under many benignant aspects, over the whole family : in Novalis especially it continued the ruling principle through life ; manifested no less in his scientific speculations, than in his feelings and conduct. In childhood he is said to have been remarkable chiefly for the entire, enthusiastic affection with which he loved his mother ; and for a certain still, secluded disposition, such that he took no pleasure in boyish sports, and rather shunned the society of other chil- dren. Tieck mentions that, till his ninth year, he was reck- oned nowise quick of apprehension ; but at this period, strangely enough, some violent biliary disease, which had almost cut him off, seemed to awaken his faculties into proper life, and he became the readiest, eagerest learner in all branches of his scholarship. In his eighteenth year, after a few months of preparation in some Gymnasium, the only instruction he appears to have received in any public school, he repaired to Jena ; and con- tinued there for three years ; after which he spent one season in the Leipzig University, and another, ‘ to complete his studies,’ in that of Wittenberg. It seems to have been at Jena that he became acquainted with Friedrich Schlegel ; where also, w r e suppose, he studied under Fichte. For both of these men he conceived a high admiration and affection ; NOVALIS. and both of them had, clearly enough, ‘ a great and abiding effect on his whole life.’ Fichte, in particular, whose lofty eloquence and clear calm enthusiasm are said to have made him irresistible as a teacher, 1 had quite gained Novalis to his doctrines ; indeed the Wissenschaftslehre, which, as we are told of the latter, ‘ he studied with unwearied zeal,’ appeal’s to have been the groundwork of all his future speculations in Philosophy. Besides these metaphysical inquiries, and the usual attainments in classical literature, Novalis seems ‘ to have devoted himself with ardour to the Physical Sciences, and to Mathematics the basis of them : ’ at an early period of his life, he had read much of History ‘ with extraordinary eagerness ; ’ Poems had from of old been ‘ the delight of his leisure ; ’ particularly that species denominated Mahrchen (Traditionary Tale), which continued a favourite with him to the last ; as almost from infancy it had been a chosen amuse- ment of his to read these compositions, and even to recite such, of his own invention. One remarkable piece of that sort he has himself left us, inserted in Heinrich von Ofler- dingen, his chief literary performance. But the time had now arrived, when study must become subordinate to action, and what is called a profession be fixed upon. At the breaking-out of the French War, Novalis had been seized with a strong and altogether unexpected taste for a military life : however, the arguments and pressing entreaties of his friends ultimately prevailed over this whim ; it seems to have been settled that he should follow his father’s line of occupation ; and so, about the end of 1794, he re- moved to Arnstadt in Thuringia, ‘ to train himself in practical affairs under the Kreis-Amtmann Just.’ In this Kreis-Amt- vtanh (Manager of a Circle) he found a wise and kind friend ; applied himself honestly to business ; and in all his serious calculations may have looked forward to a life as smooth and commonplace as his past years had been. One incident, and 1 Sclielling, we Lave been informed, gives account of Fichte and his Wissenschaftslehre to the following effect: ‘The Philosophy of Fichte was like lightning ; it appeared only for a moment, but it kindled a fire which will burn forever.’ NO VALrn S9 that too of no unusual sort, appears, in Tieck’s opinion, to have altered the whole form of his existence. ‘ It was not very long after his arrival at Arnstadt, when in a country mansion of the neighbourhood, he became ac- quainted with Sophie von K . The first glance of this fair and wonderfully lovely form was decisive for his whole life ; nay, we may say that the feeling, which now r penetrated and inspired him, was the substance and essence of his whole life. Sometimes, in the look and figure of a child, there will stamp itself an expression, which, as it is too angelic and ethereally beautiful, we are forced to call unearthly or ce- lestial ; and commonly, at sight of such purified and almost transparent faces, there comes on us a fear that they are too tender and delicately fashioned for this life ; that it is Death, or Immortality, which looks forth so expressively on us from these glancing eyes ; and too often a quick decay converts our mournful foreboding into certainty. Still more affecting are such figures, when their first period is happily passed over, and they come before us blooming on the eve of maid- liood. All persons that have known this wondrous loved one of our Friend, agree in testifying that no description can ex- press in what grace and celestial harmony the fair being moved, what beauty shone in her, what softness and majesty encircled her. Novalis became a poet every time he chanced to speak of it. She had concluded her thirteenth year when he first saw her : the spring and summer of 1795 were the blooming time of his life ; every hour that he could spare from business he spent in Gruningen : and in the fall of that same year he obtained the wished-for promise from Sophie’s parents.’ Unhappily, however, these halcyon days were of too short continuance. Soon after this, Sophie fell dangerously sick ‘ of a fever, attended with pains in the side ; ’ and her lover had the worst consequences to fear. By and by, indeed, the fever left her ; but not the pain, ‘ which by its violence still spoiled for her many a fair hour,’ and gave rise to various apprehensions, though the Physician asserted that it was of no importance. Partly satisfied with this favourable prog- nostication, Novalis had gone to Weissenfels, to his parents ; and was full of business ; being now appointed Auditor in 90 NO VALIS. the department of which his father was Director : through winter the news from Griiningen were of a favourable sort ; in spring he visited the family himself, and found his Sophie to all appearance well. But suddenly, in summer, his hopes and occupations were interrupted by tidings that ‘she was in Jena, and had undergone a surgical operation.’ Her disease was an abscess in the liver : it had been her wish that he should not hear of her danger till the worst were over. The Jena Surgeon gave hopes of recovery though a slow one ; but ere long the operation had to be repeated, and now it was feared that his patient’s strength was too far exhausted. The young maiden bore all this with inflexible courage and the cheerfulest resignation : her Mother and Sister, Novalis, with his Parents and two of his Brothers, all deeply interested in the event, did their utmost to comfort her. In December, by her own wish, she returned home ; but it was evident that she grew weaker and weaker. Novalis went and came between Griiningen and Weissenfels, where also he found a house of mourning ; for Erasmus, one of these two Brothers, had long been sickly, and was now believed to be dying. ‘ The 17th of March,’ says Tieck, ‘ was the fifteenth birth- day of his Sophie ; and on the 19th, about noon she de- parted. No one durst tell Novalis these tidings ; at last his Brother Carl undertook it. The poor youth shut himself up, and after three days and three nights of weeping, set out for Arnstadt, that there, with his true friend, he might be near the spot, which now hid the remains of what was dearest to him. On the 14th of April, his Brother Erasmus also left this world. Novalis wrote to inform his Brother Carl of the event, who had been obliged to make a journey into Lower Saxony : “ Be of good courage,” said he, “ Erasmus has pre- vailed ; the flowers of our fair garland are dropping off Here, one by one, that they may be united Yonder, lovelier and forever.” ’ Among the papers published in these Volumes are three letters wnitten about this time, which mournfully indicate the author’s mood. ‘It has grown Evening around me,’ says he, ‘ while I was looking into the red of Morning. My grief is NO VALIS. 91 ‘ boundless as my love. For three years she has been my ‘ hourly thought. She alone bound me to life, to the country, ‘ to my occupations. AYitli her I am parted from all ; for now ‘I scarcely have myself any more. But it has grown Evening ; ‘ and I feel as if I had to travel early ; and so I would fain be * at rest, and see nothing but kind faces about pie ; — all in her ‘ spirit would I live, be soft and mild-hearted as she was.’ And again, some weeks later: £ I live over the old, bygone life ‘here, in still meditation. Yesterday' I was twenty -five years ‘ old. I was in Gruningen, and stood beside her grave. It is ‘a friendly spot; enclosed with simple white railing; lies ‘ apart and high. There is still room in it. The village, with ‘ its blooming gardens, leans up round the hill ; and at this ‘ point and that, the eye loses itself in blue distances. I know ‘ you would have liked to stand by me, and stick the flowers, ‘ my birthday gifts, one by one into her hillock. This time ‘ two years, she made me a gay present, with a flag and na- ‘ tional cockade on it. To-day her parents gave me the little ‘ things which she, still joyfully, had received on her last ‘ birthday. Friend, — it continues Evening, and will soon be ‘ Night. If you go away, think of me kindly, and visit, when ‘ you return, the still house, where your Friend rests forever, ‘ with the ashes of his beloved. Fare you well ! ’ — Neverthe- less, a singular composure came over him ; from the very depths of his grief arose a peace and pure joy, such as till then he had never known. ‘In this season,’ observes Tieck, ‘Novalis lived only to his sorrow : it was natural for him to regard the visible and the invisible world as one ; and to distinguish Life and Death only by his longing for the latter. At the same time too, Life became for him a glorified Life ; and his whole being melted away as into a bright, conscious vision of a higher Existence. From the sacredness of Sorrow, from heart-felt love and the pious wish for death, his temper and all his conceptions are to be explained : and it seems possible that this time, with its deep griefs, planted in him. the germ of death, if it was not, in any case, his appointed lot to be so soon snatched away from us. 92 NO VALIS. ‘ He remained many weeks in Thuringia ; and came back comforted and truly purified, to his engagements ; which he pursued more zealously than ever, though he now regarded himself as a stranger on the earth. In this period, some earlier, many later, especially in the Autumn of this year, oc- cur' most of those compositions, which, in the way of extract and selection, we have here given to the Public, under the title of Fragments ; so likewise the Hymns to the Night.’ Such is our Biographer’s account of this matter, and of the weighty inference it has led him to. We have detailed it the more minutely, and almost in the very words of the text, the better to put our readers in a condition for judging on what grounds Tieck rests his opinion, That herein lies the key to the whole spiritual history of Novalis, that ‘the feeling ‘ which now penetrated and inspired him, may be said to have ‘ been the substance of his Life.’ It would ill become us to contradict one so well qualified to judge of all subjects, and who enjoyed such peculiar opportunities for forming a right judgment of this: meanwhile we may say that, to our own minds, after all consideration, the certainty of this hypothesis will nowise become clear. Or rather, perhaps, it is to the ex- pression, to the too determinate and exclusive language in which the hypothesis is worded, that we should object ; for so plain does the truth of the case seem to us, we cannot but believe that Tieck himself would consent to modify his state- ment. That the whole philosophical and moral existence of such a man as Novalis should have been shaped aud deter- mined by the death of a young girl, almost a child, specially distinguished, so far as is shown, by nothing save her beauty, which at any rate must have been very short-lived, — will doubtless seem to every one a singular concatenation. We cannot but think that some result precisely similar in moral effect might have been attained by many different means ; nay that by one means or another, it would not have failed to be attained. For spirits like Novalis, earthly fortune is in no instance so sweet and smooth, that it does not by and by teach the great doctrine of Entsagen, of 1 Renunciation,’ by which alone, as a wise man well known to Herr Tieck has ob- NOVALIS. 93 served, ‘ can the real entrance on Life be properly said to begin.’ Experience, the grand Schoolmaster, seems to have taught Novalis this doctrine very early, by the wreck of his first passionate wish ; and herein lies the real influence of Sophie von K. on his character ; an influence which, as Hve imagine, many other things might and would have equally exerted : for it is less the severity of the Teacher than the aptness of the Pupil that secures the lesson ; nor do the puri- fying effects of frustrated Hope, and Affection which in this world will ever be homeless, depend on the worth or loveli- ness of its objects, but on that of the heart which cherished it, and can draw mild wisdom from so stern a disappoint- ment. We do not say that Novalis continued the same as if this young maiden had not been ; causes and effects connect- ing every man and thing with every other extend through all Time and Space ; but surely it appears unjust to represent him as so altogether pliant in the hands of Accident ; a mere pipe for Fortune to play tunes on ; and which sounded a mystic, deep, almost unearthly melody, simply because a young woman was beautiful and mortal. We feel the more justified in these hard-hearted and so un- romantic strictures, on reading the very next paragraph of Tieck’s Narrative. Directly on the back of this occurrence, Novalis goes to Freyberg ; and therein 1798, it may be there- fore somewhat more or somewhat less than a year after the death of his first love, forms an acquaintance, and an engage- ment to marry, with a ‘Julie von Ch !’ Indeed, ever afterwards, to the end, his life appears to have been more than usually cheerful and happy. Tieck knows not what well to say of this betrothment, which in the eyes of most Novel- readers will have so shocking an appearance : he admits that ‘ perhaps to any but his intimate friends it may seem singu- lar ; ’ asserts, notwithstanding, that ‘ Sophie, as may be seen ‘ also in his writings, continued the centre of his thoughts ; ‘ nay, as one departed, she stood in, higher reverence with him ‘ than when visible and near ; ’ and hurrying on, almost as over an unsafe subject, declares that Novalis felt nevertheless ‘ as if loveliness of mind and person might, in some measure. 04 NO VAL1S. replace his loss ; ’ and so leaves us to our own reflections on the matter. We consider it as throwing light on the above criticism ; and greatly restricting our acceptance of Tieck’s theory. Yet perhaps, after all, it is only in a Minerva-Press Novel, or to the more tender Imagination, that such a pro- ceeding would seem very blamable. Constancy, in its true sense, may be called the root of all excellence ; especially ex- cellent is constancy in active well-doing, in friendly helpful- ness to those that love us, and to those that hate us : but con- stancy in passive suffering,' again, in spite of the high value put upon it in Circulating Libraries, is a distinctly inferior virtue, rather an accident than a virtue, and at all events is of extreme rarity in this world. To Novalis, his Sophie might still be as a saintly presence, mournful and unspeakably mild, to be worshipped in the inmost shrine of his memory : but worship of this sort is not man’s sole business ; neither should we censure Novalis that he dries his tears, and once more looks abroad with hope on the earth, which is still, as it was before, the strangest complex of mystery and light, of joy as well as sorrows ‘ Life belongs to the living ; and he that lives must be prepared for vicissitudes.’ The questionable circumstance with Novalis is his perhaps too great rapidity in that second courtship ; a fault or misfortune the more to be regretted, as this marriage also was to remain a project, and only the antici- pation of it to be enjoyed by him. It was for the purpose of studying mineralogy, under the famous Werner, that Novalis had gone to Freyberg. For this science he had great fondness, as indeed for all the physical sciences ; which, if we may judge from his writings, he seems to have prosecuted on a great and original principle, veiy dif- ferent both from that of our idle theorisers and generalisers, and that of the still more melancholy class who merely ‘ col- lect facts,’ and for the torpor or total extinction of the think- ing faculty, strive to make up by the more assiduous use of the blowpipe and goniometer. The commencement of a work, en- titled the Disciples at Sais, intended, as Tieck informs us, to be a ‘Physical Bomance,’ was written in Freyberg, at this time : but it lay unfinished, unprosecuted ; and now comes NO VALIS. 95 before us as a very mysterious fragment, disclosing scientific depths, which we have not light to see into, much less means to fathom and accurately measure. The various hypothetic views of ‘ Nature,’ that is, of the visible Creation, which are here given out in the words of the several ‘Pupils,’ differ, al- most all of them, more or less, from any that we have ever elsewhere met with. To this work we shall have occasion to refer more particularly in the sequel. The acquaintance which Novalis formed, soon after this, with the elder Schlegel (August Wilhelm), and still more that of Tieck, whom also he first met in Jena, seems to have oper- ated a considerable diversion in his line of study. Tieck and the Schlegels, with some less active associates, among whom are now mentioned Wackenroder and Novalis, were at this time engaged in their far-famed campaign against Duncedom, or what called itself the ‘ Old School ’ of Literature ; which old and rather despicable ‘ School ’ they had already, both by regular and guerilla warfare, reduced to great straits ; as ulti- mately, they are reckoned to have succeeded in utterly extir- pating it, or at least driving it back to the very confines of its native Cimmeria. 1 It seems to have been in connexion with these men, that Novalis first came before the world as a writer : certain of his Fragments under the title of Bliithenstanb (Pol- len of Flowers), his Hymns to the Night and various poetical compositions were sent forth in F. Schlegel’s Musen- Almanack and other periodicals under the same or kindred management. Novalis himself seems to profess that it was Tieck’s influence which chiefly ‘ reawakened Poetry in him.’ As to what recep- tion these pieces met with, we have no information : however, Novalis seems to have been ardent and diligent in his new pursuit, as in his old ones ; and no less happy than diligent. ‘ In the summer of 1800,’ says Tieck, ‘ I saw him for the first time while visiting my friend Wilhelm Schlegel ; and our ac- quaintance soon became the most confidential friendship. They were bright days those, which we passed with Schlegel, SchelMng and some other friends. On my return homewards, I visited him in his house, and made acquaintance with his 1 See Appendix, § Tieck , Critical and Miscellaneous Essays. 96 NO VA LIS. family. Here lie read me the Disciples at Sais, and many of his Fragments. He escorted me as far as Halle ; and we en- joyed in Giebichenstein, in the Riechardts’ house, some other delightful hours. About this time, the first thought of his Ofterdingen had occurred. At an earlier period, certain of his Spiritual Songs had been composed: they were to form paid of a Christian Hymn-book. which he meant to accompany with a collection of Sermons. For the rest, he was very diligent in his pi'ofessional labours ; whatever he did was done with the heart ; the smallest concern was not insignificant to him.’ The professional labours here alluded to, seem to have left much leisure on his hands ; room for frequent change of place, and even of residence. Not long afterwards, we find him ‘bring for a long while in a solitary spot of the Giildne Aue in Thuringia, at the foot of the Ivyffhauser Mountain ; ’ his chief society two military men, subsequently Generals ; ‘ in which solitude great part of his Ofterdingen was written.’ The first volume of this Heinrich von Ofterdingen, a sort of Art-Romance, intended, as he himself said, to be an ‘ Apothe- osis of Poetry,’ was erelong published ; under what circum- stances, or with what result, we have, as before, no notice. Tieck had for some time been resident in Jena, and at inter- vals saw much of Novalis. On preparing to quit that abode, he went to pay him a farewell visit at Meissen f els ; found him ‘ somewhat paler,’ but full of gladness and hope ; ‘ quite in- ‘ spired with plans of his future happiness ; his house was ‘ already fitted up ; in a few months he was to be wedded : ‘ no less zealously did he speak of the speedy conclusion of ‘ Ofterdingen, and other books ; his life seemed expanding in ‘ the richest activity and love.’ This was in 1800 : four years ago Novalis had longed and looked for death, and it was not appointed him ; now life is again rich and far-extending in his eyes, and its close is at hand. Tieck parted with him, and it proved to be forever. In the month of August, Novahs, preparing for his journey to Freyberg on so joyful an occasion, was alarmed with an appearance of blood proceeding from the lungs. The Physi- cian treated it as a slight matter ; nevertheless, the marriage NO VALIS. 97 was postponed. He went to Dresden with his Parents, for medical advice ; abode there for some time in no improving state ; on learning the accidental death of a young brother at home, he ruptured a blood-vessel ; and the Doctor then declared his malady incurable. This, as usual in such mala- dies, was nowise the patient’s own opinion ; he wished to try a warmer climate, but was thought too weak for the journey. In January (1801) he returned home, visibly, to all but him- self, in rapid decline. His bride had already been to see him, in Dresden. We may give the rest in Tieck’s words : ‘ The nearer he approached his end, the more confidently did he expect a speedy recovery ; for the cough diminished, and excepting languor, he had no feeling of sickness. With the hope and the longing for life, new talent and fresh strength seemed also to awaken in" him ; he thought, with renewed love, of all his projected labours ; he determined on writing Ofterclingen over again from the very beginning ; and shortly before his death, he said on one occasion, “ Never till now did I know what Poetry was ; innumerable Songs and Poems, and of quite different stamp from any of my former ones, have arisen in me.” From the nineteenth of March, the death-day of his Sophie, he became visibly weaker ; many of his friends visited him ; and he felt great joy when, on the twenty-first, his true and oldest friend, Friedrich Schlegel, came to him from Jena. With him he conversed at great length ; especially upon their several literary operations. During these days he w r as very lively ; his nights too were quiet ; and he enjoyed pretty sound sleep. On the twenty- fifth, about six in the morning, he made his brother hand him certain books, that he might look for something ; then he ordered breakfast, and talked cheerfully till eight ; towards nine he bade his brother play a little to him on the harpsi- chord, and in the course of the music fell asleep. Friedrich Schlegel soon afterwards came into the room, and found him quietly sleeping : this sleep lasted till near twelve, when with- out the smallest motion he passed away, and, unchanged in death, retained his common friendly look as if he yet lived. ‘ So died,’ continues the affectionate Biographer, ‘ before he had completed his twenty-ninth year, this our Friend ; in whom his extensive acquirements, his philosophical talent and his poetic genius must alike obtain our love and admiration. 7 98 NO VALIS. As lie liad so far outrun liis time, our country might have ex- pected extraordinary things from such gifts, had this early death not overtaken him : as it is, the unfinished Writings he left behind him have already had a wide influence ; 'and many of his great thoughts will yet, in time coming, lend their in- spiration, and noble minds and deep thinkers will be en- lightened and enkindled by the sparks of his genius. ‘ Novaks was tall, slender and of noble proportions. He Wore his light-brown hair in long clustering locks, which at that time was less unusual than it would be now ; his hazel eye was clear and glancing ; and the colour of his face, especially of the fine brow, almost transparent. Hand and foot were somewhat too large, and without fine character. His look was at all times cheerful and kind. For those who distin- guish a man only in so far as he puts himself forward, or by studious breeding, by fashionable bearing, endeavours to shine or to be singular, Novalis was lost in the crowd to the more practised eye, again, he presented a figure which might be called beautiful. In outline and expression, his face strik- ingly resembled that of the Evangelist John, as we see him in the large noble Painting by Albrecht Durer, preserved at Niirnberg and Miincken. ‘ In speaking, he was lively and loud, his gestures strong. I never saw him tired : though we had talked till far in the night, it was still only on purpose that he stopped, for the sake of rest, and even then he used to read before sleeping. Tedium he never felt, even in oppressive company, among mediocre men ; for he was sure to find out one or other, who could give him yet some new r piece of knowledge, such as he could turn to use, insignificant as it might seem. His kindli- ness, his frank bearing, made him a universal favourite : his skill in the art of social intercourse was so great, that smaller minds did not perceive how high he stood above them. Though hi conversation he delighted most to unfold the deeps of the soul, and spoke as inspired of the regions of invisible worlds, yet was he mirthful as a child ; would jest in free artless gaiety, and heartily give-in to the jestings of his com- pany. Without vanity, without learned haughtiness, far from every affectation and hypocrisy, he was a genuine, time man, the purest and loveliest embodiment of a high immortal spirit.’ So much for the outward figure and history of Novalis. Respecting his inward structure mid significance, which our NO VAL1S. 99 readers are here principally interested to understand, we have already acknowledged that we had no complete insight to boast of. The slightest perusal of his Writings indicates to us a mind of wonderful depth and originality ; but at the same time, of a nature or habit so abstruse, and altogether different from anything we ourselves have notice or expe- rience of, that to penetrate fairly into its ■ essential character, much more to picture it forth in visual distinctness, would be an extremely difficult task. Nay perhaps, if attempted by the means familiar to us, an impossible task : for Novalis be- longs to that class of persons, who do not recognise the ‘ syl- logistic method ’ as the chief organ for investigating truth, or feel themselves bound at all times to stop short where its light fails them. Many of his opinions he would despair of prov- ing in the most patient Court of Law ; and would remain well content that they should be disbelieved there. He much loved, and had assiduously studied, Jacob Bohme and other mystical writers ; and was, openly enough, in good part a Mystic himself. Not indeed what we English, in common speech, call a Mystic ; which means only a man whom we do not understand, and, in self-defence, reckon or would fain reckon a Dunce. Novalis was a Mystic, or had an affinity with Mys- ticism, in the primary and true meaning of that word, exem- plified in some shape among our own Puritan Divines, and Avhich at this day carries no opprobrium with it in Germany, or, except among certain more unimportant classes, in any other country. Nay, in this sense, great honours are recorded of Mysticism : Tasso, as may be seen in several of his prose writings, was professedly a Mystic ; Dante is regarded as a chief man of that class. Nevertheless, with all due tolerance or reverence for No- valis’s Mysticism, the question still returns on us : How shall we understand it, and in any measure shadow it forth ? How may that spiritual condition, which by its own account is like pure Light, colourless, formless, infinite, be represented by mere Logic-Painters, mere Engravers we might say, who, except copper and burin, producing the most finite black-on- ” ffite, have no means of representing anything ? Novalis 100 NO VALIS. himself lias aline or two, and no more, expressly on Mysti cism : ‘ What is Mysticism ? ’ asks he. ‘ What is it that should ‘ come to be treated mystically ? Religion, Love, Nature, ‘ Polity. — All select things ( alles Auserwahlte ) have a reference c to Mysticism. If all men were but one pair of lovers, the ‘ difference between Mysticism and Non-Mysticism were at ‘ an end.’ In which little sentence, unhappily, our reader ob- tains no clearness : feels rather as if he were looking into darkness visible. We must entreat him, nevertheless, to keep up his spirits in this business ; and above all, to assist us with his friendliest, cheerfulest endeavour : perhaps some faint far-off view of that same mysterious Mysticism may at length rise upon us. To ourselves it somewhat illustrates the nature of Novalis’s opinions, when we consider the then and present state of German metaphysical science generally ; and the fact, stated above, that he gained his first notions on this subject from Fichte’s Wissenschaftslehre. It is true, as Tieck remarks, ‘ he sought to open for himself a new path in Philosophy ; to unite Philosophy with Religion : ’ and so diverged in some degree from his first instructor ; or, as it more probably seemed to himself, prosecuted Fichte’s scientific inquiry into its highest practical results. At all events, his metaphysical creed, so far as we can gather it from these Writings, appears everywhere in its essential lineaments synonymous with what little we understand of Fichte’s, and might indeed, safely enough for our present purpose, be classed under the head of Ivantism, or German metaphysics generally. Now, without entering into the intricacies of German Phi- losophy, we need here only advert to the character of Ideal- ism, on which it is everywhere founded, and which univer- sally pervades it. In all German systems, since the time of Kant, it is the fundamental principle to deny the existence of Matter ; or rather we should say, to believe it in a radically different sense from that in which the Scotch Philosopher strives to demonstrate it, and the English Unphilosopher be- lieves it without demonstration. To any of our readers, who has dipped never so slightly into metaphysical reading, this NO VALIS. 101 Idealism will be no inconceivable thing. Indeed it is singu- lar how widely diffused, and under what different aspects, we meet with it among the most dissimilar classes of mankind. Our Bishop Berkeley seems to have adopted it from religious inducements : Father Boscovich was led to a very cognate result, in his Theoria Philosophies Naturalis, from merely mathematical considerations. Of the ancient Phyrro, or the modern Hume, we do not speak : but in the opposite end of the Earth, as Sir AY. Jones informs us, a similar theory, of immemorial age, prevails among the theologians of Hindo- stan. Nay, Professor Stewart has declared his opinion, that whoever at some time of his life has not entertained this theory, may reckon that he has yet shown no talent for meta- physical research. Neither is it any argument against tho Idealist to say that, since he denies the absolute existence of Matter, he ought in conscience to deny its relative existence ; and plunge over precipices, and run himself through with swords, by way of recreation, since these, like all other ma- terial things, are only phantasms and spectra, and therefore of no consequence. If a man, corporeally taken, is but a phantasm and spectrum himself, all this will ultimately amount to much the same as it did before. Yet herein lies Dr. Reid’s grand triumph over the Sceptics ; which is as good as no triumph whatever. For as to the argument which he and his followers insist on, under all possible variety of figures, it amounts only to this very plain consideration, that ‘ men naturally, and without reasoning, believe in the exist- ence of Matter ; ’ and seems, philosophically speaking, not to have any value ; nay, the introduction of it into Philosophy may be considered as an act of suicide on the part of that science, the life and business of which, that of ‘ interpreting Appearances,’ is hereby at an end. Curious it is, moreover, to observe how these Commonsense Philosophers, men who brag chiefly of their irrefragable logic, and keep watch and ward, as if this were their special trade, against ‘ Mysti- cism ’ and ‘ Visionary Theories,’ are themselves obliged to base their whole system on Mysticism, and a Theory ; on Faith, in «hort, and that of a very comprehensive kind ; the Faith, 102 NO VAL1S. namely, either that man’s Senses are themselves Divine, oi that they afford not only an honest, but a literal representa- tion of the workings of some Divinity. So true is it that for these men also, all knowledge of the visible rests on belief of the invisible, and derives its first meaning and certainty therefrom ! The Idealist, again, boasts that his Philosophy is Transcen- dental, that is, ‘ ascending beyond the senses ; ’ which, he as- serts, all Philosophy, properly so called, by its nature is and must be : and in this way he is led to various unexpected conclusions. To a Transcendentalist, Matter has an exist- ence, but only as a Phenomenon : were we not there, neither would it be there ; it is a mere Delation, or rather the result of a Relation between our living Souls and the great First Cause ; and depends for its apparent qualities on our bodily and mental organs ; having itself no intrinsic qualities ; being, in the common sense of that word, Nothing. The tree is green and hard, not of its own natural virtue, but simply be- cause my eye and my hand are fashioned so as to discern such and such appearances under such and such conditions. Nay, as an Idealist might say, even on the most popular grounds, must it not be so? Bring a sentient Being, with eyes a little different, with fingers ten times harder than mine ; and to him that Thing which I call Tree shall be yel- low and soft, as truly as to me it is green and hard. Form his Nervous-structure in all points the reverse of mine, and this same Tree shall not be combustible or heat-producing, but dissoluble and cold-producing, not high and convex, but deep and concave ; shall simply have all properties exactly the reverse of those I attribute to it. There is, in fact, says Fichte, no Tree there, but only a Manifestation of Power from something which is not I. The same is true of material Nature at large, of the whole visible Universe, with all its movements, figures, accidents and qualities ; all are Impressions produced on me by something different from me. This, we suppose, may be the foundation of what Fichte means by his far-famed Tch and Nicht-Ich (I and Not-I) ; words which, taking lodg- ing (to use the Hudibrastic phrase) in certain ‘heads that NO VALIS. 103 were to be let unfurnished/ occasioned a hollow echo, as of Laughter, from the empty Apartments ; though the words are in themselves quite harmless, and may represent the basis of a metaph} T sical Philosophy as fitly as any other words. But farther, and what is still stranger than such Idealism, accord- ing to these Kantean systems, the organs of the Mind too, what is called the Understanding, are of no less arbitrary, and, as it were, accidental character than those of the Body. Time and Space themselves are not external but internal entities : they have no outward existence, there is no Time and no Space out of the mind ; they are mere forms of man’s spiritual being, laws under which his thinking nature is constituted to act. This seems the hardest conclusion of all ; but it is an important one with Kant ; and is not given forth as a dogma ; but carefully deduced in his Critik cler Reinen Vernunft with great precision, and the strictest form of argument. The reader would err widely who supposed that this Tran- scendental system of Metaphysics was a mere intellectual card-castle, or logical hocus-pocus, contrived from sheer idle- ness and for sheer idleness, being without any bearing on the practical interests of men. On the contrary, however false, or however true, it is the most serious in its purport of all Philosophies propounded in these latter centuries ; has been taught chiefly by men of the loftiest and most earnest char- acter ; and does bear, with a direct and highly comprehen- sive influence, on the most vital interests of men. To say nothing of the views it opens in regard to the course and management of what is called Natural Science, we cannot but perceive that its effects, for such as adopt it, -on Morals and Religion, must in these days be of almost boundless im- portance. To take only that last and seemingly strangest doctrine, for example, concerning Time and Space, we shall find that to the Ivantist it yields, almost immediately, a re- markable result of this sort. If Time and Space have no absolute existence, no existence out of our minds, it removes a stumbling-block from the very threshold of our Theology. For on this ground, when we say that the Deity is omnipres- ent and eternal, that with Him it is a universal Here and 104 NO 'SALTS. Now, we say nothing wonderful ; nothing but that He also created Time and Space, that Time and Space are not laws of. His being, but only of ours. Nay to the Transcendental- ist, clearly enough, the whole question of the origin and existence of Nature must be greatly simplified : the old hos- tility of Matter is at an end, for Matter is itself annihilated ; and the black Spectre, Atheism, ‘ with all its sickly dews,’ melts into nothingness forever. But farther, if it be,, as Kant maintains, that the logical mechanism of the mind is arbitrary, so to speak, and might have been made different, it will follow, that all inductive conclusions, all conclusions of the Understanding, have only a relative truth, are true only for us, and if some other thing be true. Thus far Hume and Kant go together, in this branch of the inquiry : but here occurs the most total, diametrical divergence between them. We allude to the recognition, by these Transcenden- talists, of a higher faculty in man than Understanding ; of Reason ( Vernunft), the pure, ultimate light of our nature ; wherein, as they assert, lies the foundation of all Poetry, Virtue, Religion ; things which are properly beyond the province of the Understanding, of which the Understanding can take no cognisance, except a false one. The elder Jacobi, who indeed is no Kantist, says once, we remember : ‘ It is the instinct of Understanding to contradict Reason.’ Ad- mitting this last distinction and subordination, supposing it scientifically demonstrated, what numberless and weightiest consequences would follow from it alone ! These we must leave the considerate reader to deduce for himself ; observing only farther, that the Teologia Mistica, so much venerated by Tasso in his philosophical writings ; the ‘Mysticism ’ alluded to by Novalis ; and generally all true Christian Faith and Devotion,- appear, so far as we can see, more or less included in this doctrine of the Transcendentalists ; under their sev- eral shapes, the essence of them all being what is here desig- nated by the name Reason, and set forth as the true sover- eign of man’s mind. How deeply these and the like principles had impressed themselves on Novalis, we see more and more, the farther we NO YAL1S. 105 study his Writings. Naturally a deep, religious, contempla- tive spirit ; purified also, as we have seen, by harsh Affliction, and familiar in the ‘Sanctuary of Sorrow,’ he comes before us as the most ideal of all Idealists. For him the material Creation is but an Appearance, a typical shadow in which the Deity manifests himself to man. Not only has the unseen world a reality, but the only reality : the rest being not meta- phorically, but literally and in scientific strictness, ‘ a show ; 3 in the words of the Poet, ‘ Sdhall und Bauch umnebelnd Him- mels Gluth, Sound and Smoke overclouding the splendour of Heaven.’ The Invisible World is near us : or rather it is here, in us and about us ; were thmfleshly coil removed from our Soul, the glories of the Unseen were even now around us ; as the Ancients fabled of the Spheral Music. Thus, not in word only, but in truth and sober belief, he feels himself encom- passed by the Godhead ; feels in every thought, that ‘ in Him he lives, moves and has his being.’ On his Philosophic and Poetic procedure, all this has its natural influence. The aim of Novalis’s whole Philosophy, we might say, is to preach and establish the Majesty of Reason, in that stricter sense ; to conquer for it all provinces of human thought, and everywhere reduce its vassal, Understanding, into fealty, the right and only useful relation for it. Mighty tasks in this sort lay before himself ; of which, in these Writ- ings of his, we trace only scattered indications. In fact, all that he has left is in the shape of Fragment ; detached expo- sitions and combinations, deep, brief glimpses, but such seems to be their general tendency. One character to be noted in many of these, often too obscure speculations, is his peculiar manner of viewing Nature : his habit, as it were, of consider- ing Nature rather in the concrete, not analytically and as a divisible Aggregate, but as a self-subsistent universally con- nected Whole. This also is perhaps partly the fruit of his Idealism. ‘ He had formed the Plan,’ we are informed, ‘ of a ‘peculiar Encyclopedical Work, in which experiences and ‘ ideas from all the different sciences were mutually to eluci- ‘ date, confirm and enforce each other. ’ In this work he had even made some progress. Many of the ‘Thoughts,’ and short 106 NOVALIS. Aphoristic observations, here published, were intended for it ; of such, apparently, it was, for the most part, to have con- sisted. As a Poet, Novalis is no less Idealistic than as a Philoso- pher. His poems are breathings of a high devout soul, feel- ing always that here he has no home, but looking, as in clear vision, to a ‘ city that hath foundations.’ He loves external Nature with a singular depth ; nay, we might say, he rever- ences her, and holds unspeakable communings with her : for Nature is no longer dead, hostile Matter, but the veil and mysterious Garment of the Unseen ; as it were, the Voice with which the Deity proclainfe himself to man. These two qualities, — his pure religious temper, and heartfelt love, of Nature, — bring him into true poetic relation both with the spiritual and the material World, and perhaps constitute his chief worth as a Poet ; for which art he seems to have orig- inally a genuine, but no exclusive or even very decided en- dowment. His moral persuasions, as evinced in his Writings and Life, deiive themselves naturally enough from the same source. It is the morality of a man, to whom the Earth and all its glories are in truth a vapour and a Dream, and the Beauty of Good- ness the only real possession. Poetry, Virtue, Beligion, which for other men have but, as it were, a traditionary and imag- ined existence, are for him the everlasting basis of the Uni- verse ; and all earthly acquirements, all with which Ambition, Hope, Fear, can tempt us to toil and sin, are in very deed but a picture of the brain, some reflex shadowed on the mir- ror of the Infinite, but hi themselves air and nothingness. Thus, to live in that Light of Reason, to have, even while here and encircled with this Vision of Existence, our abode in that Eternal City, is the highest and sole duty of man. These things Novalis figures to himself under various images : some- times he seems to represent the Primeval essence of Being as Love ; at other times, he speaks in emblems, of which it would be still more difficult to give a just account ; which, therefore, at present, we shall not farther notice. For now, with these far-off sketches of an exposition, the NOVALIS. 107 reader must bold liimself ready to look into Novalis, for a little, with his own eyes. Whoever has honestly, and with attentive outlook, accompanied us along these wondrous out- skirts of Idealism, may find himself as able to interpret No- vaks as the majority of German readers would be ; which, we think, is fair measure on our part. We shall not attempt any farther commentary ; fearing that it might be too difficult and too unthankful a business. Our first extract is from the Lehrlingfi zu Sais (Pupils at Sais), adverted to above. That ‘Physical Romance,’ which, for the rest, contains no story or indication of a story, but only poetised philosophical speeches, and the strangest shadowy allegorical allusions, and indeed is only carried the length of two Chapters, commences, without note of preparation, in this singular wise : ‘I. The Pupil. — Men travel in manifold paths : whoso traces and compares these, will find strange Figures come to light ; Figures which - seem as if they belonged to that great Cipker- writing which one meets with everywhere, on wings of birds, shells of eggs, in clouds, in the snow, in crystals, in forms of rocks, in freezing waters, in the interior and exterior of moun- tains, of plants, animals, men, in the lights of the sky, in plates of glass and pitch when touched and struck on, in the filings round the magnet, and the singular conjunctures of Chance. In such Figures one anticipates the key to that wondrous Writing, the grammar of it ; but this Anticipation will not fix itself into shape, and appears as if, after all, it would not become such a key for us. An Alcahest seems poured out over the senses of men. Only for a moment will their wishes, their thoughts thicken into form. Thus do their Anticipations arise ; but after short whiles, all is again swim- ming vaguely before them, even as it did. ‘ From afar I heard say, that Unintelligibility was but the result of Unintelligence ; that this sought what itself had, and so could find nowhere else ; also that we did not understand Speech, because Speech did not, would not, understand itself ; that the genuine Sanscrit spoke for the sake of speaking, be- cause speaking was its pleasure and its nature. ‘ Not long thereafter, said one : No explanation is required for Holy Writing. Whoso speaks truly is full of eternal life, and wonderfully related to genuine mysteries does his Writ- 108 NO VAL1S. ing appear to us, for it is a Concord from tlie Symphony of the Universe. ‘ Surely this voi.ce meant our Teacher ; for it is he that can collect the indications which lie scattered on all sides. A sin- gular light kindles in his looks, when at length the high Rune lies before us, and he watches in our eyes whether the star has yet risen upon us, which is to make the Figure visible and intelligible. Does he see us sad, that the darkness will not withdraw ? He consoles us, and promises the faithful assidu- ous seer better fortune in time. Often has he told us how, when he was a child, the impulse to employ his senses, too busy to fill them, left him no rest. He looked at the stars, and imitated their courses and positions in the sand. Into the ocean of air he gazed incessantly ; and never wearied con- templating its clearness, its movements, its clouds, its lights. He gathered stones, flowers, insects, of all sorts, and spread them out in manifold wise, in rows before him. To men and animals he paid heed ; on the shore of the sea he sat, collected muscles. Over his own heart and his own thoughts he watched attentively. He knew not whither his longing was carrying him. As lie grew up he wandered far and wide ; viewed other lands, other seas, new atmospheres, new rocks, unknown plants, animals, men ; descended into caverns, saw how in courses and varying strata the edifice of the Earth was completed, and fashioned clay into strange figures of rocks. By and by, he came to find everywhere objects already known, but wonder- fully mingled, united ; and thus often extraordinary things came to shape in him. He soon became aware of combina- tions in all, of conjunctures, concurrences. Erelong, he no more saw anything alone. — In great variegated images, the perceptions of his senses crowded round him ; he heard, saw, touched and thought at once. He rejoiced to biing strangers together. Now the stars w T ere men, now men were stars, the stones animals, the clouds plants ; he sported with powers and appearances ; he knew where and how this and that was to be found, to be brought into action ; and so himself struck over the strings, for tones and touches of his own. ‘ What has passed with him since then he does not disclose to us. He tells us that we ourselves, led on by him and our own desire, •nail discover what has passed with him. Many of us have withdrawn from him. ' They returned to their par- ents, and learned trades. Some have been sent out by him, we know not whither ; he selected them. Of these, some have . been but a short time there, others longer. One was NOV ALTS. 109 still a child ; scarcely was lie come, when our Teacher was for passing him any more instruction. This Child had large dark eyes with azure ground, his skin shone like lilies, and his locks like light little clouds when it is growing evening. His voice pierced through all our hearts ; willingly would we have given him our flowers, stones, pens, ah we had. He smiled with an infinite earnestness ; and we had a strange delight beside him. One day he will come again, said our Teacher, and then our lessons end. — Along with him he sent one, for whom we had often been sorry. Always sad he looked ; he had been long years here ; nothing would succeed with him ; when we sought crystals or flowers, he seldom found. He saw dimly at a distance ; to lay down variegated rows skilfully he had no power. He was so apt to 'break everything. Yet none had such eagerness, such pleasure in hearing and listen- ing. At last,— it was before that Child came into our circle, — he all at once grew cheerful and expert. One day he had gone out sad ; he did not return, and the night came on. We were very anxious for him ; suddenly, as the morning dawned, we heard his voice in a neighbouring grove. He was singing a high, joyful song ; we were ah surprised ; the Teacher looked to the East, such a look as I shah never see in him again. The singer soon came forth to us, and brought, with unspeakable blessedness on his face, a simple-looking little stone, of singular shape. The Teacher took it in his hand, and kissed him long ; then looked at us with wet eyes, and laid this little stone on an empty space, which lay in the midst of other stones, j ust where, like radii, many rows of them met together. ‘ I shall in no time forget that moment. We felt as if we had had in our souls a clear passing glimpse into this won- drous World.’ In these strange Oriental delineations the judicious reader will suspect that mor’e may be meant than meets the ear. But who this teacher at Sais is, whether the personified Intel- lect of Mankind ; and who this bright-faced golden-locked Child (Reason, Religious Faith?), that was ‘ to come again,’ to conclude these lessons ; and that awkward unwearied Man (Understanding ?), that ‘ was so apt to break everything,’ we have no data for determining, and would not undertake to conjecture with tiny certainty. We subjoin a passage from 110 NO VALIS. the second chapter, or section, entitled ‘Nature,’ which, ii possible, is of a still more surprising character than the first. After speaking at some length on the primeval views Man seems to have formed with regard to the external Universe, or 1 the manifold Objects of his Senses ; ’ and how in those times his mind had a peculiar unity, and only by Practice divided itself into separate faculties, as by Practice it may yet farther do, ‘ our Pupil ’ proceeds to describe the conditions requisite in an inquirer into Nature, observing, in conclusion, with re- gard to this, — ‘No one, of a surety, . wanders farther from the mark, than he who fancies to himself that he already understands this marvellous Kingdom, and can, in few words, fathom its con- stitution, and everywhere find the light path. To no one, who has broken off, and made himself an Island, will insight rise of itself, nor even without toilsome effort. Only to children, or childlike men, wdio know' not what they do, can this hap- pen. Long, unwearied intercourse, free and wise Contem- plation, attention to faint tokens and indications ; an inward poet-life, practised senses, a simple and devout spirit : these are the essential requisites of a true Friend of Nature ; with- out these no one can attain his wish. Not wise does it seem to attempt comprehending and understanding a Human World without full perfected Humanity. No talent must sleep ; and if all are not alike active, all must be alert, and not oppressed and enervated. As we see a future Painter in the boy who fills every w T all with sketches and variedly adds colour to fig- ure ; so we see a future Philosopher in him who restlessly traces and questions all natural things, pays heed to all, brings together whatever is remarkable, and rejoices when he has become master and possessor of a new phenomenon, of a new power and piece of knowledge. ‘ Now to Some it appears not at all worth while to follow out the endless divisions of Nature ; and moreover a dangerous undertaking, without fruit and issue. As we can never reach, say they, the absolutely smallest grain of material bodies, never find their simplest compartments, since all magnitude loses itself, forwards and backwards, in infinitude ; so likewise is it with the species of bodies and powers ; here too one comes on new species, new combinations, new appearances, even to infinitude. These 'seem only to stop, continue they, NO VALIS. Ill when our diligence tires ; and so it is spending precious time with idle contemplations and tedious enumerations ; and this becomes at last a true delirium, a real vertigo over the horrid Deep. For Nature too remains, so far as we. have vet come, ever a frightful Machine of Death : everywhere monstrous rev- olution, inexplicable vortices of movement ; a kingdom of Devouring, of the maddest tyranny ; a baleful Immense : the few liglit-points disclose but a so much the more appalling Night, and terrors of all sorts must palsy every observer. Like a saviour does Death stand by the hapless race of man- kind ; for without Death, the maddest were the happiest. And precisely this striving to fathom that gigantic Mechanism is already a draught towards the Deep, a commenciug giddi- ness ; for every excitement is an iu creasing whirl, which soon gains full mastery over its victim, and hurls him forward with it into the fearful Night. Here, say those lamenters, lies the crafty snare for Man’s understanding, which Nature every- where seeks to annihdate as her greatest foe. Hail to that childlike ignorance and innocence of men, which kept them blind to the horrible perils that everywhere, like grim thunder- clouds, lay round their peaceful dwelling, and each moment were ready to rush down on them. Only inward disunion among the powers of Nature has preserved men hitherto ; nevertheless, that great ejnoch cannot fail to arrive, when the whole family of mankind, by a grand universal Resolve, will snatch themselves from this sorrowful condition, from this frightful imprisonment ; and by a voluntary Abdication of their terrestrial abode, redeem their race from this anguish, and seek refuge in a happier world, with their ancient Father. Thus might they end worthily ; and prevent a necessary, vio- lent destruction ; or a still more horrible degenerating into Beasts, by gradual dissolution of their thinking organs, through Insanity. Intercourse with the powers of Nature, with animals, plants, rocks, storms and waves, must neces- sarily assimilate men to these objects ; and this Assimilation, this Metamorphosis, and dissolution of the Divine and the Human, into ungovernable Forces, is even the Spirit of Nature, that frightfully voracious Power : and is not all that we see even now a prey from Heaven, a great Ruin of former Glories, the Remains of a terrific Repast ? ‘ Be it so, cry a more courageous Class ; let our species maintain a stubborn, well-planned war of destruction ' with this same Nature, then. By slow jwisons must we endeavour to subdue her. .The Inquirer into Nature is a noble hero, 112 NOV ALLS. who rushes into the open abyss for the deliverance of his fellow-citizens. Artists have already played her many a trick : do but continue in this course ; get hold of the secret threads, and bring" them to act against each other. Profit by these discords, that so in the end you may lead her, like that fire- breathing Bull, according to your pleasure. To you she must become obedient. Patience and Faith beseem the children of men. Distant Brothers are united with us for one object ; the wheel of the Stars must become the cistern-wheel of our life, and then, by our slaves, we can build us a new Fairyland. With heartfelt triumph let us look at her devastations, her tumults ; she is selling herself to us, and every violence she will pay by a heavy penalty. In the inspiring feeling of our Freedom, let us live and die ; here gushes forth the stream, which will one day overflow and subdue her ; in it let us bathe, and refresh ourselves for new exploits. Hither the rage* of the Monster does not reach ; one drop of Freedom is sufficient to cripple her forever, and forever set limits to her havoc. ‘ They are right, say Several ; here, or nowhere, lies The talisman. By the well of Freedom we sit and look ; it is the grand magic Mirror, where the w r hole Creation images itself, pure and clear ; in it do the tender Spirits and Forms of all Natures bathe ; all chambers we here behold unlocked. What need have we toilsomely to wander over the troublous World of visible things ? The purer World lies even in us, in this Well. Here discloses itself the true meaning of the great, many-coloured, complected Scene ; and if full of these sights we return into Nature, all is well known to us, with certainty we distinguish every shape. We need not to inquire long ; a light Comparison, a few strokes in the sand, are enough to inform us. Thus, for us, is the whole a great Writing, to which we have the key ; and nothing comes to us unexpected, for the course of the great Horologe is known to us before- hand. It is only we that enjoy Nature with full senses, be- cause she does not frighten us from our senses ; because no fever-dreams oppress us, and serene consciousness makes us calm and confiding. ‘They are not right, says an earnest Man to these latter. Can they not recognise in Nature the true impress of their own Selves? It is even they that consume themselves, in wild hostility to Thought. They know not that this so-called Nature of theirs is a Sport of the Mind, a waste Fantasy of their Dream. Of a surety, it is for them a horrible Monster, NO VALTS. 113 a strange grotesque Shadow of their own Passions. The waking man looks without fear at this offspring of his lawless Imagination ; for he knows that they are but vain Spectres of his weakness. He feels himself lord of the world : his Me hovers victorious over the Abyss ; and will through Eternities hover aloft above that endless Vicissitude. Harmony is what his spirit strives to promulgate, to extend. He -will even to infinitude grow more and more harmonious with himself and with his Creation ; and at every step behold the all-efficiency of a high moral Order in the Universe, and what is purest of his Me come forth into brighter and blighter clearness. The significance of the World is Reason ; for her sake is the World here ; and when it is grown to be the arena of a child- like, expanding Reason, it will one day become the divine Image of her Activity, the scene of a genuine Church. Till then let man honour Nature as the Emblem of his own Spirit ; the Emblem ennobling itself, along with him, to unlimited degrees. Let him, therefore, who would arrive at knowledge of Nature, train his moral sense, let him act and conceive in accordance with the noble Essence of his Soul ; and as if of herself, Nature will become open to him. Moral Action is that great and onl} r Experiment, in which all riddles of the most manifold appearances explain themselves. Whoso un- derstands it, and in rigid sequence of Thought can lay it open, is forever Master of Nature.’ 1 ‘The Pupil,’ it is added, ‘listens with alarm to these con- flicting voices.’ If such was the case in half-supernatural Sais, it may well be much more so in mere sublunary London. Here again, however, in regard to these vaporous lucubrations, we can only imitate Jean Paul’s Quintus Fix- lein, who, it is said, in his elaborate Catalogue of German Errors of the Press, ‘ states that important inferences are to ‘be drawn from it, and advises the reader to draw them.’ Perhaps these wonderful paragraphs, which look, at this distance, so like chasms filled with mere sluggish mist, might prove valleys, with a clear stream and soft pastures, were we near at hand. For one thing, either Novalis, with Tieck and Schlegel at his back, are men in a state of derangement ; or there is more in Heaven and Earth than has been dreamt of 1 Bd. ii. s. 43-57. 8 114 NOVALIS. in our Philosophy. We may add that, in our -view, this last Speaker, the 1 earnest Man,’ seems evidently to be Fichte ; the first two Classes look like some sceptical or atheistic brood, unacquainted with Bacon’s Novum Organum, or having, the First class at least, almost no faith in it. That theory of the human species ending by a universal simultaneous act of Suicide, will, to the more simple sort of readers, be new. As farther and more directly illustrating Novalis’s scientific views, w T e may here subjoin two short sketches, taken from another department of this Volume. To all who prosecute Philosophy, and take interest in its history and present as- pects, they will not be without interest. The obscure parts of them are not perhaps unintelligible, but only obscure ; which unluckily cannot, at all times, be helped in such cases ; ‘ Common Logic is the Grammar of the higher Speech, that is of Thought ; it examines merely the relations of ideas to one another, the Mechanics of Thought, the pure Physi- ology of ideas. Now logical ideas stand related to one an- other, like words without thoughts. Logic occupies itself with the mere dead Body of the Science of Thinking. — Meta- physics, again, is the Dynamics of Thought ; treats of the primary Powers of Thought ; occupies itself with the mere Soul of the Science of Thinking. Metaphysical ideas stand related to one another, like thoughts without words. Men often wondered at tlie stubborn Incompletibility of these two Sciences ; each followed its own business by itself ; there was a want everywhere, nothing would suit rightly with either. From the very first, attempts were made to unite them, as everything about them indicated relationship ; but every at- tempt failed ; the one or the other Science still suffered in these attempts, and lost its essential character. We had to abide by metaphysical Logic, and logical Metaphysic, but neither of them was as it should be. With Physiology and Psychology with Mechanics and Chemistry, it fared no better.' In the latter half of this Century there arose, with us Ger- mans, a more violent commotion than ever ; the hostile masses towered themselves up against each other more fiercely than heretofore ; the fermentation was extreme ; there fob lowed powerful explosions. And now some assert that a real Compenetration has somewhere or other taken place ; that NO VAL1S. 115 the germ of a union lias arisen, which will grow by degrees, and assimilate all to one indivisible form : that this principle of Peace is pressing out irresistibly, on all sides, and that erelong there will be but one Science and one Spirit, as one Prophet and one God.’ — ‘The rude, discursive Thinker is the Scholastic (Schoolman Logician). The true Scholastic is a mystical Subtlist ; out of logical Atoms he builds his Universe ; he annihilates. all living Nature, to put an Artifice of Thoughts ( Gedan/scnkunst stuck, literally Conjurer’s-trick of Thoughts) in its room. His aim is an infinite Automaton. Opposite to him is the rude, intui- tive Poet : this is a mystical Macrologist : he hates rules and fixed form ; a wild, violent life reigns instead of it in Nature ; all is animate, no law ; wilfulness and wonder everywhere. He is merely dynamical. Tiius does the Philosophic Spirit arise at first, in altogether separate masses. In the second stage of culture these masses begin to come in contact, multi- fariously enough ; and, as in the union of infinite Extremes, the Finite, the Limited arises, so here also arise “ Eclectic Philosophers ” without number ; the time of misunderstand- ing begins. The most limited is, in this stage, the most im- portant, the purest Philosopher of the second stage. This class occupies itself wholly with the actual, present world, in the strictest sense. The Philosophers of the first class look down with contempt on those of the second ; say, they are a little of everything, and so nothing ; hold their views as the results of weakness, as Inconsequentism. On the contrary, the second class, in their turn, pity the first ; lay the blame on their visionary enthusiasm, which they say is absurd, even to insanity. If, on the one hand, the Scholastics and Alche- mists seem to be utterly at variance, and the Eclectics on the other hand quite at one, yet, strictly examined, it is altogether the reverse. The former, hi essentials, are indirectly of one opinion ; namely, as regards the non-dependence and infinite character of Meditation, they both set out from the Absolute : whilst the Eclectic and limited sort are essentially at' vari- ance ; and agree only in what is deduced. The former are infinite but uniform, the latter bounded but multiform ; the former have genius, the latter talent ; those have Ideas, these have knacks ( Hcmdgriffe ) ; those are heads without hands, these are hands without heads. The third stage is- for the ' Artist, who can be at once implement and genius. He finds that that primitive Separation' in the absolute Philosophical Activities’ (between the Scholastic, and the “rude, intuitive 116 I VO VAL13. Poet”) £ is a deeper lying Separation in bis own Nature ; which Separation indicates, by its existence as such, the possibility of being adjusted, of being joined : he finds that, heteroge- neous as these Activities are, there is yet a faculty in him of passing from the one to the other, of changing his polarity at will. He discovers in them, therefore, necessary members of his spirit : he observes that both must be united in some common Principle. He infers that Eclecticism is nothing but the imperfect defective employment of this Principle. It be- comes ’ — But we need not struggle farther, wringing a significance out of these mysterious words : in delineating the genuine Transcendentalist, or ‘ Philosopher of the third stage,’ prop- erly speaking the Philosopher, Novaks ascends into regions whither few readers won* i follow him. It maybe observed here, that British Philosophy, tracing it from Dims Seotus to Dugald Stewart, has now gone through the first and second of these ‘ stages/ the Scholastic and the Eclectic, and in con- siderable honour. With our amiable Professor Stewart, than whom no man, not Cicero himself, was ever more entirely Eclectic, that second or Eclectic class may be considered as having terminated ; and now Philosophy is at a stand among us, or rather there is now no Philosophy visible in these Islands. It remains to be seen, whether we also are to have our ‘ third stage ; ’ and how that new and highest ‘ class ’ will demean itself here. The French Philosophers seem busy studying Kant, and writing of him : but we rather imagine Novalis would pronounce them still only in the Eclectic stage. He says afterwards, that ‘ all Eclectics are essentially and at bottom sceptics ; the more comprehensive, the more sceptical. ’ These two passages have been extracted from a large series of Fragments, which, under the three divisions of Philosophi- cal, Critical, Moral, occupy the greatest part of Volume Second. They are fractions, as we hinted above, of that grand ‘ ency- clopedical work ’ which Novalis had planned. Friedrich Schlegel is said to be the selector of those published here. They come before us without note or comment ; worded for the most part in very unusual phraseology ; and without repeated NO VALES. 117 and most patient investigation, seldom yield any significance, or rather we should say, often yield a false one. A few of the clearest we have selected for insertion : whether the reader will think them ‘Pollen of Flowers,’ or a baser kind of dust, we shall not predict. We give them in a miscellaneous shape ; overlooking those classifications which, even in the test, are not and could not be very rigidly adhered to. ‘ Philosophy .can Fake no bread ; but she can procure for us Grocl, Freedom, Immortality. Which then is more practi- cal, Philosophy or Economy ? — ‘ Philosophy is properly Home-sickness ; the wish to be everywhere at home. — ‘ We are near awakening when we dream that we dream. — ‘ The true philosophical Act is annihilation of self ( Selbsttod - tung) ; this is the real beginning of all Philosophy ; all requi- sites for , being a Disciple of Philosophy point hither. This Act alone corresponds to all the conditions and characteristics of transcendental conduct. — ‘ To become properly acquainted with a truth, we must first have disbelieved it, and disputed against it. — ‘ Man is the higher Sense of our Planet ; the star which connects it with the upper world ; the eye which it turns towards Heaven. — ‘ Life is a disease of the spirit ; a working incited by Pas- sion. Rest is peculiar to the spirit. — ‘ Our life is no Dream, but it may and will perhaps become one.— ‘ What is Nature ? An encyclopedical, systematic Index or Plan of our Spirit. Why will we content us with the mere Catalogue of our Treasures ? Let us contemplate them our- selves, and in all ways elaborate and use them. — ‘ If our Bodily Life is a burning, our Spiritual Life is a being burnt, a Combustion (or, is precisely the inverse the case?) ; Death, therefore, perhaps a Change of Capacity. — ‘ Sleep is for the inhabitants of Planets only. In. another time, Man will sleep and wake continually at once. The greater part of our Body, of our Humanity itself, yet sleeps a deej) sleep. — ‘ There is but one Temple in the World ; and that is the Body of Man. Nothing is holier than this high form. Bend- ing before man is a reverence done to this Revelation in the 118 NO VALIS. Flesh. We touch Heaven, when we lay our hand. on a h um an body. — ‘ Man is a Sun ; his Senses are the Planets. — ‘ Man has ever expressed some symbolical Philosophy of his Being in his Works and Conduct ; he announces himself and his Gospel of Nature ; he is the Messiah of Nature. — ‘ Plants are Children of the Earth ; we are Children of the iEther. Our Lungs are properly our Boot ; we live, when we breathe ; we begin our life with breathing. — ‘ Nature is an iEolian Harp, a musical instrument whose tones again are keys to higher strings in us. — ‘ Every beloved object is the centre of a Paradise. — ‘ The first Man is the first Spirit-seer ; all appears to him as Spirit. What are children but first men ? The fresh gaze of the Child is richer in significance than the forecasting of the most indubitable Seer. — ‘It depends only on the weakness of our organs and of our self-excitement ( Selbstber uhrung ), that we do not see our- selves in a Fairy-world. All Fabulous Tales ( Mahvchen ) are merely dreams of that home-world, which is everywhere and nowhere. The higher powers in us, which one day as Genies, shall fulfil our will , 1 are, for the present. Muses, which refresh us on our toilsome course with sweet remembrances. — ‘ Man consists in Truth. If he exposes Truth, he exposes himself. If he betrays Truth, he betrays himself. We speak not here of Lies, but of acting against Conviction.— ■- ‘A character is a completely fashioned will ( vollkommen gebilileter Wille ). — - ‘ There is, properly speaking, no Misfortune in the world Happiness and Misfortune stand in continual balance. Every Misfortune is, as it were, the obstruction of a stream, which, after overcoming this obstruction, but bursts through with the greater force. — ‘ The ideal of Morality has no more dangerous rival than the ideal of- liighest Strength, of most powerful life ; which also has been named (very falsely as it was there meant) the 1 Novalis’s ideas, on what has been called the ‘perfectibility of man,’ ground themselves on his peculiar views of the constitution of material and spiritual Nature, and are of the most original and extraordinary character. With our utmost effort, we should despair of communicat- ing other than a quite false, notion of them. He asks, for instance, with scientific gravity : Whether any one, that recollects the first kind glance of her he loved, can doubt the possibility of Magic ? NO VALIS. 119 ideal of poetic greatness. It is the maximum of the savage ; and has, in these times, gained, precisely among the greatest weaklings, very many proselytes. By this ideal, man becomes a Beast- Spirit, a Mixture ; whose brutal wit has, for weakhngs, a brutal power of attraction. — ‘ The spirit of Poesy is the morning light, which makes the Statue of Memnon sound. — ‘ The division of Philosopher and Poet is only apparent, and to the disadvantage of both. It is a sign of disease, and of a sickly constitution. — ‘ The true Poet is all-knowing ; he is an actual world in miniature. — - ‘ Klopstock’s works appear, for the most part, free Transla- tions of an unknown Poet, by a very talented but unpoetical Philologist. — ‘ Goethe is an altogether practical Poet. He is in his works what the Enghsh are in their wares : highly simple, neat, con- venient and durable. He has done in German Literature what Wedgwood did in Enghsh Manufacture. He has, like the English, a natural turn for Economy, and a noble Taste acquired by Understanding. Both these are very compatible, and have a near affinity in the chemical sense. * * — Wil- helm Meister’s Apprenticeship may be called throughout prosaic and modern. The Romantic sinks to ruin, the Poesy of Nature, the Wonderful. The Book treats merely of common worldly things : Nature and Mysticism are altogether forgotten. It is a poetised civic and household History ; the Marvellous is expressly treated therein as imagination and 'enthusiasm. Artistic Atheism is the spirit of the Book. * * * It is properly a Candide, directed against Poetry : the Book is highly unpoetical in respect of spirit, poetical as the dress and body of it is. * * * The introduction of Shakspeare has almost a tragic effect. The hero retards the triumph of the Gospel of Economy ; and economical Nature is finally the true and only remaining one. — ‘ When we speak of the aim and Art observable in Shak- speare’s works, we must not forget that Art belongs to Nat- ure ; that it is, so to speak, self-viewing, self-imitating, self- fashioning Nature. The Art of a well-developed genius is far different from the Artfulness of the Understanding, of the merely reasoning mind. Shakspeare was no calculator, no learned thinker ; he was a mighty, many-gifted soul, whose feelings aud works, like products of Nature, bear the stamp of the same spirit ; and in which the last aud deepest of oh- 120 NOVA LIS. servers will still find new harmonies with the infinite structure of the Universe ; concurrences with later ideas, affinities with the higher powers and senses of man. They are em- blematic, have many meanings, are simple and inexhausti- ble, like products of Nature ; and nothing more unsuitable could be said of them than that they are works of Art, in that narrow mechanical acceptation of the word.’ The reader understands that we offer these specimens not as the best to be found in Novalis’s Fragments, but simply as the most intelligible. Far stranger and deeper things there are, could we hope to make them in the smallest degree un- derstood. But in examining and re-examining many of his Fragments, we find ourselves carried into more complex, more subtle regions of thought than any we are elsewhere ac- quainted with : here we cannot always find our own latitude and longitude, sometimes not even approximate to finding them ; much less teach others such a secret. What has been already quoted may afford some knowledge of Novalis, in the characters of Philosopher and Critic :• there is one other aspect under which it would be still more curious to view and exhibit him, but still more difficult, — we mean that of his Religion. Novalis nowhere specially records his creed, in these Writings : he many times expresses, or im- plies, a zealous, heartfelt belief in the Christian system ; yet with such adjuncts and coexisting persuasions, as to us might seem rather surprising. One or two more of these his Aphor- isms, relative to this subject, we shall cite, as likely to be bet- ter than any description of ours. The whole Essay at the end of Volume First, entitled Die Christenheit oder Europa (Chris- tianity or Europe) is also well worthy of study, in this as in many other points of view. ‘ Religion contains infinite sadness. If we are to love God, he must be in distress ( half sbediirf tig , help-needing). In how far is this condition answered in Christianity ? — ‘ Spinoza is a God - intoxicated man ( Gott - trunlcener Mensch ). — ‘ Is the Devil, as Father of Lies,, himself but a necessary illusion- ?— NO VALIS. 121 ‘ The Catholic Religion is to a certain extent applied Christianity. Fichteh Philosophy too is perhaps applied Christianity. — ‘ Can Miracles work Conviction ? Or is not real Convim lion, this highest function of our soul and personality, the only true God-announcing Miracle ? 1 The Christian Religion is especially remarkable, moreover, as it so decidedly lays claim to mere good-will in Man, to his essential Temper, and values this independently of all Culture and Manifestation. It stands in opposition to Science and to Art, and properly to Enjoyment . 1 ‘ Its origin is with the common people. It inspires the great majority of the limited in this Earth. ‘ It is the Light that begins to shine in the Darkness. ‘ It is the root of all Democracy, the highest Fact in the Rights of Man ( die hochste Thatsache der Popularity). ‘ Its unpoetical exterior, its resemblance to a modern family-picture, seems only to be lent it . 1 ‘ Martyrs are spiritual heroes. Christ was the greatest martyr of our species ; through him has martyrdom become infinitely significant and holy. — ‘ The Bible begins nobly, with Paradise, the symbol of youth ; and concludes with the Eternal Kingdom, the Holy City. Its two main divisions, also, are genuine grand-his- torical divisions (cicht grosshistorisch) . For in every grand- historical compartment ( Glied ), the grand history must lie, as it were, symbolically re-created ( verjungt , made young again). The beginning of the New Testament is the second higher Fall (the Atonement of the Fall), and the commencement of the new Period. The history of every individual man should be a Bible. Christ is the new Adam. A Bible is the highest problem of Authorship. — ‘ As yet there is no Religion. You must first make a Seminary ( Bildungs-schule ) of genuine Religion. Think ye that there is Religion ? Religion has to be made and pro- duced ( gemacht und hervorgebracht ) by the union of a number of persons.’ Hitherto our readers have seen nothing of Novalis in his character of Poet, properly so called ; the Pupils at Sais being fully more of a scientific than poetic nature. As hinted above, we do not account his gifts in this latter province as 1 Italics also in tlie text. 122 NOV ALLS. of tlie first, or even of a high order ; unless, indeed, it be true, as be himself maintains, that ‘ the distinction of Poet and Philosopher is apparent only, and to the injury of both.’ In his professedly poetical compositions there is an indubit- able prolixity, a degree of languor, not weakness but sluggish- ness ; the meaning is too much diluted ; and diluted, we might say, not in a rich, lively, varying music, as we find in Tieck, for example ; but rather in a low-voiced, not unme- lodious monotony, the deep hum of which is broken only at rare intervals, though sometimes by tones of purest and almost spiritual softness. We here allude chiefly to his un- metrical pieces, his prose fictions : indeed the metrical are few in number ; for the most part, on religious subjects ; and in spite of a decided truthfulness both in feeling and word, seem to bespeak no great skill or practice in that form of com- position. In his prose style he may be accounted happier ; he aims in general at simplicity, and a certain familiar ex- pressiveness : here and there in his more elaborate passages, especially in his Hymns to the Night he has reminded us of Herder. These Hymns to tlie Night, it will be remembered, were written shortly after the death of his mistress : in that period of deep sorrow, or rather of holy- deliverance from sorrow. Novalis himself regarded them' as his most finished produc- tions. They are of a strange, veiled, almost enigmatical char- acter ; nevertheless, more deeply examined, they appear no- wise without true poetic worth ; there is a vastness, an immensity of idea ; a still solemnity reigns in them, a solitude almost as of extinct worlds. Here and there too some light- beam visits us in the void deep ; and we cast a glance, clear and wondrous, into the secrets of that mysterious soul. A full commentary on the Hymns to the Night would be an ex- position of Novalis’s whole theological and moral creed ; for it lies recorded there, though symbolically, and in lyric, not in didactic language. We have translated the Third, as the shortest and simplest ; imitating its light, half -measured style, above all deciphering its vague deep-laid sense, as accurately as we could. By the word ‘Night,’ it will be seen, Xovalis means NO VALIS. 123 much more than the common opposite of Day. ‘ Light, seems, in these poems, to shadow forth our terrestrial life ; Night the primeval and celestial life : ‘ Once when I was sheddigg bitter tears, when dissolved in pain my Hope had melted away, and I stood solitary by the grave that in its dark narrow space concealed the Form of my life ; solitary as no other had been ; chased by unutterable anguish ; powerless ; one thought and that of misery ; — here now as I looked round for help ; forward could not go, nor backward, but clung to a transient extinguished Life with unutterable longing ; — lo, from the azure distance, down from the heights of my old Blessedness, came a chill breath of Dusk, and suddenly the band of Birth, the fetter of Light was snapped asunder. Vanishes the Glory of Earth, and with it my Lamenting ; rushes together the infinite Sadness into a new unfathomable World : thou Night's-inspiration, Slumber of Heaven, earnest over me ; the scene rose gently aloft ; over the scene hovered my enfranchised new-born sjsirit ; to a cloud of dust that grave changed itself ; through the cloud I beheld the transfigured features of my Beloved. In her eyes lay Eternity ; I clasped her hand, and my tears became a glitter- ing indissoluble chain. Centuries of Ages moved away into the distance, like thunder-clouds. On her neck I wept, for this new life, enrapturing tears. — It was my first, only Dream ; and ever since then do I feel this changeless everlasting faith in the Heaven of Night, and its Sun my Beloved.’ What degree of critical satisfaction, what insight into the grand crisis of Novalis’s spiritual history, which seems to be here shadowed forth, our readers may derive from this Third Hymn to the Night, we shall not pretend to conjecture. . Mean- while, it were giving them a false impression of the Poet, did we leave him here ; exhibited only under his more mystic aspects : as if his Poetry were exclusively a thing of Allegory, dwelling amid Darkness and Vacuity, far from all paths of or- dinary mortals and their thoughts. Novalis can write in the most common style, as well as in this most uncommon one ; and there too not without originality. By far the greater part of this First Volume is occupied with a Romance, Hein- rich von Ofterdingen, written, so far as it goes, much in the 124 NO VALIS. every-day manner ; we have adverted the less to it, because we nowise reckoned it among his most remarkable composi- tions. Like many of the others, it has been left as a Frag- ment ; nay, from the account Tieck gives of its ulterior plan, and how from the solid prose world of the First part, this ‘ Apotheosis of Poetry ’ was to pass, in the Second, into a mythical, fairy and quite fantastic world, critics have doubted ‘whether, strictly speaking, it could have been completed. From this Avork we select two passages, as specimens of No- valis’s manner in the more common style of composition ; premising, which in this one instance Ave are entitled to do, that whatever excellence they may have Avill be universally ap- preciable. The first is the introduction to the whole Narra- tive, as it Avere the text of the whole ; the ‘ Blue Flower ’ there spoken of being Poetry, the real object, passion and vocation of young Heinrich, Avliich, through manifold adventures, ex- ertions and sufferings, he is to seek and find. His history commences thus : ‘ The old people were already asleep ; the clock was beating its monotonous tick on the wall ; the wind blustered over the rattling windows ; by turns, the chamber Avas lighted by the sheen of the moon. The young man lay restless in his bed ; and thought of the stranger and his stories. “ Not the treasures is it,” said he to himself, “ that have aAvakened in me so unspeakable a desire ; far from me is all covetousness ; but the Blue Flower is what I long to behold. It lies incessantly in my heart, and I can think and fancy of nothing else. Never did I feel so before : it is as if, till noAA\ I had been dreaming, or as if sleep had carried me into another world ; for in the Avorld I- used to live in, Avho troubled himself about flowers'? Such wild passion for a Flower was never heard of there. But Avhence could that stranger have come ? None, of us ever saw such a man ; yet I knoAV not how I alone was so caught with his discourse : the rest heard the very same, yet none seems to mind it. And then that I cannot even speak of my strange con- dition ! I feel such rapturous contentment ; and only then when I have not the Flower rightly before my eyes, does so deep heartfelt an eagerness come over me : these things no one will or can believe. I could fancy I were mad. if I did not see, did not think Avith such perfect clearness ; since that day, all JSTO VAL1S. 125 is far better known to me. I bave beard tell of ancient times ; bow animals and trees and rocks used to speak witb men. This is even my feeling ; as if they were on tbe point of breaking out, and I could see in them, wbat they wished to say to me. There must be many a word which I know not ; did I know more, I could better comprehend these matters. Once I liked dancing ; now I had rather think to the music.” — The young man lost himself, by degrees, in sweet fancies, and fell asleep. He dreamed first of immeasureable distances, find wild unknown regions. He wandered over seas with incredi- ble speed ; strange animals he saw ; he lived with many varie- ties of men, now in war, in wild tumult, now in peaceful huts. He wasdaken captive, and fell into the lowest wretchedness. All emotions rose to a height as yet unknown to him. He lived through an infinitely variegated life ; died and came back ; loved to the highest passion, and then again was forever parted from his loved one. At length towards morning, as the dawn broke up without, his spirit also grew stiller, the images grew clearer and more permanent. It seemed to him he was walking alone in a dark wood. Only here and there did day glimmer through the green net. Erelong he came to a rocky chasm, which mounted upwards. He had to climb over many crags, which some former stream had rolled down. The higher he came, the lighter grew the wood. At last he arrived at a lit- tle meadow, which lay on the declivity of the mountain. Be- yond the meadow rose a high cliff, at the foot of which he ob- served an opening, that seemed to be the entrance of a pas- sage hewn in the rock. The passage led him easily on, for some.time, to a great subterranean expanse, out of which from afar a bright gleam was visible. On entering, he perceived a strong beam of light, which sprang as if from a fountain to the roof of the cave, and sprayed itself into innumerable sparks, which collected below in a great basin : the beam glanced like kindled gold ; not the faintest noise was to be heard, a sacred silence encircled the glorious sight. He approached the basin, which waved and quivered with infinite hues. The walls of the cave were coated with this iluid, which was not hot but cool, and on the walls threw out a faint bluish light. He dipt his hand in the basin, and wetted his lips. It was as if the breath of a spirit went through him ; and he felt himself in his inmost heart strengthened and refreshed. An irresisti- ble desire seized him to bathe ; he undressed himself and slept into the basin. He felt as if a sunset cloud were float- ing round him ; a heavenly emotion streamed over his soul ; 126 NOVALIS. in deep pleasure innumerable thoughts strove to blend within him ; new, unseen images arose, which also melted together, and became visible beings around him ; and every wave of that lovely element pressed itself on him like a soft bosom. The flood seemed a Spirit of Beauty, which from moment to moment was taking form round the youth. ‘Intoxicated with rapture, and yet conscious of every im- pression, he floated softly down that glittering stream, which flowed out from the basin into the rocks. A sort of sweet slumber fell upon him, in which he dreamed indescribable ad- ventures, and out of which a new light awoke him. He found himself on a soft sward at the margin of a spring, which welled out into the air, and seemed to dissipate itself there. Dark- blue rocks, with many-coloured veins, rose at. some distance ; the daylight which encircled him was clearer and milder than the common ; the . sky was black-blue, and altogether pure. But what attracted him infinitely most was a high, light-blue Flower, which stood close by the spring, touching it with its broad glittering leaves. Bound it stood innumerable flowers of all colours, and the sweetest perfume filled the air. He saw nothing but the Blue Flower ; and gazed on it long with nameless tenderness. At last he was for approaching, when all at once it began to move and change ; the leaves grew more resplendent, and clasped themselves round the waxing stem ; the Flower bent itself towards him ; and the petals showed like a blue spreading ruff, in which hovered a lovely face. His sweet astonishment at this transformation was in- creasing, — when suddenly his mother’s voice awoke him, and he found himself in the house of his parents, which the morn- ing sun was already gilding.’ Our next and last extract is likewise of a dream. Young Heinrich with his mother travels a long journey to see his grandfather at Augsburg ; converses, on the way, with mer- chants, miners, and red-cross warriors (for it is in the time of the Crusades) ; and soon after his arrival falls immeasurably in love with Matilda, the Poet Ivlin gsohr’s daughter, whose face was that fairest one he had seen in his old vision of the Blue Flower. Matilda, it would appear, is to be taken from him by death (as Sophie was from Xovalis) : meanwhile, dreading no such event, Heinrich abandon^ himself with full heart to his new emotions : NO VALIS. 127 ‘ He went to the window. The choir of the Stars stood in the deep heaven ; and in the east, a white gleam announced the coming day. ‘Full of rapture, Heinrich exclaimed : “You, ye everlasting Stars, ye silent wanderers, I call you to witness my sacred oath. For Matilda will I live, and eternal faith shall unite my heart and hers. For me too, the morn of an everlasting day is dawning. The night is by : to the rising Sun, I kindle myself as a sacrifice that will never be extinguished.” ‘ Heinrich was heated ; and not till late, towards morning, did he fall asleep. In strange dreams, the thoughts of his sold embodied themselves. A deep-blue river gleamed from the plain. On its smooth surface floated a bark ; Matilda was sitting there, and steering. She was adorned with garlands ; ivas singing a simple Song, and looking over to him with fond sadness. His bosom was full of anxiety. He knew not why. The sky was clear, the stream calm. Her heavenly counte- nance was mirrored in the waves. All at once the bark began to whirl. He called earnestly to her. She smiled, and laid down her oar in the boat, which continued whirling. An un- speakable terror took hold of him. He dashed into the stream ; but he cotdd not get forward ; the water carried him. She beckoned, she seemed as if she wished to say something to him ; the bark w T as filling with water ; yet she smiled with unspeakable affection, and looked cheerfully into the vortex. All at once it drew her- in. A faint breath rippled over the stream, which flowed on as calm and glittering as before. His horrid agony robbed him of consciousness. His heart ceased beating. On returning to himself, he was again on dry land. It seemed as if he had floated far. It was a strange region. He knew not what had passed with him. His heart was gone. Unthinking he walked deeper into the country. He felt inex- pressibly weary. A little well gushed from a hill ; it sounded like perfect bells. With , his hand he lifted some drops, and wetted his parched lips. Like a sick dream, lay the frightful event behind him. Farther and farther he walked ; flowers and trees spoke to him. He felt so well, so at home in the scene. Then he heard that simple Song again. He ran after the sounds. Suddenly some one held him by the clothes. “Dear Henry,” cried a well-known voice. He looked round, and Matilda clasped him in her arms. “ Why didst thou run from me, dear heart?” said 'she, breathing deep : “I could scarcely overtake thee.” Heinrich wept. He pressed her to him. “ Where is the river ? ” cried he in tears. — “ Seest thou 128 NOYAUS. not its blue waves above us ? ” He looked up, and the blue river was flowing softly over their heads. “Where are we, dear Matilda?” — “With our Fathers.” — “Shall we stay to- gether?” — “Forever,” answered she, pressing her lips to his, and so clasping him that she could not again quit hold. She put a wondrous, secret Word in his mouth, and it pierced through all his being. He was about to repeat it, when his Grandfather called, and he awoke. He would have given his life to remember that Word.’ This image of Death, and of the Paver being the Sky in that other and eternal country, seems to us a fine and touch- ing one : there is in it a trace of that simple sublimity, that soft still pathos, which are characteristics of Xovalis, and doubtless the highest of his specially poetic gifts. But on these, and what other gifts and deficiencies pertain to him, we can no farther insist : for now, after such multifa- rious quotations, and more or less stinted commentaries, we must consider our little enterprise in respect of Xovalis to have reached its limits ; to be, if not completed, concluded. Our reader has heard him largely ; on a great variety of topics, selected and exhibited here in such manner as seemed the fittest for our object, and with a true wish on our part, that what little judgment was in the mean while to be formed of such a man, might be a fair and honest one. Some of the passages we have translated will appear obscure ; others, we hope, are not without symptoms of a wise and deep meaning ; the rest may excite wonder, which wonder again it will de- pend on each reader for himself, whether he turn to right account or to wrong account, whether he entertain as the parent of Knowledge, or as the daughter of Ignorance. For the great body of readers, we are aware, there can be little profit iu Xovalis, who rather employs our time than helps us to kill it ; for such auy farther study of him would be unad- visable. To others again, who prize Truth -as the end of all reading, especially to that class who cultivate moral science as the development of purest and highest Truth, we can rec- ommend the perusal and reperusal of Xovalis with almost perfect confidence. If they feel, with us, that the most prof- NOVALIS. 129 itable employment any book can give them, is to study hon- estly some earnest, deep-minded, truth-loving Man, to work their way into his manner of thought, till they see the world with his eyes, feel as he felt and judge as he judged, neither believing nor denying, till they can in some measure so feel and judge, — then we may assert, that few books known to us are more worthy of their attention than this. They will find it, if we mistake not, an unfathomed mine of philosophical ideas, where the keenest intellect may have occupation enough ; and in such occupation, without looking farther, reward enough. All this, if the reader proceed on candid principles ; if not, it will be all otherwise. To no man, so much as to Novalis is that famous motto applicable : Leser, wie gefalV ich Dir? Leser, wie gefallst Du mir? Reader, how likest thou me ? Reader, how like I thee ? For the rest, it were but a false proceeding did we attempt any formal character of Novalis in this place ; did we pretend with such means as ours to reduce that extraordinary nature under common formularies ; and in few words sum up the net total of his worth and worthlessness. We have repeat- edly expressed our own imperfect knowledge of the matter, and our entire despair of bringing even an approximate picture of it before readers so foreign to him. The kind words, ‘amiable enthusiast,’ ‘poetic dreamer;’ or the unkind ones, ‘German mystic,’ ‘crackbrained rhapsodist,’ are easily spoken and written ; but would avail little in this instance. If we are not altogether mistaken, Novalis cannot be ranged under any one of these noted categories ; but belongs to a higher and much less known one, the significance of which is perhaps also worth studying, at all events will not till after long study' become clear to us. Meanwhile let the reader accept some vague impressions of ours on this subject, since we have no fixed judgment to offer him. We might say, that the chief excellence we have re- 9 130 NOVALIS. marked in Novaks is liis to us truly wonderful subtlety of in- tellect ; bis power of intense abstraction, of pursuing the deep- est and most evanescent ideas through then’ thousand com- plexities, as it were, with lynx vision, and to the very limits of human Thought. He was well skilled in mathematics, and, as we can easily believe, fond of that science ; but his is a far finer species of endowment than any required in mathe- matics, where the mind, from the very beginning of Euclid to the end of Laplace, is assisted with visible symbols, with safe implements for thinking ; nay, at least in what is called the higher mathematics, has often little more than a mechanical superintendence to exercise over these. This power of ab- stract meditation, when it is so sure and clear as we some- times find it with Novaks, is a much higher and rarer one ; its element is not mathematics, but that Mathesis, of which it has been said many a Great Calculist has not even a notion. In this power, truly, so far as logical and not moral power is concerned, kes the summary of all Philosophic talent : which talent, accordingly, we imagine Novaks to have possessed in a very high degree ; in a higher degree than almost any other modern writer Ave have met with. His chief fault, again, figures itself to us as a certain undue softness, a want of rapid energy ; something which we might term passiveness extending both over his mind and his char- , acter. There is a tenderness in Novaks, a purity, a clearness, almost as of a woman ; but he has not, at least not at ak‘ in that degree, the emphasis and resolute force of a man. Thus, in his poetical delineations, as we complained above, he is too diluted and diffuse ; not verbose properly ; not so much abounding in superfluous words as in superfluous circum- stances, which indeed is but a degree better. In his philo- sophical speculations, we feel as if, under a different form, the same fault were now and then manifested. Here again, he seems to us, in one sense, too languid, too passive. He sits, we might say, among the rich, fine, thousandfold combi- nations, which his mind almost of itself presents him ; but, perhaps, he shows too little activity in the process, is too lax in separating the true from the doubtful, is not even at the NOVALIS. 131 trouble to express bis truth -with any laborious accuracy. With his stillness, with his deep love of Nature, his mild, lofty, spiritual tone of contemplation, he comes before us in a sort of Asiatic character, almost like our ideal of sprue an- tique Gymnosophist, and with the weakness as well as the strength of an Oriental. However, it should be remembered that his works both poetical and philosophical, as we now see them, appear under many disadvantages ; altogether imma- ture, and not as doctrines and delineations, but as the rude draught of such ; in which, had they been completed, much was to have changed its shape, and this fault, with many others, might have disappeared. It may be, therefore, that this is only a superficial fault, or even only the appearance of a fault, and has its origin in these circumstances, and in our imperfect understanding of him. In personal and bodily habits, at least, Novalis appears to have been the opposite of inert ; we hear expressly of his quickness and vehemence of movement. In regard to the character of his genius, or rather perhaps of his literary significance, and the form under which he dis- played his genius, Tieck thinks he may be likened to Dante. ‘ For him,’ says he, ‘ it had become the most natural disposi- ‘ tion to regard the commonest and nearest as a wonder, and ‘ the strange, the supernatural as something common ; men’s ‘every-day life itself lay round him like a wondrous fable, * and those regions which the most dream of or doubt of as ‘ of a thing distant, incomprehensible, were for him a beloved ‘ home. Thus did he, uncorrupted by examples, find out for ‘ himself a new method of delineation ; and in his multiplicity ‘ of meaning ; in his view of Love, and his belief in Love, as ‘ at once his Instructor, his Wisdom, his Religion ; in this too ‘ that a single grand incident of life, and one deep sorrow and ‘ bereavement grew to be the essence of his Poetry and Con- ‘ templation, — he, alone among the moderns, resembles the ‘ lofty Dante ; and sings us, like him, an unfathomable, mystic ‘ song, far different from that of many imitators, who think to ‘ put on mysticism and put it off, like a piece of dress.’ Con- sidering the tendency of his poetic endeavours, as well as the 132 NO Y ALTS. general spirit of his philosophy, this flattering comparison may turn out to be better founded than at first sight it seems to be. Nevertheless, were we required to illustrate Novalis in this way, which at all times must be a very loose one, we should incline rather to call him the German Pascal than the German Dante. Between Pascal and Novalis, a lover of such analogies might trace not a few points of resemblance. Both are of the purest, most affectionate moral nature ; both of a high, fine, discursive intellect ; both are mathematicians and naturalists, yet occupy themselves chiefly with Religion ; nay, the best writings of both are left in the shape of ‘ Thoughts,' materials of a grand scheme, which each of them, with the views peculiar to his age, had planned, we may say, for the furtherance of Religion, and which neither of them lived to execute. Nor in all this would it fail to be carefully re- marked, that Novalis was not the French but the German Pascal ; and from the intellectual habits of the one and the other, many national contrasts and conclusions might be drawn ; which we leave to those that have a taste for such parallels. We have thus endeavoured to communicate some views not of what is vulgarly called, but of what is a German Mystic ; to afford English readers a few glimpses into his actual house- hold establishment, and show them by their own inspection how he lives and works. We have done it, moreover, not in the style of derision, which would have been so easy, but in that of serious inquiry, which seemed so much more profit- able. For this we anticipate not censure, but thanks from our readers. Mysticism, whatever it may be, should, like other actually existing things, be understood in well-informed minds. We have observed, indeed, that the old-established laugh on this subject has been getting rather hollow of late ; and seems as if, ere long, it would in a great measure die away. It ap- pears to us that, in England, there is a distinct spirit of toler- ant and sober investigation abroad, in regard to this and other kindred matters ; a persuasion, fast spreading wider and wider, that the plummet of French or Scotch Logic, excellent, NOVALIS. 133 nay indispensable as it is for surveying all coasts and har- bours, will absolutely not sound the deep-seas of human In- quiry ; and that many a Voltaire and Hume, well-gifted and highly meritorious men, were far wrong in reckoning that when their six-hundred fathoms were out, they had reached the bottom, which, as in the Atlantic, may He unknown miles lower. Six-hundred fathoms is the longest, and a most valu- able nautical line : but many men sound with six and fewer fathoms, and arrive at precisely the same conclusion. ‘ The day will come,’ said Lichtenberg, in bitter irony, ‘when ‘ the belief in God wiH be like that in nursery Spectres ; ’ or, as Jean Paul has it, ‘ Of the World will be made a World-Ma- ‘ chine, of the iEthor a Gas, of God a Force, and of the Second ‘ World — a Coffin.’ We rather think, such a day will not come. At all events, while the battle is still waging, and that Coffin-and-Gas Philosophy has not yet secured itself with tithes and penal statutes, let there be free scope for Mysticism, or whatever else honestly opposes it. A fair field and no favour, and the right will prosper ! ‘ Our present time,’ says Jean Paul elsewhere, ‘ is indeed a criticising and critical time, ‘ hovering betwixt the wish and the inability to believe ; a ‘ chaos of conflicting times : but even a chaotic world must ‘ have its centre, and revolution round that centre ; there is ‘ no pure entire Confusion, but all such presupposes its oppo- 5 site, before it can begin.’ 0 I II 111 D 30342 I624L