Masterpieces of German Literature Translated into English / Various

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Title: The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries:
       Masterpieces of German Literature Translated into English, Volume 5.

Author: Various

Release Date: July 12, 2004 [EBook #12888]

Language: English

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VOLUME V

THE GERMAN CLASSICS

Masterpieces of German Literature

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH

Patrons' Edition IN TWENTY VOLUMES

ILLUSTRATED

1914





CONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS

VOLUME V

       *       *       *       *       *

Special Writers

    FRANK THILLY, PH.D., LL.D., Professor of Philosophy, Cornell
    University: The Romantic Philosophers--Fichte, Schelling, and
    Schleiermacher.

    GEORGE H. DANTON, PH.D., Professor of German, Butler College: Later
    German Romanticism.


Translators

    PERCY MACKAYE, Dramatist and Poet: Departure; Would I were Free as
    are My Dreams.

    A.I. DU P. COLEMAN, A.M., Professor of English Literature, College
    of the City of New York: Taillefer; The Lion's Bride; The Crucifix;
    The Old Singer; From My Childhood Days; The Invitation; A Parable;
    At Forty Years; etc.

    MARGARETE MUeNSTERBERG: Selections from The Boy's Magic Horn; Union
    Song; The Mother Tongue; Spring Greeting to the Fatherland; Freedom;
    Charlemagne's Voyage; Chidher; etc.

    HERMAN MONTAGU DONNER: Luetzow's Wild Band; Cavalryman's Morning
    Song.

    LOUIS H. GRAY, PH.D.: Addresses to the German Nation.

    FREDERIC H. HEDGE: The Destiny of Man; The Wonderful History of
    Peter Schlemihl; The Golden Pot.

    GEORGE RIPLEY: On the Social Element in Religion.

    J. ELLIOT CABOT: On the Relation of the Plastic Arts to Nature.

    MRS. A.L.W. WISTER: From the Life of a Good-for-nothing.

    MARGARET HUNT: The Frog King, or Iron Henry; The Wolf and the Seven
    Little Kids; Rapunzel; Haensel and Grethel; The Fisherman and His
    Wife.

    F.E. BUNNETT: Selections from Undine.

    H.W. DULCKEN: Song of the Fatherland; The White Hart; Evening Song;
    Before the Doors.

    C.T. BROOKS: Men and Knaves; Prayer During Battle; Song of the
    Mountain Boy; The Chapel; etc.

    W.W. SKEAT: The Shepherd's Sang on the Lord's Day; The Hostess'
    Daughter; The Good Comrade.

    W.H. FURNESS: The Lost Church; The Minstrel's Curse.

    HENRY W. LONGFELLOW: The Luck of Edenhall; Remorse; The Castle by
    the Sea.

    KATE FREILIGRATH-KROEKER: On the Death of a Child.

    C.G. LELAND: The Broken Ring.

    ALFRED BASKERVILLE: Morning Prayer; The Castle of Boncourt; Woman's
    Love and Life; The Spring of Love; etc.

    BAYARD TAYLOR and LILIAN BAYARD TAYLOR KILIANI: The Women of
    Weinsberg; Barbarossa; the Grave of Alaric.

    JOHN OXENFORD: The Sentinel.

    LORD LINDSAY: The Pilgrim Before St. Just's.

    BAYARD TAYLOR: He Came to Meet Me.




CONTENTS OF VOLUME V

  The Romantic Philosophers--Fichte, Schelling, and Schleiermacher.
  By Frank Thilly


  Friedrich Schleiermacher

  On the Social Element in Religion. Translated by George Ripley


  Johann Gottlieb Fichte

  The Destiny of Man. Translated by Frederic H. Hedge
  Addresses to the German Nation. Translated by Louis H. Gray


  Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling

  On the Relation of the Plastic Arts to Nature. Translated by J. Elliot
  Cabot

       *       *       *       *       *

  Later German Romanticism. By George H. Danton


  Ludwig Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano

  The Boy's Magic Horn. Selections translated by Margarete Muensterberg.
    Were I a Little Bird
    The Mountaineer
    As Many as Sand-grains in the Sea
    The Swiss Deserter
    The Tailor in Hell
    The Reaper


  Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

  Fairy Tales. Translated by Margaret Hunt.
    The Frog King, or Iron Henry
    The Wolf and the Seven Little Kids
    Rapunzel
    Haensel and Grethel
    The Fisherman and His Wife


  Ernst Moritz Arndt

  Song of the Fatherland. Translated by H.W. Dulcken
  Union Song. Translated by Margarete Muensterberg


  Theodor Koerner

  Men and Knaves. Translated by C.T. Brooks
  Luetzow's Wild Band. Translated by Herman Montagu Donner
  Prayer During Battle. Translated by C.T. Brooks


  Maximilian Gottfried von Schenkendorf

  The Mother Tongue. Translated by Margarete Muensterberg
  Spring Greeting to the Fatherland. Translated by Margarete Muensterberg
  Freedom. Translated by Margarete Muensterberg


  Ludwig Uhland

  The Chapel. Translated by C.T. Brooks
  The Shepherd's Song on the Lord's Day. Translated by W.W. Skeat
  The Castle by the Sea. Translated by Henry W. Longfellow
  Song of the Mountain Boy. Translated by C.T. Brooks
  Departure. Translated by Percy MacKaye
  Farewell. Translated by Alfred Baskerville
  The Hostess' Daughter. Translated by W.W. Skeat
  The Good Comrade. Translated by W.W. Skeat
  The White Hart. Translated by H.W. Dulcken
  The Lost Church. Translated by W.H. Furness
  Charlemagne's Voyage. Translated by Margarete Muensterberg
  Free Art. Translated by Margarete Muensterberg
  Taillefer. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
  Suabian Legend. Translated by Margarete Muensterberg
  The Blind King. Translated by C.T. Brooks
  The Minstrel's Curse. Translated by W.H. Furness
  The Luck of Edenhall. Translated by Henry W. Longfellow
  On the Death of a Child. Translated by Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker


  Joseph von Eichendorff

  The Broken Ring. Translated by C.G. Leland
  Morning Prayer. Translated by Alfred Baskerville
  From the Life of a Good-for-nothing. Translated by Mrs. A.L.W. Wister


  Adalbert von Chamisso

  The Castle of Boncourt. Translated by Alfred Baskerville
  The Lion's Bride. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
  Woman's Love and Life. Translated by Alfred Baskerville
  The Women of Weinsberg. Translated by Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor Kiliani
  The Crucifix. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
  The Old Singer. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
  The Old Washerwoman. From the _Foreign Quarterly_
  The Wonderful History of Peter Schlemihl. Translated by Frederic H. Hedge


  Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann

  The Golden Pot. Translated by Frederic H. Hedge


  Friedrich Baron de la Motte-Fouque

  Selections from Undine. Translated by F.E. Bunnett


  Wilhelm Hauff

  Cavalryman's Morning Song. Translated by Herman Montagu Donner
  The Sentinel. Translated by John Oxenford


  Friedrich Rueckert

  Barbarossa. Translated by Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor Kiliani
  From My Childhood Days. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
  The Spring of Love. Translated by Alfred Baskerville
  He Came to Meet Me. Translated by Bayard Taylor
  The Invitation. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
  Murmur Not. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
  A Parable. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
  Evening Song. Translated by H.W. Dulcken
  Chidher. Translated by Margarete Muensterberg
  At Forty Years. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
  Before the Doors. Translated by H.W. Dulcken


  August von Platen-Hallermund

  The Pilgrim Before St. Just's. Translated by Lord Lindsay
  The Grave of Alaric. Translated by Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor Kiliani
  Remorse. Translated by Henry W. Longfellow
  Would I were Free as are My Dreams. Translated by Percy MacKaye
  Sonnet. Translated by Margarete Muensterberg




ILLUSTRATIONS--VOLUME V

  Heidelberg
  Friedrich Schleiermacher. By E. Hader
  The Three Hermits. By Moritz von Schwind
  Johann Gottlieb Fichte. By Bury
  Volunteers of 1813 before King Friedrich Wilhelm III in Breslau. By F.W. Scholtz
  Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling. By Carl Begas
  The Jungfrau. By Moritz von Schwind
  The Magic Horn. By Moritz von Schwind
  Ludwig Achim von Arnim. By Stroehling
  Clemens Brentano. By E. Linder
  The Reaper. By Walter Crane
  Wilhelm Grimm. By E. Hader
  Jacob Grimm. By E. Hader
  Haensel and Gretel. By Ludwig Richter
  Ernst Moritz Arndt. By Julius Roeting
  Theodor Koerner. By E. Hader
  Maximilian Gottfried von Schenkendorf
  Ludwig Uhland. By C. Jaeger
  The Villa by the Sea. By Arnold Boecklin
  Leaving at Dawn. By Moritz von Schwind
  Joseph von Eichendorff. By Franz Kugler
  Adalbert von Chamisso. By C. Jaeger
  The Wedding Journey. By Moritz von Schwind
  Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hofmann. By Hensel
  Friedrich Baron de la Motte-Fouque
  Wilhelm Hauff. By E. Hader
  The Sentinel. By Robert Haug
  Friedrich Rueckert. By C. Jaeger
  Memories of Youth. By Ludwig Richter
  August Graf von Platen-Hallermund
  The Morning Hour. By Moritz von Schwind




THE ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS--FICHTE, SCHELLING, AND SCHLEIERMACHER

By FRANK THILLY, PH.D., LL.D. Professor of Philosophy, Cornell
University


The Enlightenment of the eighteenth century had implicit faith in
the powers of human reason to reach the truth. With its
logical-mathematical method it endeavored to illuminate every nook and
corner of knowledge, to remove all obscurity, mystery, bigotry, and
superstition, to find a reason for everything under the sun. Nature,
religion, the State, law, morality, language, and art were brought
under the searchlight of reason and reduced to simple and self-evident
principles. Human institutions were measured according to their
reasonableness; whatever was not rational had no _raison d'etre_;
to demolish the natural and historical in order to make room for
the rational became the practical ideal of the day. Enlightenment
emphasized the worth and dignity of the human individual, it sought to
deliver him from the slavery of authority and tradition, to make him
self-reliant in thought and action, to obtain for him his natural
rights, to secure his happiness and perfection in a world expressly
made for him, and to guarantee the continuance of his personal
existence in the life to come. In Germany this great movement found
expression in a popular commonsense philosophy which proved the
existence of God, freedom, and immortality, and conceived the universe
as a rational order designed by an all-wise and all-good Creator for
the benefit of man, his highest product; while other thinkers regarded
Spinozism as the only rational system, indeed as the last word of all
speculative metaphysics; for them logical thought necessarily led to
pantheism and determinism. In France, after reaching its climax in
Voltaire, it ended in materialism, atheism, and fatalism; and in
England, where it had developed the empiricism of Locke, it came to
grief in the scepticism of Hume. If we can know only our impressions,
then rational theology, cosmology, and psychology are impossible, and
it is futile to philosophize about God, the world, and the human soul.
Consistently carried out, the logical-mathematical method seemed to
land the intellect in Spinozism or in materialism--in either case to
catch man in the causal machinery of nature. In this dilemma many were
tempted to throw reason overboard as an instrument of ultimate
truth, and to seek for certainty through other functions of the human
soul--in feeling, faith, or mystical vision of some sort; the claims
of the heart and will were urged against the proud pretensions of the
intellect (Hamann, Herder, Jacobi). Another way of escape was found
by substituting the organic conception of reality for the
logical-mathematical view of the _Aufklaerung_; nature and life,
poetry, art, language, political, social, and religious institutions
are not creations of reason, not things made to order, but
organic--products of evolution (Lessing, Herder, Winckelmann, Goethe).
Man, himself, moreover, is not mere intellect, but a being in whom
feelings, impulses, yearnings, will, are elements to be reckoned with.
And reality is not as transparent as the Enlightenment assumed it to
be; existence divided by reason leaves a remainder, as Goethe had put
it.

It was Immanuel Kant who tried to arbitrate between the conflicting
tendencies of his age. He was an _Aufklaerer_ in so far as he brought
reason itself to the bar of reason and sat in judgment upon its
claims, and, likewise, in so far as he insisted on the objective
validity of physics and mathematics. But he was as much opposed to
the pretentiousness of dogmatic metaphysics as to the pusillanimity
of scepticism and the _Schwaermerei_ of mysticism. He repudiated the
shallow proofs of the existence of God, freedom, and immortality
no less emphatically than he rejected materialism with its
atheism, fatalism, and hedonism. He tried to save everything worth
saving--rational knowledge, modern science, the basal truths of
the old metaphysics, and the most precious human values. For
the scientific intelligence, so he held, nature and the self are
absolutely determined; every physical occurrence and every human act
are necessary links in a causal chain. But such knowledge is
possible only in the field of phenomena (_Erscheinungen_); through
sense-perception and the discursive understanding we cannot reach the
inner core of reality; nor can we pierce the veil of appearances by
means of intellectual intuitions, mystical visions, feeling, or faith,
i.e., through the emotional and instinctive parts of our nature. It is
the presence of the moral law or categorical imperative within us that
points to a spiritual world beyond the phenomenal causal order and
assures us of our freedom, immortality, and God. It is because we
possess this deeper source of truth in practical reason that freedom
and an ideal kingdom in which purpose reigns are vouchsafed to us, and
that we can free ourselves from the mechanism of the natural order.
It is moral truth that both sets us free and demonstrates our freedom,
and that makes harmony possible between the mechanical theory of
science and the teleological conception of philosophy. The scientific
understanding would plunge us into determinism and agnosticism; from
these, faith in the moral law alone can deliver us. In this sense
Kant destroyed knowledge to make room for a rational faith in a
supersensible world, to save the independence and dignity of the human
self and the spiritual values of his people. In claiming a place
for the autonomous personality in what _appeared to be_ a mechanical
universe, Kant gave voice to some of the deeper yearnings of the age.
The German Enlightenment, the new humanism, mysticism, pietism,
and the faith-philosophy were all interested in the human soul, and
unwilling to sacrifice it to the demands of a rationalistic science or
metaphysics. In seeking to rescue it, the great criticist, piloted by
the moral law, steered his course between the rocks of rationalism,
sentimentalism, and scepticism. It was his solution of the controversy
between the head and the heart that influenced Fichte, Schelling, and
Schleiermacher. They differed from Kant and among themselves in many
respects, but they all glorified the spirit, _Geist_, as the living,
active element of reality, and they all rejected the intellect as
the source of ultimate truth. They followed him in his
anti-intellectualism, but they did not avoid, as he did, the
attractive doctrine of an inner intuition; according to them we can
somehow grasp the supersensible in an inner experience which Fichte
called intellectual, Schelling artistic, Schleiermacher religious. The
bankruptcy of the intelligence was overcome in their systems by the
discovery of a faculty that revealed to them the living, dynamic
nature of the universe. They were all more or less influenced by the
romantic currents of the times, seeking with Herder and Jacobi an
approach to the heart of things other than through the categories
of logic. Like Lessing and Goethe, they were also attracted to
the pantheistic teaching of Spinoza, though rejecting its rigid
determinism so far as it might affect the human will. They likewise
accepted the idea of development which the leaders of German
literature, Lessing, Herder, and Goethe, had already opposed to the
unhistorical _Aufklaerung_, and which came to play such a prominent
part in the great system of Hegel.

Johann Gottlieb Fichte was born in Ramenau, Oberlausitz, May 19, 1762,
the son of a poor weaver. Through the generosity of a nobleman,
the gifted lad was enabled to follow his intellectual bent; after
attending the schools at Meissen and Schulpforta he studied theology
at the universities of Jena, Leipzig, and Wittenberg with the purpose
of entering the ministry. His poverty frequently compelled him to
interrupt his studies by accepting private tutorships in families, so
that he never succeeded in preparing him self for the examinations. In
1790 he became acquainted with Kant's philosophy, which two students
had asked him to expound to them, and to which he now devoted himself
with feverish zeal. It revolutionized his entire mode of thought and
determined the course of his life. The anonymous publication of his
book, _Attempt at a Critique of all Revelation_, in 1792, written
from the Kantian point of view and mistaken at first for a work of
the great criticist, won him fame and a professorship at Jena (1794).
Here, in the intellectual centre of Germany, Fichte became the
eloquent exponent of the new idealism, which aimed at the reform of
life as well as of _Wissenschaft_; he not only taught philosophy, but
_preached_ it, as Kuno Fischer has aptly said. During the Jena
period he laid the foundations for his "Science of Knowledge"
(_Wissenschaftslehre_) which he presented in numerous works: _The
Conception of the Science of Knowledge_, 1794; _The Foundation of
the Entire Science of Knowledge_, 1794; _The Foundation of Natural
Rights_, 1796; _The System of Ethics_, 1798--(all these translated by
Kroeger); the two _Introductions to the Science of Knowledge_, 1797
(trans. by Kroeger in _Journal of Speculative Philosophy_). The
appearance of an article _Concerning the Ground of our Belief in a
Divine World-Order_, 1798, in which Fichte seemed to identify God with
the moral world-order, brought down upon him the charge of atheism,
against which he vigorously defended himself in his _Appeal to the
Public_ and a series of other writings. Full of indignation over the
attitude which his government assumed in the matter, be offered his
resignation (1799) and removed to Berlin, where he presented his
philosophical notions in popular public lectures and in writings which
were characterized by clearness, force, and moral earnestness rather
than by their systematic form. There appeared: _The Vocation of Man_,
1800 (translated by Dr. Smith); _A Sun-Clear Statement concerning the
Nature of the New Philosophy_, 1801 (trans. by Kroeger in _Journal of
Speculative Philosophy_); _The Nature of the Scholar_, 1806 (trans. by
Smith); _Characteristics of the Present Age_, 1806 (trans. by Smith);
_The Way towards the Blessed Life_, 1806 (trans. by Smith). After the
overthrow of Prussia by Napoleon, in 1806, Fichte fled from Berlin to
Koenigsberg and Sweden, but returned when peace was declared in
1807, and delivered his celebrated _Addresses to the German Nation_,
1807-08, in which he sought to arouse the German people to a
consciousness of their national mission and their duty even while the
French army was still occupying the Prussian capital.

Fichte was appointed professor of philosophy (1810) in the new
University of Berlin, for which he had been invited to construct a
plan and in the establishment of which he took a lively interest.
During the last period of his life he devoted himself to the
development of his thoughts in systematic form and wrote a number of
books; most of these were published after his death, which occurred
January 27, 1814. Among them we mention: _General Outline of
the Science of Knowledge_, 1810 (trans. by Smith); _The Facts of
Consciousness_, 1813; _Theory of the State_, published 1820. The
Complete Works, edited by his son, J.H. Fichte, appeared 1843-46. New
editions of particular works are now appearing.

The world for Fichte is at bottom a spiritual order, the revelation
of a self-determining ego or reason; hence the science of the ego, or
reason, the _Wissenschaftslehre_, is the key to all knowledge, and we
can understand nature and man only when we have caught the secret
of the self-active ego. Philosophy must, therefore, be
_Wissenschaftslehre_, for in it all natural and mental sciences find
their ultimate roots; they can yield genuine knowledge only when
and in so far as they are based on the principles of the Science of
Knowledge--mere empirical sciences having no real cognitive value.
The ego-principle itself, however, without which there could be no
knowledge, cannot be grasped by the ordinary discursive understanding
with its spatial, temporal, and causal categories. Kant is right: if
we were limited to the scientific intellect, we could never rise above
the conception of a phenomenal order absolutely ruled by the causal
law. But there is another source of knowledge: in an act of inner
vision or intellectual intuition, which is itself an act of freedom,
we become conscious of the universal moral purpose; the law of duty or
the categorical imperative commands us to be free persons. We cannot
refuse to accept this law without abandoning ourselves as persons,
without conceiving ourselves as _things_, or mere products of nature;
the choice of one's philosophy, therefore, depends upon what kind of
man one is--upon one's values, upon one's will. The type of man who
is a slave of things, who cannot raise himself out of the causal
mechanism, who is not free, will never be able to conceive himself
otherwise than as a cog in a wheel. Fichte accepts the ego, or spirit,
as the ultimate and absolute principle, because it alone can give our
life worth and meaning. Thus he grounds his entire philosophy upon a
moral imperative which presents itself to the ego in an inner vision.
He also tells us that we can become immediately aware of the
pure activity of the ego, of our free action, in a similar act of
intellectual intuition. But we cannot know this free act unless we
perform it ourselves; no one can understand the idealistic philosophy
who is not free; hence philosophy begins with an act of freedom--_im
Anfang war die Tat_.

In order that we may rise to free action, opposition is needed, and
this we get in the spatial-temporal world of phenomena, or nature,
which the ego creates for itself in order to have resistance to
overcome. Fichte conceives of nature as "the material of our duty,"
as the obstacle against which the ego can exercise its freedom. There
could be no free action without something to act upon, and there could
be no purposive action without a world in which everything happens
according to law; and such a causal world we have in our phenomenal
order, which is the product of the absolute spiritual principle.
By the ego Fichte did not mean the subjective ego, the particular
individual self with all its idiosyncrasies, but the universal ego,
the reason that manifests itself in all conscious individuals as
universal and necessary truth. In his earlier period he did not define
his thought very carefully, but in time the absolute ego came to be
conceived as the principle of all life and consciousness, as
universal life, and ultimately identified with God. His philosophy is,
therefore, not subjective idealism, although it was so misinterpreted,
but objective idealism; nature is not the creation of the particular
individual ego, but the phenomenal expression, or reflection, in the
subject of the universal spiritual principle.

Upon such an idealistic world-view Fichte based the ethical teachings
through which he exercised a lasting influence upon the German people
and the history of human thought. The universal ego is a moral ego,
an ego with an ethical purpose, that realizes itself in nature and in
man; it is, therefore, the vocation of man to obey the voice of duty
and to free himself from the bondage of nature, to be a person, not a
thing, to cooeperate in the realization of the eternal purpose which
is working itself out in the history of humanity, to sacrifice himself
for the ideal of freedom. Every individual has his particular place in
which to labor for the social whole; how to do it, his conscience will
tell him without fail. And so, too, the German people has its peculiar
place in civilization, its unique contribution to make in the struggle
of the human race for the development of free personality. It is
Germany's mission to regain its nationality, in order that it may
take the philosophical leadership in the work of civilization, and to
establish a State based upon personal liberty, a veritable kingdom
of justice, such as has never appeared on earth, which shall realize
freedom based upon the equality of all who bear the human form.

The Fichtean philosophy holds the mirror up to its age. With the
Enlightenment it glorifies reason, the free personality, nationality,
humanity, civilization, and progress; in this regard it expresses the
spirit of all modern philosophy. It goes beyond the _Aufklaerung_ in
emphasizing the living, moving, developing nature of reality; for it,
life and consciousness constitute the essence of things, and universal
life reveals itself in a progressive history of mankind. Moreover,
the dynamic spiritual process cannot be comprehended by conceptual
thought, by the categories of a rationalistic science and philosophy,
but only by itself, by the living experience of a free agent. In the
categorical imperative, and not in logical reasonings, the individual
becomes aware of his destiny; in the sense of duty, the love of truth,
loyalty to country, respect for the rights of man, and reverence for
ideals, spirit speaks to spirit and man glimpses the eternal.

Among the elements in this idealism that appealed to the Romanticists
were its anti-intellectualism, its intuition, the high value it placed
upon the personality, its historical viewpoint, and its faith in the
uniqueness of German culture. They welcomed the _Wissenschaftslehre_
as a valuable ally, and exaggerated those features of it which seemed
to chime with their own views. The ego which Fichte conceives as
universal reason becomes for them the subjective empirical self, the
unique personality, in which the unconscious, spontaneous, impulsive,
instinctive phase constitutes the original element, the more
extravagant among them transforming the rational moral ego into a
romantic ego, an ego full of mystery and caprice, and even a lawless
ego. Such an ego is read into nature; for, filled with occult magic
forces, nature can be understood only by the sympathetic divining
insight of the poetic genius. And so, too, authority and tradition, as
representing the instinctive and historical side of social life, come
into their own again.

Fichte's chief interest was centred upon the ego; nature he regarded
as a product of the absolute ego in the individual consciousness,
intended as a necessary obstacle for the free will. Without opposition
the self cannot act; without overcoming resistance it cannot become
free. In order to make free action possible, to enable the ego to
realize its ends, nature must be what it is, an order ruled by the
iron law of causality. This cheerless conception of nature--which,
however, was not Fichte's last word on the subject, since he afterward
came to conceive it as the revelation of universal life, or the
expression of a pantheistic God--did not attract Romanticism. It was
Schelling, the erstwhile follower and admirer of Fichte, who turned
his attention to the philosophy of nature and so more thoroughly
satisfied the romantic yearnings of the age.

Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling was born at Leonberg, Wuertemberg,
January 27, 1775, the son of a learned clergyman and writer on
theology. He was a precocious child and made rapid progress in his
studies, entering the Theological Seminary at Tuebingen at the age of
fifteen. Between the ages of nineteen and twenty-two he wrote a
number of able treatises in the spirit of the new idealism, and
was recognized as the most talented pupil of Fichte and his best
interpreter. After the completion of his course at the University
(1795), he became the tutor and companion of two young noblemen with
whom he remained for two years (1796-98) at the University of Leipzig,
during which time he devoted himself to the study of mathematics,
physics, and medicine, and published a number of philosophical
articles. In 1798 he received a call to a professorship at Jena, where
Fichte, Schiller, Wilhelm Schlegel, and Hegel became his colleagues,
and where he entered into friendly relations with the Romantic circle
of which Caroline Schlegel, who afterward became his wife, was a
shining light. This was the most productive period of his life; during
the next few years he developed his own system of philosophy and
gave to the world his most brilliant writings. In 1803 he accepted
a professorship at Wuerzburg, but came into conflict with the
authorities; in 1806 he went to Munich as a member of the Academy of
Sciences and Director of the Academy of Fine Arts; in 1820 he moved to
Erlangen; and in 1827 he returned to Munich as professor of philosophy
at the newly-established University and as General Curator of the
Scientific Collections of the State. He was called to Berlin in 1841
to help counteract the influence of the Hegelian Philosophy, but met
with little success. He died in 1854.

The earlier writings of Schelling either reproduced the thoughts of
the _Wissenschaftslehre_ or developed them in the Fichtean spirit.
Among those of the latter class we note: _Ideas for a Philosophy of
Nature_, 1797; _On the World-Soul_, 1798; _System of Transcendental
Idealism_, 1800. During the second period, in which the influence of
Bruno and Spinoza is prominent, he works out his own philosophy of
identity; at this time he publishes _Bruno, or, Concerning the Natural
and Divine Principle of Things_, 1802, and _Method of Academic Study_,
1803. In the third period the philosophy of identity becomes the basis
for a still higher system in which the influence of German theosophy
(Jacob Boehme) is apparent; with the exception of _Philosophy and
Religion_, 1804, the _Treatise on Human Freedom_, 1809, and a
few others, the works of this period did not appear until after
Schelling's death. His previous philosophy is now called by him
"negative philosophy;" the higher or positive philosophy has as its
aim the rational construction of the history of the universe, or the
history of creation, upon the basis of the religious ideas of peoples;
it is a philosophy of mythology and revelation. Translations of some
of Schelling's works are to be found in the _Journal of Speculative
Philosophy_, an American periodical founded by W.T. Harris, which
devoted itself to the study of post-Kantian idealism. His Complete
Works, edited by his son, appeared in 14 volumes, 1856. There is a
revival of interest in his philosophy, and new editions of his books
are now being published.

Like most philosophers of note, Schelling reckons with the various
tendencies of his times. With idealism he interprets the universe as
identical in essence with what we find in our innermost selves; it is
at bottom a living dynamic process. If that is so, nature cannot be
a merely externalized obstacle for the ego, nor a dead static spatial
mechanical system; as the expression of an active spiritual principle
there must be reason and purpose in it. But reason is not identified
by Schelling with self-conscious intelligence, for with the
faith-philosophies and Romanticism he takes it in a wider sense; in
physical and organic nature it is a slumbering reason, an unconscious,
instinctive, purposive force similar to the Leibnizian monad,
Schopenhauer's will, and Bergson's _elan vital_. In this way the
dualism between mechanism and teleology is reconciled. Nature is
a teleological order, an evolution from the unconscious to the
conscious; in man, the highest stage and the climax of history, nature
becomes self-conscious. With this organic conception both Romanticists
and many natural scientists of the age were in practical agreement;
it was the view that had always appealed to Goethe--and Herder before
him--and it gained for Schelling a large following. In his earlier
system he regarded nature as a lower stage in the evolution of
reason and sought to answer the problems: How does Nature become
Consciousness or Ego? the problem of the Philosophy of Nature; and,
How does Consciousness or the Ego become Nature? the problem of
Transcendental Idealism. In his philosophy of identity, nature and
mind are conceived as two different aspects of one and the same
principle, which is both mind and nature, subject and object, ego and
non-ego. All things are identical in essence but differentiated in the
course of evolution. It was not inconsistent with these tenets that
Schelling sought, in his last period, to discover the meaning
of universal history in the obscure beginnings of mythology
and revelation rather than in the lucid regions of an advanced
civilization.

With the opponents of rationalism Schelling agrees that we cannot
reach the inner meaning of reality, "the living, moving element
in nature," through the scientific intelligence, but that we must
envisage it in intuition. "What is described in concepts," he tells
us, "is at rest; hence there can be concepts only of _things_ and of
that which is finite and sense-perceived. The notion of movement is
not movement itself, and without intuition we should never know what
motion is. Freedom, however, can be comprehended only by freedom,
activity only by activity." Schelling, who is a poet as well as a
philosopher, comes to regard this intuition or inner vision as an
artistic intuition. In the products of art, subject and object, the
ideal and the real, mind and nature, form (or purpose) and matter,
are one; here the harmony aimed at by philosophy lies before our very
eyes, and may be seen, touched, and heard. The creative artist creates
like nature in realizing the ideal; hence, art must serve as the
absolute model for the intuition of the world--it is the true and
eternal organ of philosophy. Like the artistic genius, the philosopher
must have the faculty for perceiving the harmony and identity in the
universe; esthetic intuition is absolute knowing. Art aims to reveal
to us the profoundest meaning of the world, which is the union of form
and matter, of the ideal and the real; in art alone the striving of
nature for harmony and identity is realized; the beautiful is the
infinite represented and made perceivable in finite form; here mind
and nature interpenetrate. In creative art the artist imitates the
creative act of nature and becomes conscious of it; in esthetic
intuition, or the perception of beauty, the philosophical genius
discovers the secret of reality; nature herself is a poem and her
secret is revealed in art. This philosophy is a far cry from the
logical-mathematical method of the _Aufklaerung_; it is a protest
against this, a protest in which the leaders of the new German
literature, Herder, Goethe, Schiller, as well as the Romanticists,
willingly joined. Goethe's entire view of nature, art, and life rested
upon the teleological or organic conception; he, too, regarded the
ability to peer into the heart of things--to see the whole in its
parts, the ideal in the real, the universal in the particular, as
the poet's and thinker's highest gift. He called it an _apercu_, "a
revelation springing up in the inner man that gives him a hint of
his likeness to God." It is this gift which Faust craves and Mephisto
sneers at as _die hohe Intuition_.

  Dass ich erkenne was die Welt
  Im innersten zusammenhaelt,
  Schau alle Wirkungskraft and Samen
  Und tu' nicht mehr in Worten kramen.

There was much that was fantastic in the _Naturphilosophie_ and much
_a priori_ interpretation of nature that tended to withdraw the
mind from the actualities of existence; it often dealt with bold
assertions, analogies, and figures of speech, rather than with facts
and proofs. But it had its merits; for it aroused an interest in
nature and nature-study, it kept alive the _philosophical_ interest
in the outer world, the desire for unity, _Einheitstrieb_, which has
remained a marked characteristic of German science from Alexander von
Humboldt down to Robert Mayer, Helmholtz, Naegeli, Haeckel, Ostwald,
Hertz, and Driesch. It opposed the one-sided mechanical method of
science, and emphasized conceptions (the idea of development,
the notion of the dynamic character of reality, pan-psychism, and
vitalism) which are still moving the minds of men today, as is
evidenced by the popularity of Henri Bergson, who, with our own
William James, leads the contemporary school of philosophical
Romanticists.

Fichte's chief contribution to German thought was the
_Wissenschaftslehre_, Schelling's the _Naturphilosophie_, and
Schleiermacher's the philosophy of religion. All these thinkers took
account of the prevailing tendencies of the times--_Aufklaerung_,
Kantian criticism, faith-philosophy, Romanticism, and Spinozism--and
were more or less affected by them. Schleiermacher also came under the
influence of Fichte, Schelling, and Greek idealism, particularly
of Plato's philosophy; many were the sources from which he drew his
material for the construction of a great system of Protestant theology
that exercised a profound influence far beyond the boundaries of his
country and won for him the title of the founder of the New Theology.

Friedrich Daniel Ernst Schleiermacher, the son of a clergyman of
the reformed church, was born at Breslau, November 21, 1768, and was
educated at the Moravian schools at Niesky and Barby. Made sceptical
by the newer criticism, he left the Moravian brotherhood and entered
the University of Halle (1787), where he devoted himself with equal
zeal to the study of theology and philosophy. After his ordination
in 1794 he occupied various pulpits until 1803, when he was made a
professor and university preacher at Halle. In 1806 he removed from
Halle to Berlin, becoming the preacher of Trinity Church in 1809
and professor of theology at the newly founded University in 1810,
positions which he filled with marked ability until his death,
February 12, 1834. It was in Berlin that he came into friendly touch
with the leaders of the Romantic school, Tieck, Friedrich Schlegel,
and Novalis, but he did not allow himself to be carried away by their
extravagances. He distinguished himself as a preacher, theologian,
philosopher, and philologist, and, by his study of the sources of
philosophy, added much to the knowledge of its history. Among the
books published during his life-time are: _Addresses on Religion_,
1799; _Monologues_, 1800; _Principles of a Criticism of Previous
Systems of Ethics_, 1803; translations of Plato's _Dialogues_, with
introductions and notes, 1804-28; _The Christian Faith_, 1821-22.
Complete Works, 1834-64.

Schleiermacher's conception of religion is opposed to the
rationalistic theology of the eighteenth century, as well as to the
Kantian moral theology which has remained popular in Germany to
this day. For him religion is not science or philosophy; it does
not consist in theoretical dogmas or rationalistic proofs; neither
theories about religion nor virtuous conduct nor acts of worship are
religion itself; nor is religion based upon a rational moral faith,
as Kant had taught. He bravely took the part of Fichte in the
atheism-controversy, when the great leaders of German culture, Kant,
Herder, and even Goethe, abandoned him to his fate. He rejected
the shallow proofs of the _Aufklaerung_, as well as the orthodox
utilitarian view of God as the dispenser of rewards and punishments,
and showed that the real foes of religion were the rational and
practical persons who endeavored to suppress the yearning for the
transcendent in man and to drive out all mystery in seeking to make
everything clear to him. We cannot have conceptual knowledge of God,
for conceptual thought is concerned with differences and opposites,
whereas God is without such differences and oppositions: he is the
absolute union or identity of thought and being. Religion is grounded
in feeling, or divining intuition; in feeling, we come into direct
relation with God; here the identity of thought and being is
immediately experienced in self-consciousness, and this union is the
divine element in us. Religion is the feeling of absolute dependence
upon an absolute world-ground; it is the immediate consciousness that
everything finite is infinite and exists through the infinite.

The conception of God as the unity of thought and being, and the idea
of man's absolute dependence upon the world-ground, call to mind the
pantheism of Spinoza. Schleiermacher seeks to tone this down by giving
the world of things a relative independence; God and the world are
inseparable, and yet must be distinguished. God is unity without
plurality, the world plurality without unity; the world is
spatial-temporal, while God is spaceless and timeless. He is, however,
not conceived as a personality, but as the universal creative force,
as the source of all life. The determinism implied in this world-view
is softened by giving the individual a measure of freedom and
independence. The particular individuals are subject to the law of
the whole; but each self has its unique endowment or gifts, its
individuality, and its freedom consists in the unfolding of its
peculiar capacities. With Goethe, Schiller, and Romanticism, our
philosopher rejects the rigoristic Kantian-Fichtean view of duty
which, in his opinion, would suppress individuality and reduce all
persons to a homogeneous mass; like them he regards the development
of unique personalities as the highest moral task. "Every man should
express humanity in his own peculiar way in a unique mixture of
elements, in order that it may reveal itself in every possible form,
and that everything may become real in the infinite fulness which
can spring from its lap." "The same duties can be performed in many
different ways. Different men may practise justice according to the
same principles, each man keeping in view the general welfare and
personal merit, but with different degrees of feeling, all the
way from extreme coldness to the warmest sympathy." The command,
therefore, is not merely: Be a person; but: Be a unique person, live
your own individual life. There is no irreconcilable conflict between
the natural law and the moral law, between impulse and reason. For the
same reasons he defends the diversity of religions and the claims of
personal religion; in each unique individual, religion should be left
free to express itself in its own unique and intimate way. His ideal
is the development of unique, novel, original personalities; and these
are expressions of the divine, which rationalism cannot bring under
either its theoretical or practical rubrics.

The individual cannot become conscious of, and prize, his own
individuality without at the same time valuing uniqueness in
others; the higher a value he sets upon his own self, the more
the personalities of others must impress him. "Whoever desires to
cultivate his individuality must have an appreciation of everything
that he is not." "The sense of universality (_der allgemeine Sinn_) is
the supreme condition of one's own perfection." Hence the ethical
life is a life in society--a society of unique individuals who respect
humanity in its uniqueness, in themselves and in others. "They are
among themselves a chorus of friends. Every one knows that he too is
a part and product of the universe, that in him too are revealed
its divine life and action." "The more every one approximates the
universe, the more he communicates himself to others, the more perfect
unity will they all form; no one has a consciousness for himself
alone, every one has, at the same time, that of the other; they are no
longer only men, but mankind; rising above themselves and triumphing
over themselves, they are on the road to true immortality and
eternity." In the feeling of piety man recognizes that his desire to
be a unique personality is in harmony with the action of the universe;
hence that he can, ought, and must make the development of his
uniqueness the goal, the strongest motive, and the highest good,
and that he can surely realize what he is striving for, because the
universe which created and determined him created him for that.




_FRIEDRICH SCHLEIERMACHER_

       *       *       *       *       *

ON THE SOCIAL ELEMENT IN RELIGION (1799) [1]

TRANSLATED BY GEORGE RIPLEY


Those among you who are accustomed to regard religion as a disease
of the human mind, cherish also the habitual conviction that it is an
evil more easily borne, even though not to be cured, so long as it is
only insulated individuals here and there who are infected with
it; but that the common danger is raised to the highest degree,
and everything put at stake, as soon as a too close connection is
permitted between many patients of this character. In the former
case it is possible by a judicious treatment, as it were by an
antiphlegistic regimen, and by a healthy spiritual atmosphere, to ward
off the violence of the paroxysms; and if not entirely to conquer the
exciting cause of the disease, to attenuate it to such a degree that
it shall be almost innocuous. But in the latter case we must despair
of every other means of cure, except that which may proceed from some
internal beneficent operation of Nature. For the evil is attended with
more alarming symptoms, and is more fatal in its effects, when the too
great proximity of other infected persons feeds and aggravates it in
every individual; the whole mass of vital air is then quickly poisoned
by a few; the most vigorous frames are smitten with the contagion;
all the channels in which the functions of life should go on are
destroyed; all the juices of the system are decomposed; and, seized
with a similar feverous delirium, the sound spiritual life and
productions of whole ages and nations are involved in irremediable
ruin. Hence your antipathy to the church, to every institution
which is intended for the communication of religion, is always more
prominent than that which you feel to religion itself; hence, also,
priests, as the pillars and the most efficient members of such
institutions, are, of all men, the objects of your greatest
abomination.

Even those among you who hold a little more indulgent opinion with
regard to religion, and deem it rather a singularity than a disorder
of the mind, an insignificant rather than a dangerous phenomenon,
cherish quite as unfavorable impressions of all social organization
for its promotion. A slavish immolation of all that is free and
peculiar, a system of lifeless mechanism and barren ceremonies--these,
they imagine, are the inseparable consequences of every such
institution and are the ingenious and elaborate work of men, who, with
almost incredible success, have made a great merit of things which are
either nothing in themselves, or which any other person was quite as
capable of accomplishing as they. I should pour out my heart but very
imperfectly before you, on a subject to which I attach the utmost
importance, if I did not undertake to give you the correct point
of view with regard to it. I need not here repeat how many of the
perverted endeavors and melancholy fortunes of humanity you charge
upon religious associations; this is clear as light, in a thousand
utterances of your predominant individuals; nor will I stop to refute
these accusations, one by one, in order to fix the evil upon other
causes. Let us rather submit the whole conception of the church to
a new examination, and from its central point, throughout its whole
extent, erect it again upon a new basis, without regard to what it has
actually been hitherto, or to what experience may suggest concerning
it.

If religion exists at all, it must needs possess a social character;
this is founded not only in the nature of man, but still more in the
nature of religion. You will acknowledge that it indicates a state of
disease, a signal perversion of nature, when an individual wishes to
shut up within himself anything which he has produced and elaborated
by his own efforts. It is the disposition of man to reveal and to
communicate whatever is in him, in the indispensable relations
and mutual dependence not only of practical life, but also of his
spiritual being, by which he is connected with all others of his
race; and the more powerfully he is wrought upon by anything, the more
deeply it penetrates his inward nature, so much the stronger is this
social impulse, even if we regard it only from the point of view of
the universal endeavor to behold the emotions which we feel ourselves,
as they are exhibited by others, so that we may obtain a proof from
their example that our own experience is not beyond the sphere of
humanity.

[Illustration: FRIEDRICH SCHLEIERMACHER]

You perceive that I am not speaking here of the endeavor to make
others similar to ourselves, nor of the conviction that what is
exhibited in one is essential to all; it is merely my aim to ascertain
the true relation between our individual life and the common nature
of man, and clearly to set it forth. But the peculiar object of this
desire for communication is unquestionably that in which man feels
that he is originally passive, namely, his observations and emotions.
He is here impelled by the eager wish to know whether the power which
has produced them in him be not something foreign and unworthy. Hence
we see man employed, from his very childhood, in communicating those
observations and emotions; the conceptions of his understanding,
concerning whose origin there can be no doubt, he allows to rest in
his own mind, and still more easily he determines to refrain from
the expression of his judgments; but whatever acts upon his senses,
whatever awakens his feelings, of that he desires to obtain witnesses,
with regard to that he longs for those who will sympathize with him.
How should he keep to himself those very operations of the world upon
his soul which are the most universal and comprehensive, which appear
to him as of the most stupendous and resistless magnitude? How should
he be willing to lock up within his own bosom those very emotions
which impel him with the greatest power beyond himself, and in the
indulgence of which he becomes conscious that he can never understand
his own nature from himself alone? It will rather be his first
endeavor, whenever a religious view gains clearness in his eye, or a
pious feeling penetrates his soul, to direct the attention of others
to the same object, and, as far as possible, to communicate to their
hearts the elevated impulses of his own.

If, then, the religious man is urged by his nature to speak, it is the
same nature which secures to him the certainty of hearers. There is no
element of his being with which, at the same time, there is implanted
in man such a lively feeling of his total inability to exhaust it by
himself alone, as with that of religion. A sense of religion has no
sooner dawned upon him, than he feels the infinity of its nature and
the limitation of his own; he is conscious of embracing but a small
portion of it; and that which he cannot immediately reach he wishes
to perceive, as far as he can, from the representations of others who
have experienced it themselves, and to enjoy it with them. Hence,
he is anxious to observe every manifestation of it; and, seeking
to supply his own deficiencies, he watches for every tone which
he recognizes as proceeding from it. In this manner, mutual
communications are instituted; in this manner, every one feels equally
the need both of speaking and hearing.

But the imparting of religion is not to be sought in books, like
that of intellectual conceptions and scientific knowledge. The pure
impression of the original product is too far destroyed in this
medium, which, in the same way that dark-colored objects absorb the
greatest proportion of the rays of light, swallows up everything
belonging to the pious emotions of the heart, which cannot be embraced
in the insufficient symbols from which it is intended again to
proceed. Nay, in the written communications of religious feeling,
everything needs a double and triple representation; for that which
originally represented, must be represented in its turn; and yet
the effect on the whole man, in its complete unity, can only be
imperfectly set forth by continued and varied reflections. It is only
when religion is driven out from the society of the living, that it
must conceal its manifold life under the dead letter.

Neither can this intercourse of heart with heart, on the deepest
feelings of humanity, be carried on in common conversation. Many
persons, who are filled with zeal for the interests of religion, have
brought it as a reproach against the manners of our age that,
while all other important subjects are so freely discussed in the
intercourse of society, so little should be said concerning God
and divine things. I would defend ourselves against this charge
by maintaining that this circumstance, at least, does not indicate
contempt or indifference toward religion, but a happy and very correct
instinct. In the presence of joy and merriment, where earnestness
itself must yield to raillery and wit, there can be no place for
that which should be always surrounded with holy veneration and awe.
Religious views, pious emotions, and serious considerations with
regard to them--these we cannot throw out to one another in such small
crumbs as the topics of a light conversation; and when the discourse
turns upon sacred subjects, it would rather be a crime than a virtue
to have an answer ready for every question, and a rejoinder for every
remark. Hence, the religious sentiment retires from such circles
as are too wide for it, to the more confidential intercourse of
friendship, and to the mutual communications of love, where the eye
and the countenance are more expressive than words, and where even a
holy silence is understood. But it is impossible for divine things
to be treated in the usual manner of society, where the conversation
consists in striking flashes of thought, gaily and rapidly alternating
with one another; a more elevated style is demanded for the
communication of religion, and a different kind of society, which is
devoted to this purpose, must hence be formed. It is becoming, indeed,
to apply the whole richness and magnificence of human discourse to the
loftiest subject which language can reach--not as if there were any
adornment, with which religion could not dispense, but because it
would show a frivolous and unholy disposition in its heralds if they
did not bring together the most copious resources within their power
and consecrate them all to religion, so that they might thus perhaps
exhibit it in its appropriate greatness and dignity. Hence it is
impossible, without the aid of poetry, to give utterance to the
religious sentiment in any other than an oratorical manner, with all
the skill and energy of language, and freely using, in addition,
the service of all the arts which can contribute to flowing and
impassioned discourse. He, therefore, whose heart is overflowing with
religion, can open his mouth only before an auditory, where that which
is presented, with such a wealth of preparation, can produce the most
extended and manifold effects.

Would that I could present before you an image of the rich and
luxurious life in this city of God, when its inhabitants come together
each in the fulness of his own inspiration, which is ready to stream
forth without constraint, but, at the same time, each is filled with a
holy desire to receive and to appropriate to himself everything which
others wish to bring before him. If one comes forward before the rest,
it is not because he is entitled to this distinction, in virtue of an
office or of a previous agreement, nor because pride and conceitedness
have given him presumption; it is rather a free impulse of the spirit,
a sense of the most heartfelt unity of each with all, a consciousness
of entire equality, a mutual renunciation of all First and Last, of
all the arrangements of earthly order. He comes forward in order to
communicate to others, as an object of sympathizing contemplation, the
deepest feelings of his soul while under the influence of God; to lead
them to the domain of religion in which he breathes his native air;
and to infect them with the contagion of his own holy emotions. He
speaks forth the Divine which stirs his bosom, and in holy silence the
assembly follows the inspiration of his words. Whether he unveils a
secret mystery, or with prophetic confidence connects the future with
the present; whether he strengthens old impressions by new examples,
or is led by the lofty visions of his burning imagination into other
regions of the world and into another order of things, the practised
sense of his audience everywhere accompanies his own; and when he
returns into himself from his wanderings through the kingdom of
God, his own heart and that of each of his hearers are the common
dwelling-place of the same emotion.

If, now, the agreement of his sentiments with that which they feel be
announced to him, whether loudly or low, then are holy mysteries--not
merely significant emblems, but, justly regarded, natural indications
of a peculiar consciousness and peculiar feelings--invented and
celebrated, a higher choir, as it were, which in its own lofty
language answers to the appealing voice. But not only, so to speak;
for as such a discourse is music without tune or measure, so there
is also a music among the Holy, which may be called discourse without
words, the most distinct and expressive utterance of the inward man.
The Muse of Harmony, whose intimate relation with religion, although
it has been for a long time spoken of and described, is yet recognized
only by few, has always presented upon her altars the most perfect
and magnificent productions of her selectest scholars in honor of
religion. It is in sacred hymns and choirs, with which the words
of the poet are connected only by slight and airy bands, that those
feelings are breathed forth which precise language is unable to
contain; and thus the tones of thought and emotion alternate with each
other in mutual support, until all is satisfied and filled with the
Holy and the Infinite. Of this character is the influence of religious
men upon one another; such is their natural and eternal union. Do
not take it ill of them that this heavenly bond--the most consummate
product of the social nature of man, but to which it does not
attain until it becomes conscious of its own high and peculiar
significance--that this should be deemed of more value in their sight
than the political union which you esteem so far above everything
else, but which will nowhere ripen to manly beauty, and which,
compared with the former, appears far more constrained than free, far
more transitory than eternal.

But where now, in the description which I have given of the community
of the pious, is that distinction between priests and laymen, which
you are accustomed to designate as the source of so many evils? A
false appearance has deceived you. This is not a distinction between
persons, but only one of condition and performance. Every man is a
priest, so far as he draws others around him, into the sphere which he
has appropriated to himself and in which he professes to be a master.
Every one is a layman, so far as he is guided by the counsel and
experience of another, within the sphere of religion, where he is
comparatively a stranger. There is not here the tyrannic aristocracy,
which you describe with such hatred; but this society is a priestly
people, a perfect republic, where every one is alternately ruler and
citizen, where every one follows the same power in another which he
feels also in himself, and with which he, too, governs others.

How then could the spirit of discord and division--which you regard
as the inevitable consequence of all religious combinations--find a
congenial home within this sphere? I see nothing but that All is One,
and that all the differences which actually exist in religion, by
means of this very union of the pious, are gently blended with one
another. I have directed your attention to the different degrees
of religiousness, I have pointed out to you the different modes of
insight and the different directions in which the soul seeks for
itself the supreme object of its pursuit. Do you imagine that
this must needs give birth to sects, and thus destroy all free
and reciprocal intercourse in religion? It is true, indeed, in
contemplation, that everything which is separated into various parts
and embraced in different divisions, must be opposed and contradictory
to itself; but consider, I pray you, how Life is manifested in a great
variety of forms, how the most hostile elements seek out one another
here, and, for this very reason, what we separate in contemplation all
flows together in life. They, to be sure, who on one of these points
bear the greatest resemblance to one another, will present the
strongest mutual attraction, but they cannot, on that account, compose
an independent whole; for the degrees of this affinity imperceptibly
diminish and increase, and in the midst of so many transitions there
is no absolute repulsion, no total separation, even between the most
discordant elements. Take which you will of these masses which have
assumed an organic form according to their own inherent energy; if
you do not forcibly divide them by a mechanical operation, no one
will exhibit an absolutely distinct and homogeneous character, but the
extreme points of each will be connected at the same time with those
which display different properties and properly belong to another
mass.

If the pious individuals, who stand on the same degree of a lower
order, form a closer union with one another, there are yet some always
included in the combination who have a presentiment of higher things.
These are better understood by all who belong to a higher social class
than they understand themselves; and there is a point of sympathy
between the two which is concealed only from the latter. If those
combine in whom one of the modes of insight, which I have described,
is predominant, there will always be some among them who understand
at least both of the modes, and since they, in some degree, belong
to both, they form a connecting link between two spheres which would
otherwise be separated. Thus the individual who is more inclined to
cherish a religious connection between himself and nature, is yet by
no means opposed, in the essentials of religion, to him who prefers to
trace the footsteps of the Godhead in history; and there will never be
wanting those who can pursue both paths with equal facility. Thus in
whatever manner you divide the vast province of religion, you will
always come back to the same point.

If unbounded universality of insight be the first and original
supposition of religion, and hence also, most naturally, its fairest
and ripest fruit, you perceive that it cannot be otherwise than that,
in proportion as an individual advances in religion and the character
of his piety becomes more pure, the whole religious world will
more and more appear to him as an indivisible whole. The spirit of
separation, in proportion as it insists upon a rigid division, is a
proof of imperfection; the highest and most cultivated minds always
perceive a universal connection, and, for the very reason that they
perceive it, they also establish it. Since every one comes in contact
only with his immediate neighbor, but, at the same time, has an
immediate neighbor on all sides and in every direction, he is, in
fact, indissolubly linked in with the whole. Mystics and Naturalists
in religion, they to whom the Godhead is a personal Being, and they
to whom it is not, they who have arrived at a systematic view of
the Universe, and they who behold it only in its elements or only in
obscure chaos--all, notwithstanding, should be only one, for one band
surrounds them all and they can be totally separated only by a violent
and arbitrary force; every specific combination is nothing but an
integral part of the whole; its peculiar characteristics are almost
evanescent, and are gradually lost in outlines that become more and
more indistinct; and at least those who feel themselves thus united
will always be the superior portion.

Whence, then, but through a total misunderstanding, have arisen that
wild and disgraceful zeal for proselytism to a separate and peculiar
form of religion, and that horrible expression--"no salvation except
with us." As I have described to you the society of the pious, and as
it must needs be according to its intrinsic nature, it aims merely
at reciprocal communication, and subsists only between those who are
already in possession of religion, of whatever character it may be;
how then can it be its vocation to change the sentiments of those
who now acknowledge a definite system, or to introduce and consecrate
those who are totally destitute of one? The religion of this society,
as such, consists only in the religion of all the pious taken
together, as each one beholds it in the rest--it is Infinite; no
single individual can embrace it entirely, since so far as it is
individual it ceases to be one, and hence no man can attain such
elevation and completeness as to raise himself to its level. If any
one, then, has chosen a part in it for himself, whatever it may be,
were it not an absurd procedure for society to wish to deprive him of
that which is adapted to his nature--since it ought to comprise this
also within its limits, and hence some one must needs possess it?

[Illustration: THE THREE HERMITS Moritz Von Schwind]

And to what end should it desire to cultivate those who are yet
strangers to religion? Its own especial characteristic--the Infinite
Whole--of course it cannot impart to them; and the communication of
any specific element cannot be accomplished by the Whole, but only by
individuals. But perhaps then, the Universal, the Indeterminate,
which might be presented, when we seek that which is common to all
the members? Yet you are aware that, as a general rule, nothing can be
given or communicated, in the form of the Universal and Indeterminate,
for specific object and precise form are requisite for this purpose;
otherwise, in fact, that which is presented would not be a reality but
a nullity. Such a society, accordingly, can never find a measure or
rule for this undertaking.

And how could it so far abandon its sphere as to engage in this
enterprise? The need on which it is founded, the essential principle
of religious sociability, points to no such purpose. Individuals unite
with one another and compose a Whole; the Whole rests in itself,
and needs not to strive for anything beyond. Hence, whatever is
accomplished in this way for religion is the private affair of the
individual for himself, and, if I may say so, more in his relations
out of the church than in it. Compelled to descend to the low grounds
of life from the circle of religious communion, where the mutual
existence and life in God afford him the most elevated enjoyment and
where his spirit, penetrated with holy feelings, soars to the highest
summit of consciousness, it is his consolation that he can connect
everything with which he must there be employed, with that which
always retains the deepest significance in his heart. As he descends
from such lofty regions to those whose whole endeavor and pursuit
are limited to earth, he easily believes--and you must pardon him the
feeling--that he has passed from intercourse with Gods and Muses to a
race of coarse barbarians. He feels like a steward of religion among
the unbelieving, a herald of piety among the savages; he hopes, like
an Orpheus or an Amphion, to charm the multitude with his heavenly
tones; he presents himself among them, like a priestly form, clearly
and brightly exhibiting the lofty, spiritual sense which fills his
soul, in all his actions and in the whole compass of his Being. If the
contemplation of the Holy and the Godlike awakens a kindred emotion in
them, how joyfully does he cherish the first presages of religion in
a new heart, as a delightful pledge of its growth even in a harsh and
foreign clime! With what triumph does he bear the neophyte with him to
the exalted assembly! This activity for the promotion of religion is
only the pious yearning of the stranger after his home, the endeavor
to carry his Fatherland with him in all his wanderings, and everywhere
to find again its laws and customs as the highest and most beautiful
elements of his life; but the Fatherland itself, happy in its own
resources, perfectly sufficient for its own wants, knows no such
endeavor.




_JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE_

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DESTINY OF MAN (1800)

ADAPTED FROM THE TRANSLATION BY FREDERIC H. HEDGE

BOOK III: FAITH


       *       *       *       *       *

"Not merely to know, but to act according to thy knowledge, is thy
destination." So says the voice which cries to me aloud from my
innermost soul, so soon as I collect and give heed to myself for a
moment. "Not idly to inspect and contemplate thyself, nor to brood
over devout sensations--no! thou existest to act. Thine actions, and
only thine actions, determine thy worth."

       *       *       *       *       *

Shall I refuse obedience to that inward voice? I will not do it. I
will choose voluntarily the destination which the impulse imputes to
me. And I will grasp, together with this determination, the thought of
its reality and truth, and of the reality of all that it presupposes.
I will hold to the viewpoint of natural thinking, which this impulse
assigns to me, and renounce all those morbid speculations and
refinements of the understanding which alone could make me doubt its
truth. I understand thee now, sublime Spirit![2] I have found the
organ with which I grasp this reality, and with it, probably, all
other reality. Knowledge is not that organ. No knowledge can prove
and demonstrate itself. Every knowledge presupposes a higher as its
foundation, and this upward process has no end. It is Faith, that
voluntary reposing in the view which naturally presents
itself, because it is the only one by which we can fulfil our
destination--this it is that first gives assent to knowledge, and
exalts to certainty and conviction what might otherwise be mere
illusion. It is not knowledge, but a determination of the will to
let knowledge pass for valid. I hold fast, then, forever to this
expression. It is not a mere difference of terms, but a real
deep-grounded distinction, exercising a very important influence on
my whole mental disposition. All my conviction is only faith, and is
derived from a disposition of the mind, not from the understanding.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is only one point to which I have to direct incessantly all my
thoughts: What I must do, and how I shall most effectually accomplish
what is required of me. All my thinking must have reference to my
doing--must be considered as means, however remote, to this end.
Otherwise, it is an empty, aimless sport, a waste of time and power,
and perversion of a noble faculty which was given me for a very
different purpose.

I may hope, I may promise myself with certainty, that when I think
after this manner, my thinking shall be attended with practical
results. Nature, in which I am to act, is not a foreign being,
created without regard to me, into which I can never penetrate. It is
fashioned by the laws of my own thought, and must surely coincide with
them. It must be everywhere transparent, cognizable, permeable to
me, in its innermost recesses. Everywhere it expresses nothing but
relations and references of myself to myself; and as certainly as
I may hope to know myself, so certainly I may promise myself that I
shall be able to explore it. Let me but seek what I have to seek,
and I shall find. Let me but inquire whereof I have to inquire, and I
shall receive answer.

[Illustration: JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE]




I


That voice in my interior, which I believe, and for the sake of which
I believe all else that I believe, commands me not merely to act in
the abstract. That is impossible. All these general propositions
are formed only by my voluntary attention and reflection directed to
various facts; but they do not express a single fact of themselves.
This voice of my conscience prescribes to me with certainty, in each
particular situation of my existence, what I must do and what I must
avoid in that situation. It accompanies me, if I will but listen to it
with attention, through all the events of my life, and never refuses
its reward where I am called to act. It establishes immediate
conviction, and irresistibly compels my assent. It is impossible for
me to contend against it.

To harken to that voice, honestly and dispassionately, without
fear and without useless speculation to obey it--this is my sole
destination, this the whole aim of my existence. My life ceases to
be an empty sport, without truth or meaning. There is something to be
done, simply because it must be done--namely, that which conscience
demands of me who find myself in this particular position. I exist
solely in order that it may be fulfilled. To perceive it, I have
understanding; to do it, power.

Through these commandments of conscience alone come truth and reality
into my conceptions. I cannot refuse attention and obedience to them
without renouncing my destination. I cannot, therefore, withhold my
belief in the reality which they bring before me, without, at the same
time, denying my destination. It is absolutely true, without
further examination and demonstration--it is the first truth and the
foundation of all other truth and certainty--that I must obey that
voice. Consequently, according to this way of thinking, everything
becomes true and real for me which the possibility of such obedience
presupposes.

There hover before me phenomena in space, to which I transfer the idea
of my own being. I represent them to myself as beings of my own kind.
Consistent speculation has taught me or will teach me that these
supposed rational beings, without me, are only products of my own
conception; that I am necessitated, once for all, by laws of thought
which can be shown to exist, to represent the idea of myself out
of myself, and that, according to the same laws, this idea can be
transferred only to certain definite perceptions. But the voice of
my conscience cries to me: "Whatever these beings may be in and for
themselves, thou shalt treat them as subsisting for themselves, as
free, self-existing beings, entirely independent of thyself. Take
it for granted that they are capable of proposing to themselves aims
independently of thee, by their own power. Never disturb the execution
of these, their designs, but further them rather, with all thy might.
Respect their liberty. Embrace with love their objects as thine
own." So must I act. And to such action shall, will, and must all my
thinking be directed, if I have but formed the purpose to obey the
voice of my conscience. Accordingly, I shall ever consider those
beings as beings subsisting for themselves, and forming and
accomplishing aims independently of me. From this viewpoint, I cannot
consider them in any other light; and the above-mentioned speculation
will vanish like an empty dream before my eyes. "I _think_ of them as
beings of my own species," said I just now; but strictly, it is not a
thought by which they are first represented to me as such. It is the
voice of conscience, the command: "Here restrain thy liberty,
here suppose and respect foreign aims." This it is which is first
translated into the thought: "Here is surely and truly, subsisting
of itself, a being like me." To consider them otherwise, I must first
deny the voice of my conscience in life and forget it in speculation.

There hover before me other phenomena which I do not consider as
beings like myself, but as irrational objects. Speculation finds it
easy to show how the conception of such objects develops itself purely
from my power of conception and its necessary modes of action. But
I comprehend these same things also through need and craving and
enjoyment. It is not the conception--no, it is hunger and thirst and
the satisfaction of these that makes anything food and drink to me.
Of course, I am constrained to believe in the reality of that which
threatens my sensuous existence, or which alone can preserve it.
Conscience comes in, at once hallowing and limiting this impulse of
Nature. "Thou shalt preserve, exercise and strengthen thyself, and
thy sensuous power; for this sensuous power forms a part of the
calculation, in the plan of reason. But thou canst preserve it only
by a suitable use, agreeable to the peculiar interior laws of such
matters. And, besides thyself, there are also others like thee, whose
powers are calculated upon like thine own, and who can be preserved
only in the same way. Allow to them the same use of their portion
which it is granted thee to make of thine own portion. Respect what
comes to them, as their property. Use what comes to thee in a suitable
manner, as thy property." So must I act, and I must think conformably
to such action. Accordingly, I am necessitated to regard these things
as standing under their own natural laws, independent of me, but which
I am capable of knowing; that is, to ascribe to them an existence
independent of myself. I am constrained to believe in such laws,
and it becomes my business to ascertain them; and empty speculation
vanishes like mist when the warming sun appears.

In short, there is for me, in general, no pure, naked existence, with
which I have no concern, and which I contemplate solely for the sake
of contemplation. Whatever exists for me, exists only by virtue of
its relation to me. But there is everywhere but one relation to
me possible, and all the rest are but varieties of this, i.e., my
destination as a moral agent. My world is the object and sphere of my
duties, and absolutely nothing else. There is no other world, no other
attributes of my world, for me. My collective capacity and all finite
capacity is insufficient to comprehend any other. Everything which
exists for me forces its existence and its reality upon me, solely by
means of this relation; and only by means of this relation do I grasp
it. There is utterly wanting in me an organ for any other existence.

To the question whether then in fact such a world exists as I
represent to myself, I can answer nothing certain, nothing which is
raised above all doubt, but this: I have assuredly and truly these
definite duties which represent themselves to me as duties toward such
and such persons, concerning such and such objects. These definite
duties I cannot represent to myself otherwise, nor can I execute
them otherwise, than as lying within the sphere of such a world as I
conceive. Even he who has never thought of his moral destination, if
any such there could be, or who, if he has thought about it at all,
has never entertained the slightest purpose of ever, in the indefinite
future, fulfilling it--even he derives his world of the senses and his
belief in the reality of such a world no otherwise than from his idea
of a moral world. If he does not comprehend it through the idea of his
duties, he certainly does so through the requisition of his rights.
What he does not require of himself he yet requires of others, in
relation to himself--that they treat him with care and consideration,
agreeably to his nature, not as an irrational thing, but as a free and
self-subsisting being. And so he is constrained, in order that they
may comply with this demand, to think of them also as rational, free,
self-subsisting, and independent of the mere force of Nature. And even
though he should never propose to himself any other aim in the use and
fruition of the objects which surround him than that of enjoying them,
he still demands this enjoyment as a right, of which others must leave
him in undisturbed possession. Accordingly, he comprehends even the
irrational world of the senses through a moral idea. No one who lives
a conscious life can renounce these claims to be respected as rational
and self-subsisting. And with these claims at least there is connected
in his soul a seriousness, an abandonment of doubt, a belief in
a reality, if not with the acknowledgment of a moral law in
his innermost being. Do but assail him who denies his own moral
destination and your existence and the existence of a corporeal
world, except in the way of experiment, to try what speculation can
do--assail him actively, carry his principles into life, and act as if
he either did not exist, or as if he were a piece of rude matter, and
he will soon forget the joke; he will become seriously angry with you,
he will seriously reprove you for treating him so, and maintain that
you ought not and must not do so to him; and, in this way, he will
practically admit that you really possess the power of acting upon
him, that he exists, that you exist, and that there exists _a medium
through which you act upon him_; and that you have at least duties
toward him.

Hence it is not the action of supposed objects without us, which exist
for us only and for which we exist only in so far as we already know
of them; just as little is it an empty fashioning, by means of our
imagination and our thinking, whose products would appear to us as
such, as empty pictures; it is not these, but the necessary faith in
our liberty and our power, in our veritable action and in definite
laws of human action, which serves as the foundation of all
consciousness of a reality without us, a consciousness which is
itself but a belief, since it rests on a belief, but one which follows
necessarily from that belief. We are compelled to assume that we
act in general, and that we ought to act in a certain way; we are
compelled to assume a certain sphere of such action--this sphere being
the truly and actually existing world as we find it. And _vice versa_,
this world is absolutely nothing but that sphere, and by no means
extends beyond it. The consciousness of the actual world proceeds from
the necessity of action, and not the reverse--i.e., the necessity of
action from the consciousness of such a world. The necessity is first
not the consciousness; that is derived. We do not act because we
agnize, but we agnize because we are destined to act. Practical reason
is the root of all reason. The laws of action for rational beings are
_immediately_ certain; their world is certain _only because they are
certain_. Were we to renounce the former, the world, and, with it,
ourselves, we should sink into absolute nothing. We raise ourselves
out of this nothing, and sustain ourselves above this nothing, solely
by means of our morality.




II

       *       *       *       *       *

When I contemplate the world as it is, independently of any command,
there manifests itself in my interior the wish, the longing, no! not
a longing merely--the absolute demand for a better world. I cast a
glance at the relations of men to one another and to Nature, at the
weakness of their powers, at the strength of their appetites and
passions. It cries to me irresistibly from my innermost soul: "Thus it
cannot possibly be destined always to remain. It must, O it must all
become other and better!"

I can in no wise imagine to myself the present condition of man as
that which is designed to endure. I cannot imagine it to be his whole
and final destination. If so, then would everything be dream and
delusion, and it would not be worth the trouble to have lived and to
have taken part in this ever-recurring, aimless, and unmeaning game.
Only so far as I can regard this condition as the means of something
better, as a point of transition to a higher and more perfect, does
it acquire any value for me. Not on its own account, but on account of
something better for which it prepares the way, can I bear it, honor
it, and joyfully fulfil my part in it. My mind can find no place, nor
rest a moment, in the present; it is irresistibly repelled by it. My
whole life streams irrepressibly on toward the future and better.

Am I only to eat and to drink that I may hunger and thirst again,
and again eat and drink, until the grave, yawning beneath my feet,
swallows me up, and I myself spring up as food from the ground? Am I
to beget beings like myself, that they also may eat and drink and die,
and leave behind them beings like themselves, who shall do the same
that I have done? To what purpose this circle which perpetually
returns into itself; this game forever recommencing, after the same
manner, in which everything is born but to perish, and perishes but
to be born again as it was; this monster which forever devours itself
that it may produce itself again, and which produces itself that it
may again devour itself?

Never can this be the destination of my being and of all being. There
must be something which exists because it has been brought forth, and
which now remains and can never be brought forth again after it has
been brought forth once. And this, that is permanent, must beget
itself amid the mutations of the perishing, and continue amid those
mutations, and be borne along unhurt upon the waves of time.

As yet our race wrings with difficulty its sustenance and its
continuance from reluctant Nature. As yet the larger portion of
mankind are bowed down their whole life long by hard labor, to procure
sustenance for themselves and the few who think for them. Immortal
spirits are compelled to fix all their thinking and scheming, and
all their efforts, on the soil which bears them nourishment. It often
comes to pass as yet, that when the laborer has ended, and promises
himself, for his pains, the continuance of his own existence and of
those pains, then hostile elements destroy in a moment what he had
been slowly and carefully preparing for years, and delivers up the
industrious painstaking man, without any fault of his own, to
hunger and misery. It often comes to pass as yet, that inundations,
storm-winds, volcanoes, desolate whole countries, and mingle works
which bear the impress of a rational mind, as well as their authors,
with the wild chaos of death and destruction. Diseases still hurry men
into a premature grave, men in the bloom of their powers, and children
whose existence passes away without fruit or result. The pestilence
still stalks through blooming states, leaves the few who escape
it bereaved and alone, deprived of the accustomed aid of their
companions, and does all in its power to give back to the wilderness
the land which the industry of man had already conquered for its own.

So it is, but so it cannot surely have been intended always to remain.
No work which bears the impress of reason, and which was undertaken
for the purpose of extending the dominion of reason, can be utterly
lost in the progress of the times. The sacrifices which the irregular
violence of Nature draws from reason must at least weary, satisfy, and
reconcile that violence. The force which has caused injury by acting
without rule cannot be intended to do so in that way any longer, it
cannot be destined to renew itself; it must be used up, from this time
forth and forever, by that one outbreak. All those outbreaks of
rude force, before which human power vanishes into nothing--those
desolating hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanoes, can be nothing else but
the final struggle of the wild mass against the lawfully progressive,
life-giving, systematic course to which it is compelled, contrary to
its own impulse. They can be nothing but the last concussive strokes
in the formation of our globe, now about to perfect itself. That
opposition must gradually become weaker and at last exhausted, since,
in the lawful course of things, there can be nothing that should renew
its power. That formation must at last be perfected, and our destined
abode complete. Nature must gradually come into a condition in which
we can count with certainty upon her equal step, and in which her
power shall keep unaltered a definite relation with that power which
is destined to govern it, that is, the human. So far as this relation
already exists and the systematic development of Nature has gained
firm footing, the workmanship of man, by its mere existence and its
effects, independent of any design on the part of the author, is
destined to react upon Nature and to represent in her a new and
life-giving principle. Cultivated lands are to quicken and mitigate
the sluggish, hostile atmosphere of the eternal forests, wildernesses,
and morasses. Well-ordered and diversified culture is to diffuse
through the air a new principle of life and fructification, and the
sun to send forth its most animating beams into that atmosphere which
is breathed by a healthy, industrious, and ingenious people. Science,
awakened, at first, by the pressure of necessity, shall hereafter
penetrate deliberately and calmly into the unchangeable laws of
Nature, overlook her whole power, and learn to calculate her possible
developments--shall form for itself a new Nature in idea, attach
itself closely to the living and active, and follow hard upon her
footsteps. And all knowledge which reason has wrung from Nature shall
be preserved in the course of the times and become the foundation
of further knowledge, for the common understanding of our race. Thus
shall Nature become ever more transparent and penetrable to
human perception, even to its innermost secrets. And human power,
enlightened and fortified with its inventions, shall rule her with
ease and peacefully maintain the conquest once effected. By degrees,
there shall be needed no greater outlay of mechanical labor than the
human body requires for its development, cultivation and health. And
this labor shall cease to be a burden; for the rational being is not
destined to be a bearer of burdens.

But it is not Nature, it is liberty itself, that occasions the most
numerous and the most fearful disorders among our kind. The direst
enemy of man is man.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is the destination of our race to unite in one body, thoroughly
acquainted with itself in all its parts, and uniformly cultivated in
all. Nature, and even the passions and vices of mankind, have, from
the beginning, drifted toward this goal. A large part of the road
which leads to it is already put behind us, and we may count with
certainty that this goal, which is the condition of further, united
progress, will be reached in due season. Do not ask History whether
mankind, on the whole, have grown more purely moral! They have grown
to extended, comprehensive, forceful acts of arbitrary will; but it
was almost a necessity of their condition that they should direct that
will exclusively to evil.

Neither ask History whether the esthetic education and the
rationalistic culture of the understanding, of the fore-world,
concentrated upon a few single points, may not have far exceeded, in
degree, that of modern times. It might be that the answer would put
us to shame, and that the human race in growing older would appear, in
this regard, not to have advanced, but to have lost ground.

But ask History in what period the existing culture was most widely
diffused and distributed among the greatest number of individuals.
Undoubtedly it will be found that, from the beginning of history down
to our own day, the few light-points of culture have extended
their rays farther and farther from their centres, have seized one
individual after another, and one people after another; and that this
diffusion of culture is still going on before our eyes.

And this was the first goal of Humanity, on its infinite path. Until
this is attained, until the existing culture of an age is diffused
over the whole habitable globe, and our race is made capable of the
most unlimited communication with itself, one nation, one quarter of
the globe, must await the other, on their common path, and each must
bring its centuries of apparent standing still or retrogradation, as
a sacrifice to the common bond, for the sake of which, alone, they
themselves exist.

When this first goal shall be attained, when everything useful that
has been discovered at one end of the earth shall immediately be
made known and imparted to all, then Humanity, without interruption,
without cessation, and without retrocession, with united force, and
with one step shall raise itself up to a degree of culture which we
lack power to conceive.

       *       *       *       *       *

By the institution of this one true State and the firm establishment
of internal peace, external war also, at least between true
States, will be rendered impossible. Even for the sake of its own
advantage--in order that no thought of injustice, plunder and violence
may spring up in its own subjects, and no possible opportunity be
afforded them for any gain, except by labor and industry, in the
sphere assigned by law--every State must forbid as strictly, must
hinder as carefully, must compensate as exactly, and punish as
severely, an injury done to the citizen of a neighbor-State, as if it
were inflicted upon a fellow-citizen. This law respecting the security
of its neighbors is necessary to every State which is not a community
of robbers. And herewith the possibility of every just complaint of
one State against another, and every case of legitimate defense, are
done away.

There are no necessarily and continuously direct relations between
States, as such, that could engender warfare. As a general rule, it
is only through the relations of single citizens of one State with the
citizens of another--it is only in the person of one of its members,
that a State can be injured. But this injury will be instantly
redressed, and the offended State satisfied.

       *       *       *       *       *

That a whole nation should determine, for the sake of plunder, to
attack a neighboring country with war, is impossible, since in a State
in which all are equal the plunder would not become the booty of
a few, but must be divided equally among all, and, so divided, the
portion of each individual would never repay him for the trouble of a
war. Only, then, when the advantage to be gained falls to the lot of a
few oppressors, but the disadvantages, the trouble, the cost fall upon
a countless army of slaves--only then is a war of plunder possible or
conceivable. Accordingly, these States have no war to fear from States
like themselves, but only from savages or barbarians, tempted to prey
by want of skill to enrich themselves by industry; or from nations of
slaves, who are driven by their masters to procure plunder, of which
they are to enjoy no part themselves. As to the former, each single
State is undoubtedly superior to them in strength, by virtue of the
arts of culture. As to the latter, the common advantage of all the
States will lead them to strengthen themselves by union with one
another. No free State can reasonably tolerate, in its immediate
vicinity, polities whose rulers find their advantage in subjecting
neighboring nations, and which, therefore, by their mere existence,
perpetually threaten their neighbors' peace. Care for their own
security will oblige all free States to convert all around them into
free States like themselves, and thus, for the sake of their own
safety, to extend the dominion of culture to the savages, and that of
liberty to the slave nations round about them. And so, when once a few
free States have been formed, the empire of culture, of liberty, and,
with that, of universal peace, will gradually embrace the globe.

       *       *       *       *       *

In this only true State, all temptation to evil in general, and even
the possibility of deliberately determining upon an evil act, will be
cut off, and man be persuaded as powerfully as he can be to direct his
will toward good. There is no man who loves evil because it is evil.
He loves in it only the advantages and enjoyments which it promises,
and which, in the present state of Humanity, it, for the most part,
actually affords. As long as this state continues, as long as a price
is set upon vice, a thorough reformation of mankind, in the whole, is
scarcely to be hoped for. But in such a civil Polity as should exist,
such as reason demands, and such as the thinker easily describes,
although as yet he nowhere finds it, and such as will necessarily
shape itself with the first nation that is truly disenthralled--in
such a Polity evil will offer no advantages, but, on the contrary, the
most certain disadvantages; and the aberration of self-love into acts
of injustice will be suppressed by self-love itself. According to
infallible regulations, in such a State, all taking advantage of
and oppressing others, every act of self-aggrandizement at another's
expense is not only sure to be in vain--labor lost--but it reacts upon
the author, and he himself inevitably incurs the evil which he would
inflict upon others. Within his own State and outside of it, on the
whole face of the earth, he finds no one whom he can injure with
impunity. It is not, however, to be expected that any one will resolve
upon evil merely for evil's sake, notwithstanding he cannot accomplish
it and nothing but his own injury can result from the attempt. The
use of liberty for evil ends is done away. Man must either resolve
to renounce his liberty entirely--to become, with patience, a passive
wheel in the great machine of the whole--or he must apply his liberty
to that which is good.

And thus, then, in a soil so prepared, the good will easily flourish.
When selfish aims no longer divide mankind, and their powers can no
longer be exercised in destroying one another in battle, nothing will
remain to them but to turn their united force against the common and
only adversary which yet remains--resisting, uncultivated Nature. No
longer separated by private ends, they will necessarily unite in one
common end, and there will grow up a body everywhere animated by one
spirit and one love. Every disadvantage of the individual, since it
can no longer be a benefit to any one, becomes an injury to the whole
and to each particular member of the same, and is felt in each member
with equal pain, and with equal activity redressed. Every advance
which one man makes, human nature, in its entirety, makes with him.

Here, where the petty, narrow self of the person is already
annihilated by the Polity, every one loves every other one as truly as
himself, as a component part of that great _Self_ which alone remains
for him to love, and of which he is nothing but a component part,
which only through the Whole can gain or lose. Here the conflict of
evil with good is done away, for no evil can any longer spring up.
The contest of the good among themselves, even concerning the good,
vanishes, now that it has become easy to them to love the good for its
own sake, and not for their sakes, as the authors of it--now that the
only interest they can have is that it come to pass, that truth
be discovered, that the good deed be executed--not by whom it is
accomplished. Here every one is always prepared to join his power to
that of his neighbor, and to subordinate it to that of his neighbor.
Whoever, in the judgment of all, shall accomplish the best, in the
best way, him all will support and partake with equal joy in his
success.

This is the aim of earthly existence which Reason sets before us, and
for the sure attainment of which Reason vouches. It is not a goal for
which we are to strive merely that our faculties may be exercised on
something great, but which we must relinquish all hope of realizing.
It shall and must be realized. At some time or other this goal must be
attained, as surely as there is a world of the senses, and a race of
reasonable beings in time, for whom no serious and rational object can
be imagined but this, and whose existence is made intelligible by this
alone. Unless the whole life of man is to be considered as the sport
of an evil Spirit, who implanted this ineradicable striving after
the imperishable in the breasts of poor wretches merely that he might
enjoy their ceaseless struggle after that which unceasingly flees
from them, their still repeated grasping after that which still
eludes their grasp, their restless driving about in an ever-returning
circle--and laugh at their earnestness in this senseless sport--unless
the wise man, who must soon see through this game and be tired of his
own part in it, is to throw away his life, and the moment of awakening
reason is to be the moment of earthly death--that goal must be
attained. O it is attainable in life and by means of life; for Reason
commands me to live. It is attainable, for I am.




III

But now, when it is attained, when Humanity shall stand at the
goal--what then? There is no higher condition on earth than that.
The generation which first attains it can do nothing further than to
persist in it, maintain it with all their powers, and die and leave
descendants who shall do the same that they have done, and who, in
their turn, shall leave descendants that shall do the same. Humanity
would then stand still in its course. Therefore its earthly goal
cannot be its highest goal, for this earthly goal is intelligible, and
attainable, and finite. Though we consider the preceding generations
as means of developing the last and perfected, still we cannot escape
the inquiry of earnest Reason: "Wherefore then these last?" Given a
human race on the earth, its existence must indeed be in accordance
with Reason, and not contrary to it. It must become all that it can
become on earth. But why should it exist at all--this human race? Why
might it not as well have remained in the womb of the Nothing? Reason
is not for the sake of existence, but existence for the sake of
Reason. An existence which does not, in itself, satisfy Reason and
solve all her questions, cannot possibly be the true one.

Then, too, are the actions commanded by the voice of Conscience, whose
dictates I must not speculate about, but obey in silence--are they
actually the means, and the only means, of accomplishing the earthly
aim of mankind? That I cannot refer them to any other object but this,
that I can have no other intent with them, is unquestionable. But is
this, my intent, fulfilled in every case? Is nothing more needed but
to will the best, in order that it may be accomplished? Alas! most of
our good purposes are, for this world, entirely lost, and some of
them seem even to have an entirely opposite effect to that which was
proposed. On the other hand, the most despicable passions of men,
their vices and their misdeeds, seem often to bring about the good
more surely than the labors of the just man, who never consents to do
evil that good may come. It would seem that the highest good of the
world grows and thrives quite independently of all human virtues or
vices, according to laws of its own, by some invisible and unknown
power, just as the heavenly bodies run through their appointed course,
independently of all human effort; and that this power absorbs into
its own higher plan all human designs, whether good or ill, and,
by its superior strength, appropriates what was intended for other
purposes to its own ends.

If, therefore, the attainment of that earthly goal could be the design
of our existence, and if no further question concerning it remained
to Reason, that aim, at least, would not be ours, but the aim of that
unknown Power. We know not at any moment what may promote it. Nothing
would be left us but to supply to that Power, by our actions, so much
material, no matter what, to work up in its own way, for its own ends.
Our highest wisdom would be, not to trouble ourselves about things
in which we have no concern, but to live, in each case, as the fancy
takes us, and quietly leave the consequences to that Power. The moral
law within us would be idle and superfluous, and wholly unsuited to a
being that had no higher capacity and no higher destination. In order
to be at one with ourselves, we should refuse obedience to the voice
of that law and suppress it as a perverse and mad enthusiasm.

       *       *       *       *       *

If the whole design of our existence were to bring about a purely
earthly condition of our race, all that would be required would be
some infallible mechanism to direct our action; and we need be nothing
more than wheels well fitted to the whole machine. Freedom would then
not only be useless, but even contrary to the purpose of existence;
and good-will would be quite superfluous. The world, in that case,
would be very clumsily contrived--would proceed to its goal with waste
of power and by circuitous paths. Rather, mighty World-Spirit, hadst
thou taken from us this freedom, which, only with difficulty and by a
different arrangement, thou canst fit to thy plans, and compelled us
at once to act as those plans required! Thou wouldst then arrive at
thy goal by the shortest road, as the meanest of the inhabitants of
thy worlds can tell thee.

But I am free, and therefore such a concatenation of cause and effect,
in which freedom is absolutely superfluous and useless, cannot exhaust
my whole destination. I must be free; for not the mechanical act, but
the free determination of free-will, for the sake of the command
alone and absolutely for no other purpose (so says the inward voice of
conscience)--this alone determines our true worth. The band with which
the law binds me is a band for living spirits. It scorns to rule
over dead mechanism, and applies itself alone to the living and
self-acting. Such obedience it demands. This obedience cannot be
superfluous.

And, herewith, the eternal world rises more brightly before me, and
the fundamental law of its order stands clear before the eye of my
mind. In that world the _will_, purely and only, as it lies, locked up
from all eyes, in the secret dark of my soul, is the first link in a
chain of consequences which runs through the whole invisible world
of spirits; so in the earthly world the _deed_, a certain movement
of matter, becomes the first link in a material chain which extends
through the whole system of matter. The will is the working and living
principle in the world of Reason, as motion is the working and living
principle in the world of the senses. I stand in the centre of two
opposite worlds, a visible in which the deed, and an invisible,
altogether incomprehensible, in which the will, decides. I am one
of the original forces for both these worlds. My will is that which
embraces both. This will is in and of itself a constituent portion of
the supersensuous world. When I put it in motion by a resolution, I
move and change something in that world, and my activity flows on over
the whole and produces something new and ever-during which then exists
and needs not to be made anew. This will breaks forth into a material
act, and this act belongs to the world of the senses, and effects, in
that, what it can.

I have not to wait until after I am divorced from the connection
of the earthly world to gain admission into that which is above
the earth. I am and live in it already, far more truly than in the
earthly. Even now it is my only firm standing-ground, and the eternal
life, which I have long since taken possession of, is the only
reason why I am willing still to prolong the earthly. That which
they denominate Heaven lies not beyond the grave. It is already here,
diffused around our Nature, and its light arises in every pure heart.
My will is mine, and it is the only thing that is entirely mine and
depends entirely upon myself. By it I am already a citizen of the
kingdom of liberty and of self-active Reason. My conscience, the tie
by which that world holds me unceasingly and binds me to itself, tells
me at every moment what determination of my will (the only thing
by which, here in the dust, I can lay hold of that kingdom) is most
consonant with its order; and it depends entirely upon myself to give
myself the destination enjoined upon me. I cultivate myself then for
this world, and, accordingly, work in it and for it, while cultivating
one of its members. I pursue in it, and in it alone, without
vacillation or doubt, according to fixed rules, my aim--sure of
success, since there is no foreign power that opposes my intent.

       *       *       *       *       *

That our good-will, in and for and through itself, must have
consequences, we know, even in this life; for Reason cannot require
anything without a purpose. But what these consequences are--nay, how
it is possible that a mere will can effect anything--is a question to
which we cannot even imagine a solution, so long as we are entangled
with this material world, and it is the part of wisdom not to
undertake an inquiry concerning which, we know beforehand, it must be
unsuccessful.

       *       *       *       *       *

This then is my whole sublime destination, my true essence. I am a
member of two systems--a purely spiritual one, in which I rule by pure
will alone; and a sensuous one, in which I work by my deed.

       *       *       *       *       *

These two systems, the purely spiritual and the sensuous--which last
may consist of an immeasurable series of particular lives--exist in
me from the moment in which my active reason is developed, and pursue
their parallel courses. The latter system is only an appearance, for
me and for those who share with me the same life. The former alone
gives to the latter meaning, and purpose, and value. I _am_ immortal,
imperishable, eternal, so soon as I form the resolution to obey the
law of Reason; and do not first have to _become_ so. The supersensuous
world is not a future world; it is present. It never can be more
present at any one point of finite existence than at any other point.
After an existence of myriad lives, it cannot be more present than at
this moment. Other conditions of my sensuous existence are to come;
but these are no more the true life than the present condition. By
means of that resolution I lay hold on eternity, and strip off this
life in the dust and all other sensuous lives that may await me, and
raise myself far above them. I become to myself the sole fountain
of all my being and of all my phenomena; and have henceforth,
unconditioned by aught without me, life in myself. My will, which
I myself, and no stranger, fit to the order of that world, is this
fountain of true life and of eternity.

But only my will is this fountain; and only when I acknowledge this
will to be the true seat of moral excellence, and actually elevate it
to this excellence, do I attain to the certainty and the possession of
that supersensuous world.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sense by which we lay hold on eternal life we acquire only by
renouncing and offering up sense, and the aims of sense, to the law
which claims our will alone, and not our acts--by renouncing it with
the conviction that to do so is reasonable and alone reasonable. With
this renunciation of the earthly, the belief in the eternal first
enters our soul and stands isolated there, as the only stay by which
we can still sustain ourselves when we have relinquished everything
else, as the only animating principle that still uplifts our hearts
and still inspires our life. Well was it said, in the metaphors of
a sacred doctrine, that man must first die to the world and be born
again, in order to enter into the kingdom of God.

I see, oh, I see now, clear before mine eyes, the cause of my former
heedlessness and blindness concerning spiritual things! Filled with
earthly aims, and lost in them with all my scheming and striving; put
in motion and impelled only by the idea of a result, which is to be
actualized without us, by the desire of such a result and pleasure in
it--insensible and dead to the pure impulse of that Reason which gives
the law to itself, which sets before us a purely spiritual aim, the
immortal Psyche remains chained to the earth; her wings are bound. Our
philosophy becomes the history of our own heart and life. As we find
ourselves, so we imagine man in general and his destination. Never
impelled by any other motive than the desire of that which can be
realized in this world, there is no true liberty for us, no liberty
which has the reason for its destination absolutely and entirely in
itself. Our liberty, at the utmost, is that of the self-forming
plant, no higher in its essence, only more curious in its result, not
producing a form of matter with roots, leaves and blossoms, but a form
of mind with impulses, thoughts, actions. Of the true liberty we
are positively unable to comprehend anything, because we are not in
possession of it. Whenever we hear it spoken of, we draw the words
down to our own meaning, or briefly dismiss it with a sneer, as
nonsense. With the knowledge of liberty, the sense of another world
is also lost to us. Everything of this sort floats by like words which
are not addressed to us; like an ash-gray shadow without color or
meaning, which we cannot by any end take hold of and retain. Without
the least interest, we let everything go as it is stated. Or if ever
a robuster zeal impels us to consider it seriously, we see clearly and
can demonstrate that all those ideas are untenable, hollow visions,
which a man of sense casts from him. And, according to the premises
from which we set out and which are taken from our own innermost
experience, we are quite right, and are alike unanswerable and
unteachable, so long as we remain what we are. The excellent doctrines
which are current among the people, fortified with special authority,
concerning freedom, duty and eternal life, change themselves for us
into grotesque fables, like those of Tartarus and the Elysian fields,
although we do not disclose the true opinion of our hearts, because we
think it more advisable to keep the people in outward decency by means
of these images. Or if we are less reflective, and ourselves fettered
by the bands of authority, then we sink, ourselves, to the true
plebeian level, by believing that which, so understood, would be
foolish fable; and by finding, in those purely spiritual indications,
nothing but the promise of a continuance, to all eternity, of the same
miserable existence which we lead here below.

To say all in a word: Only through a radical reformation of my will
does a new light arise upon my being and destination. Without this,
however much I may reflect, and however distinguished my mental
endowments, there is nothing but darkness in me and around me. The
reformation of the heart alone conducts to true wisdom. So then, let
my whole life be directed unrestrainedly toward this one end!




IV

My lawful will, simply as such, in and through itself, must
have consequences, certain and without exception. Every dutiful
determination of my will, although no act should flow from it, must
operate in another, to me incomprehensible, world; and, except this
dutiful determination of the will, nothing can take effect in that
world. What do I suppose when I suppose this? What do I take for
granted?

Evidently, a law, a rule absolutely and without exception valid,
according to which the dutiful will must have consequences. Just as in
the earthly world which environs me, I assume a law according to which
this ball, when impelled by my hand with this given force, in this
given direction, must necessarily move in such a direction, with a
determinate measure of rapidity, perhaps impel another ball with
this given degree of force by which the other ball moves on with a
determinate rapidity; and so on indefinitely. As in this case, with
the mere direction and movement of my hand, I know and comprehend all
the directions and movements which shall follow it, as certainly as if
they were already present and perceived by me; even so I comprise, in
my dutiful will, a series of necessary and infallible consequences
in the spiritual world, as if they were already present, only that I
cannot, as in the material world, determine them--i.e., I merely know
that they shall be, not how they shall be. I suppose a law of the
spiritual world, in which my mere will is one of the moving forces,
just as my hand is one of the moving forces in the material world.
That firmness of my confidence and the thought of this law of a
spiritual world are one and the same thing--not two thoughts of which
one is the consequence of the other, but precisely the same thought,
just as the certainty with which I count upon a certain motion, and
the thought of a mechanical law of Nature, are the same. The idea
of _Law_ expresses generally nothing else but the fixed, immovable
reliance of Reason on a proposition, and the impossibility of
supposing the contrary.

I assume such a law of a spiritual world, which my own will did not
enact, nor the will of any finite being, nor the will of all finite
beings together, but to which my will and the will of all finite
beings is subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

Agreeably to what has now been advanced, the law of the supersensuous
world should be a _Will_.

A Will which acts purely and simply as will, by its own agency,
entirely without any instrument or sensuous medium of its efficacy;
which is absolutely, in itself, at once action and result; which
wills and it is done, which commands and it stands fast; in
which, accordingly, the demand of Reason to be absolutely free and
self-active is represented. A Will which is law in itself; which
determines itself, not according to humor and caprice, not after
previous deliberation, vacillation and doubt, but which is forever and
unchangeably determined, and upon which one may reckon with infallible
security, as the mortal reckons securely on the laws of his world.
A Will in which the lawful will of finite beings has inevitable
consequences, but only their will, which is immovable to everything
else, and for which everything else is as though it were not.

That sublime Will, therefore, does not pursue its course for itself,
apart from the rest of Reason's world. There is between it and all
finite, rational beings, a spiritual tie, and that Will itself is
this spiritual tie of Reason's world. I will, purely and decidedly, my
duty, and it then wills that I shall succeed, at least in the world of
spirits. Every lawful resolve of the finite will enters into it,
and moves and determines it--to speak after our fashion--not in
consequence of a momentary good pleasure, but in consequence of the
eternal law of its being.

With astounding clearness it now stands before my soul, the thought
which hitherto had been wrapped in darkness--the thought that my will,
merely as such, and of itself, has consequences. It has consequences
because it is infallibly and immediately taken knowledge of by another
related Will, which is itself an act and the only life-principle of
the spiritual world. In that Will it has its first consequence, and
only through that, in the rest of the spiritual world which, in all
its parts, is but the product of that infinite Will.

Thus I flow--the mortal must use the language of mortals--thus I flow
in upon that Will; and the voice of conscience in my inmost being,
which, in every situation of my life, instructs me what I have to do
in that situation, is that by means of which it, in turn, flows
in upon me. That voice is the oracle from the eternal world, made
sensible by my environment, and translated, by my reception of it,
into my language; which announces to me how I must fit myself to my
part in the order of the spiritual world, or to the infinite Will,
which itself is the order of that spiritual world. I cannot oversee or
see through this spiritual order; nor need I. I am only a link in its
chain, and can no more judge of the whole than a single tone in a song
can judge of the harmony of the whole. But what I myself should be, in
the harmony of Spirits, I must know; for only I myself can make myself
that, and it is immediately revealed to me by a voice which sounds
over to me from that world. Thus I stand in connection with the only
being that _exists_, and partake of its being. There is nothing truly
real, permanent, imperishable in me, but these two--the voice of my
conscience and my free obedience. By means of the first, the spiritual
world bows down to me and embraces me, as one of its members. By means
of the second, I raise myself into this world, lay hold of it, and
work in it. But that infinite Will is the mediator between it and me;
for, of it and me, that Will is the primal fountain. This is the only
true and imperishable reality, toward which my soul moves from its
inmost depth. All else is only phenomenon, and vanishes and returns
again, with new seeming.

This Will connects me with itself. The same connects me with all
finite beings of my species, and is the universal mediator between
us all. That is the great mystery of the invisible world, and
its fundamental law, so far as it is a world or system of several
individual wills: _Union and direct reciprocal action of several
self-subsisting and independent wills among one another_--a mystery
which, even in the present life, lies clear before all eyes, without
any one's noticing it or thinking it worthy his admiration! The voice
of Conscience, which enjoins upon each one his proper duty, is the ray
by which we proceed from the Infinite and are set forth as individual
particular beings. It defines the boundaries of our personality; it
is, therefore, our true original constituent, the foundation and the
stuff of all the life which we live.

       *       *       *       *       *

That eternal Will, then, is indeed world-creator, as he alone can
be--in the finite reason (the only creation which is needed). They who
suppose him to build a world out of eternal inert matter, which world,
in that case, could be nothing else but inert and lifeless, like
implements fashioned by human hands and not an eternal process of
self-development, or who think they can imagine the going forth of a
material something out of nothing, know neither the world nor him. If
matter only is something, then there is nowhere anything, and nowhere,
in all eternity, can anything be. Only Reason _is_: the infinite
reason in itself, and the finite in and through the infinite. Only in
our minds does he create the world, or, at least, that from which we
unfold it, and that whereby we unfold it--the call to duty, and the
feelings, perceptions and laws of thought agreeing therewith. It is
_his_ light whereby we see light and all that appears to us in that
light. In our minds he is continually fashioning this world, and
interposing in it by interposing in our minds with the call of duty,
whenever another free agent effects a change therein. In our minds he
maintains this world, and, therewith, our finite existence, of which
alone we are capable, in that he causes to arise out of our states new
states continually. After he has proved us sufficiently for our next
destination, according to his higher aim, and when we shall have
cultivated ourselves for the same, he will annihilate this world for
us by what we call death, and introduce us into a new one, the product
of our dutiful action in this. All our life is his life. We are in
his hand, and remain in it, and no one can pluck us out of it. We are
eternal because he is eternal.

Sublime, living Will, whom no name can name, and whom no conception
can grasp!--well may I raise my mind to thee, for thou and I are not
divided. Thy voice sounds in me, and mine sounds back in thee; and all
my thoughts, if only they are true and good, are thought in thee. In
thee, the Incomprehensible, I become comprehensible to myself, and
entirely comprehend the world. All the riddles of my existence are
solved, and the most perfect harmony arises in my mind.

Thou art best apprehended by childlike simplicity, devoted to thee.
To it thou art the heart-searcher who lookest through its innermost
thoughts; the all-present, faithful witness of its sentiments, who
alone knowest that it meaneth well, and who alone understandest it,
when misunderstood by all the world. Thou art to it a Father, whose
purposes toward it are ever kind, and who will order everything for
its best good. It submitteth itself wholly, with body and soul, to thy
beneficent decrees. Do with me as thou wilt, it saith, I know that it
shall be good, so surely as it is thou that dost it. The speculative
understanding, which has only heard of thee but has never seen thee,
would teach us to know thy being in itself, and sets before us an
inconsistent monster which it gives out for thine image, ridiculous to
the merely knowing, hateful and detestable to the wise and good.

I veil my face before thee and lay my hand upon my mouth. How thou art
in thyself, and how thou appearest to thyself, I can never know,
as surely as I can never be thou. After thousand times thousand
spirit-lives lived through, I shall no more be able to comprehend thee
than now, in this hut of earth. That which I comprehend becomes, by my
comprehension of it, finite; and this can never, by an endless process
of magnifying and exalting, be changed into infinite. Thou differest
from the finite, not only in degree but in kind. By that magnifying
process they make thee only a greater and still greater man, but never
God, the Infinite, incapable of measure.

       *       *       *       *       *

I will not attempt that which is denied to me by my finite nature,
and which could avail me nothing. I desire not to know how thou art
in thyself. But thy relations and connections with me, the finite,
and with all finite beings, lie open to mine eye, when I become what
I should be. They encompass me with a more luminous clearness than the
consciousness of my own being. Thou workest in me the knowledge of my
duty, of my destination in the series of rational beings. How? I know
not, and need not to know. Thou knowest and perceivest what I think
and will. How thou canst know it--by what act thou bringest this
consciousness to pass--on that point I comprehend nothing. Yea, I know
very well that the idea of an act, of a special act of consciousness,
applies only to me but not to thee, the Infinite. Thou willest,
because thou willest, that my free obedience shall have consequences
in all eternity. The act of thy will I cannot comprehend; I only know
that it is not like to mine. Thou _doest_, and thy will itself is
deed. But thy method of action is directly contrary to that of which,
alone, I can form a conception. Thou _livest_ and _art_, for thou
knowest, and willest, and workest, omnipresent to finite Reason. But
thou art not such as through all eternity I shall alone be able to
conceive of Being.

In the contemplation of these thy relations to me, the finite, I will
be calm and blessed. I know immediately, only what I must do. This
will I perform undisturbed and joyful, and without philosophizing.
For it is thy voice which commands me, it is the ordination of the
spiritual world-plan concerning me, and the power by which I perform
it is thy power. Whatsoever is commanded me by that voice, whatsoever
is accomplished by this power, is surely and truly good in relation to
that plan. I am calm in all the events of this world, for they occur
in thy world. Nothing can deceive, or surprise, or make me afraid, so
surely as thou livest and I behold thy life. For in thee and through
thee, O infinite One, I behold even my present world in another light!
Nature and natural consequences in the destinies and actions of free
beings, in view of thee, are empty, unmeaning words. There is no
Nature more. Thou, thou alone, art.

It no longer appears to me the aim of the present world that the
above-mentioned state of universal peace among men, and of their
unconditioned empire over the mechanism of Nature, should be brought
about merely that it may exist, but that it should be brought about
by man himself, and, since it is calculated for all, then it should be
brought about by all, as one great, free, moral community. Nothing
new and better for the individual, except through his dutiful will,
nothing new and better for the community, except through their united,
dutiful will, is the fundamental law of the great moral kingdom of
which the present life is a part.

The reason why the good-will of the individual is so often lost for
this world, is that it is only the will of the individual, and that
the will of the majority does not coincide with it; therefore it has
no consequences but those which belong to a future world. Hence, even
the passions and vices of men appear to cooeperate in the promotion of
a better state, _not in and for themselves_--in this sense good can
never come out of evil--but by furnishing a counter-poise to opposite
vices, and finally annihilating those vices and themselves by their
preponderance. Oppression could never have gained the upper hand
unless cowardice, and baseness, and mutual distrust had prepared the
way for it. It will continue to increase until it eradicates cowardice
and the slavish mind; and despair re-awakens the courage that was
lost. Then the two antagonistic vices will have destroyed each other,
and the noblest in all human relations, permanent freedom, will have
come forth from them.

The actions of free beings have, strictly speaking, no other
consequences than those which affect other free beings. For only in
such, and for such, does a world exist; and that, wherein all agree,
is the world. But they have consequences in free agents only by
means of the infinite Will, by which all individuals exist. A call, a
revelation of that Will to us, is always a requirement to perform some
particular duty. Hence, even that which we call evil in the world, the
consequence of the abuse of freedom, exists only through _him_; and it
exists for all, for whom it exists, only so far as it imposes duties
upon them. Did it not fall within the eternal plan of our moral
education and the education of our whole race that precisely these
duties should be laid upon us, they would not have been imposed; and
that whereby they are imposed, and which we call evil, would never
have been. In this view, everything which takes place is good, and
absolutely accordant with the best ends. There is but one world
possible--a thoroughly good one. Everything that occurs in this world
conduces to the reformation and education of man, and, by means of
that, to the furtherance of his earthly destination.

It is this higher world-plan that we call Nature, when we say Nature
leads men through want to industry, through the evils of general
disorder to a righteous polity, through the miseries of their
perpetual wars to final, ever-during peace. Thy will, O Infinite, thy
providence alone, is this higher Nature! This too is best understood
by artless simplicity, which regards this life as a place of
discipline and education, as a school for eternity; which, in all
the fortunes it experiences, the most trivial as well as the most
momentous, beholds thy ordinations designed for good; and which firmly
believes that all things will work together for good to those who love
their duty and know thee.

O truly have I spent the former days of my life in darkness! Truly
have I heaped errors upon errors, and thought myself wise! Now only
out of thy mouth, wondrous Spirit, I fully understand the doctrine
which seemed so strange to me![3] although my understanding had
nothing to oppose to it. For now only I overlook it, in its whole
extent, in its deepest meaning, and in all its consequences.

Man is not a product of the world of the senses; and the end of his
existence can never be attained in that world. His destination lies
beyond time and space and all that pertains to the senses. He must
know what he is and what he is to make himself. As his destination
is sublime, so his thought must be able to lift itself above all the
bounds of the senses. This must be his calling. Where his being is
indigenous, there his thought must be indigenous also; and the most
truly human view, that which alone befits him, that in which his whole
power of thought is represented, is the view by which he lifts himself
above those limits, by which all that is of the senses is changed for
him into pure nothing, a mere reflection in mortal eyes of the alone
enduring, non-sensuous.

Many have been elevated to this view without scientific thought,
simply by their great heart and their pure moral instinct; because
they lived especially with the heart, and in the sentiments. They
denied, by their conduct, the efficacy and reality of the world of
the senses; and in the shaping of their purposes and measures, they
esteemed as nothing that concerning which they had not yet learned by
thinking that it is nothing, even to thought. They who could say, "our
citizenship is in heaven; we have here no permanent place, but seek
one to come;" they whose first principle was, to die to the world and
to be born anew, and, even here, to enter into another life--they,
truly, placed not the slightest value upon all the objects of sense,
and were, to use the language of the School, practical transcendental
Idealists.

Others who, in addition to the sensuous activity which is native to
us all, have, by their thought, confirmed themselves in the sensuous,
become implicated, and, as it were, grown together with it; they can
raise themselves permanently and perfectly above the sensuous only by
continuing and carrying out their thought. Otherwise, with the
purest moral intentions, they will still be drawn down again by their
understanding, and their whole being will remain a continued and
insoluble contradiction. For such, that philosophy, which I now first
entirely understand, is the power by which Psyche first strips off her
chrysalis, unfolds the wings on which she then hovers above herself,
and casts one glance on the slough she has dropped, thenceforth to
live and work in higher spheres.

Blessed be the hour in which I resolved to meditate on myself and my
destination! All my questions are solved. I know what I can know,
and I am without anxiety concerning that which I cannot know. I am
satisfied. There is perfect harmony and clearness in my spirit, and a
new and more glorious existence for that spirit begins.

My whole, complete destination, I do not comprehend. What I am
called to be and shall be, surpasses all my thought. A part of this
destination is yet hidden to me, visible only to him, the Father of
Spirits, to whom it is committed. I know only that it is secured to
me, and that it is eternal and glorious as himself. But that portion
of it which is committed to me, I know. I know it entirely, and it
is the root of all my other knowledge. I know, in every moment of my
life, with certainty, what I am to do in that moment. And this is my
whole destination, so far as it depends upon me. From this, since my
knowledge goes no farther, I must not depart. I must not desire to
know anything beyond it. I must stand fast in this one centre, and
take root in it. All my scheming and striving, and all my faculty,
must be directed to that. My whole existence must inweave itself with
it.

       *       *       *       *       *

I raise myself to this viewpoint, and am a new creature. My whole
relation to the existing world is changed. The threads by which my
mind was heretofore bound to this world, and by whose mysterious
traction it followed all the movements of this world, are forever
severed, and I stand free--myself, my own world, peaceful and unmoved.
No longer with the heart, with the eye alone, I seize the objects
about me, and, through the eye alone, am connected with them. And this
eye itself, made clearer by freedom, looks through error and deformity
to the true and the beautiful; as, on the unmoved surface of the
water, forms mirror themselves pure and with a softened light.

My mind is forever closed against embarrassment and confusion, against
doubt and anxiety; my heart is forever closed against sorrow, and
remorse, and desire. There is but one thing that I care to know: What
I must do; and this I know, infallibly, always. Concerning all besides
I know nothing, and I know that I know nothing; and I root myself fast
in this my ignorance, and forbear to conjecture, to opine, to quarrel
with myself concerning that of which I know nothing. No event in this
world can move me to joy, and none to sorrow. Cold and unmoved I look
down upon them all; for I know that I cannot interpret one of them,
nor discern its connection with that which is my only concern.
Everything which takes place belongs to the plan of the eternal world,
and is good in relation to that plan; so much I know. But what, in
that plan, is pure gain, and what is only meant to remove existing
evil, accordingly what I should most or least rejoice in, I know not.
In his world everything succeeds. This suffices me, and in this faith
I stand firm as a rock. But what in his world is only germ, what
blossom, what the fruit itself, I know not. The only thing which can
interest me is the progress of reason and morality in the kingdom of
rational beings--and that purely for its own sake, for the sake of the
progress. Whether _I_ am the instrument of this progress or another,
whether it is my act which succeeds or is thwarted, or whether it is
the act of another, is altogether indifferent to me. I regard myself
in every case but as one of the instruments of a rational design, and
I honor and love myself, and am interested in myself, only as such;
and I wish the success of my act only so far as it goes to accomplish
that end. Therefore I regard all the events of this world in the same
manner and only with exclusive reference to this one end--whether
they proceed from me or from another, whether they relate to me
immediately, or to others. My breast is closed against all vexation
on account of personal mortifications and affronts, against all
exaltation on account of personal merits; for my entire personality
has long since vanished and been swallowed up in the contemplation of
the end.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bodily sufferings, pain and sickness, should such befal me, I cannot
avoid to feel, for they are events of my nature, and I am and remain
nature here below. But they shall not trouble me. They affect only the
Nature with which I am, in some strange way, connected; not myself,
the being which is elevated above all Nature. The sure end of all
pain, and of all susceptibility of pain, is death; and of all which
the natural man is accustomed to regard as evil, this is the least so
to me. Indeed, I shall not die for myself, but only for others, for
those that remain behind, from whose connection I am severed. For
myself, the hour of death is the hour of birth to a new and more
glorious life.

Since my heart is thus closed to all desire for the earthly, since,
in fact, I have no longer any heart for the perishable, the universe
appears to my eye in a transfigured form. The dead inert mass which
but choked up space has vanished; and, instead thereof, flows, and
waves, and rushes the eternal stream of life, and power, and deed--of
the original life, of thy life, O Infinite! For all life is thy life,
and only the religious eye pierces to the kingdom of veritable beauty.

I am related to thee, and all that I behold around me is related
to me. All is quick, all is soul, and gazes upon me with bright
spirit-eyes, and speaks in spirit-tones to my heart. Most diversely
sundered and severed, I behold, in all the forms without me, myself
again, and beam upon myself from them, as the morning sun, in thousand
dew-drops diversely refracted, glitters back toward itself.

Thy life, as the finite being can apprehend it, is volition which
shapes and represents itself by means of itself alone. This life, made
sensible in various ways to mortal eyes, flows through me and from me
downward, through the immeasurable whole of Nature. Here it streams,
as self-creating, self-fashioning matter, through my veins and
muscles, and deposits its fulness outside of me, in the tree, in
the plant, in the grass. As one connected stream, drop by drop, the
forming life flows in all shapes and on all sides, wherever my eye can
follow it, and looks upon me, from every point of the universe, with
a different aspect, as the same force which fashions my own body in
darkness and in secret. Yonder it waves free, and leaps and dances as
self-forming motion in the brute; and, in every new body, represents
itself as another separate, self-subsisting world--the same power
which, invisible to me, stirs and moves in my own members. All that
lives follows this universal current, this one principle of all
movement, which transmits the harmonious concussion from one end of
the universe to the other. The brute follows it without freedom.
I, from whom, in the visible world, the movement proceeds (without,
therefore, originating in me), follow it freely.

But, pure and holy, and near to thine own essence as aught, to mortal
apprehension, can be, this thy life flows forth as a band which binds
spirits with spirits in one, as air and ether of the one world of
Reason, inconceivable and incomprehensible, and yet lying plainly
revealed to the spiritual eye. Conducted by this light-stream, thought
floats unrestrained and the same from soul to soul, and returns purer
and transfigured from the kindred breast. Through this mystery the
individual finds, and understands, and loves himself, only in another;
and every spirit detaches itself only from other spirits; and there
is no man, but only a Humanity; no isolated thinking, and loving, and
hating, but only a thinking, and loving, and hating in and through
one another. Through this mystery the affinity of spirits, in the
invisible world, streams forth into their corporeal nature, and
represents itself in two sexes, which, though every spiritual band
could be severed, are still constrained, as natural beings, to love
each other. It flows forth into the affection of parents and children,
of brothers and sisters, as if the souls were sprung from one blood as
well as the bodies--as if the minds were branches and blossoms of the
same stem; and from thence it embraces, in narrower or wider circles,
the whole sentient world. Even the hatred of spirits is grounded in
thirst for love; and no enmity springs up, except from friendship
denied.

Mine eye discerns this eternal life and motion, in all the veins of
sensuous and spiritual Nature, through what seems to others a dead
mass. And it sees this life forever ascend, and grow, and transfigure
itself into a more spiritual expression of its own nature. The
universe is no longer, to me, that circle which returns into itself,
that game which repeats itself without ceasing, that monster which
devours itself in order to reproduce itself as it was before. It is
spiritualized to my contemplation, and bears the peculiar impress of
the spirit--continual progress toward perfection, in a straight line
which stretches into infinity.

The sun rises and sets, the stars vanish and return again, and all the
spheres hold their cycle-dance. But they never return precisely such
as they disappeared; and in the shining fountains of life there is
also life and progress. Every hour which they bring, every morning and
every evening, sinks down with new blessings on the world. New life
and new love drop from the spheres, as dew-drops from the cloud, and
embrace Nature, as the cool night embraces the earth.

All death in Nature is birth; and precisely in dying the sublimation
of life appears most conspicuous. There is no death-bringing principle
in Nature, for Nature is only life, throughout. Not death kills, but
the more living life, which, hidden behind the old, begins and unfolds
itself. Death and birth are only the struggle of life with itself to
manifest itself in ever more transfigured form, more like itself.

And _my_ death--can that be anything different from this?--I, who am
not a mere representation and copy of life, but who bear within myself
the original, the alone true and essential life! It is not a possible
thought that Nature should annihilate a life which did not spring from
her--Nature, which exists only for my sake, not I for hers.

But even my natural life, even this mere representation of an inward
invisible life to mortal eyes, Nature cannot annihilate; otherwise she
must be able to annihilate herself--she who exists only for me and for
my sake, and who ceases to exist, if I am not. Even because she puts
me to death she must quicken me anew. It can be only my higher life,
unfolding itself in her, before which my present life disappears; and
that which mortals call death is the visible appearing of a second
vivification. Did no rational being, who has once beheld its light,
perish from the earth, there would be no reason to expect a new heaven
and a new earth. The only possible aim of Nature, that of representing
and maintaining Reason, would have been already fulfilled here below,
and her circle would be complete. But the act by which she puts to
death a free, self-subsisting being, is her solemn--to all Reason
apparent--transcending of that act, and of the entire sphere which she
thereby closes. The apparition of death is the conductor by which my
spiritual eye passes over to the new life of myself, and of a Nature
for me.

Every one of my kind who passes from earthly connections, and who
cannot, to my spirit, seem annihilated, because he is one of my kind,
draws my thought over with him. He still is, and to him belongs a
place.

While we, here below, sorrow for him with such sorrow as would be
felt, if possible, in the dull kingdom of unconsciousness, when a
human being withdraws himself from thence to the light of earth's
sun--while we so mourn, on yonder side there is joy because a man is
born into their world; as we citizens of earth receive with joy our
own. When I, some time, shall follow them, there will be for me only
joy; for sorrow remains behind, in the sphere which I quit.

It vanishes and sinks before my gaze--the world which I so lately
admired. With all the fulness of life, of order, of increase, which
I behold in it, it is but the curtain by which an infinitely more
perfect world is concealed from me. It is but the germ out of which
that infinitely more perfect shall unfold itself. My faith enters
behind this curtain, and warms and quickens this germ. It sees nothing
definite, but expects more than it can grasp here below, than it will
ever be able to grasp in time.

So I live and so I am; and so I am unchangeable, firm and complete
for all eternity. For this being is not one which I have received from
without; it is my own only true being and essence.




ADDRESSES TO THE GERMAN NATION

(1807 to 1808)

TRANSLATED BY LOUIS H. GRAY, PH.D.

ADDRESS EIGHT

The Definition of a Nation in the Higher Sense of the Word, and of
Patriotism


The last four addresses have answered the question, What is the German
as contrasted with other nations of Teutonic origin? The argument will
be complete if we further add the examination of the question, What is
a nation? The latter question is identical with another, and, at the
same time, the other question, which has often been propounded and
has been answered in very different ways, helps in the solution. This
question is, What is patriotism, or, as it would be more correctly
expressed, What is the love of the individual for his nation?

If we have thus far proceeded aright in the course of our
investigation, it must become obvious therefrom that only the
German--the primitive man, not he who has become petrified by
arbitrary laws and institutions--really has a nation and is entitled
to count on one, and that only he is capable of real and rational love
for his nation.

We smooth our way to a solution of our proposed task by means of the
following remark, which appears, at first sight, to lie outside the
context of our previous discussion.

As we have already observed in our third address, religion is able
absolutely to transport us above all time and above the whole of
present and perceptual life without doing the least injury to the
justice, morality, and holiness of the life influenced by this belief.
Even with the certain conviction that all our activity on this earth
will not leave the least trace behind it and will not produce the
slightest results, and even with the belief that the divine may
actually be perverse and may be used as a tool of evil and of still
deeper moral corruption, it is, nevertheless, possible to continue
in this activity simply in order to maintain the divine life that
has come forth within us and that stands in relation to a higher
governance of things in a future world where nothing perishes that
has been done in God. Thus, for instance, the apostles and the first
Christians generally, even while living, were wholly transported
above the earth because of their belief in heaven; and affairs
terrestrial--state, fatherland, and nation--were so entirely renounced
that they no longer deemed such trivial concerns worthy even of their
consideration. However possible this may be, however easy, moreover,
for faith, and however joyfully we may resign ourselves to the
conviction, since it is unalterably the will of God, that we have
no more an earthly country but are exiles and slaves here
below--nevertheless, this is not the natural condition and the rule
governing the course of the world, but is a rare exception. Moreover,
it is a very perverse use of religion (and, among others, Christianity
has frequently been guilty of it) when, as a question of principle and
without regard to the existent circumstances, it proceeds to commend
this withdrawal from the affairs of the state and of the nation as a
truly religious sentiment. Under such conditions, if they are true and
real and not perhaps induced merely by religious fanaticism, temporal
life loses all its independence and becomes simply a fore-court of
the true life and a hard trial to be borne only by obedience and
submission to the will of God; in this view it becomes true that,
as has been claimed by many, immortal souls have been plunged into
earthly bodies, as into prisons, simply as a punishment. In the
regular order of things, however, earthly life should itself truly be
life in which we may rejoice and which we may thankfully enjoy, even
though in expectation of a higher life; and although it is true that
religion is also the comfort of the slave illegally oppressed, yet,
above all things, the essence of religion is to oppose slavery and to
prevent, so far as possible, its deterioration to a mere consolation
of the captive. It is doubtless to the interest of the tyrant to
preach religious resignation and to refer to heaven those to whom he
will not grant a tiny place on earth; we must, however, be less hasty
to adopt the view of religion recommended by the tyrant, for, if
we can, we must forestall the making of earth into hell in order to
arouse a still greater longing for heaven.

The natural impulse of man, to be surrendered only in case of real
necessity, is to find heaven already on this earth and to amalgamate
into his earthly work day by day that which lasts forever; to plant
and to cultivate the imperishable in the temporal itself--not merely
in an unconceivable way, connected with the eternal solely by the gulf
which mortal eyes may not pass, but in a manner which is visible to
the mortal eye itself.

That I may begin with this generally intelligible example--what
noble-minded man does not wish and aspire to repeat his own life in
better wise in his children and, again, in their children, and still
to continue to live upon this earth, ennobled and perfected in their
lives, long after he is dead; to wrest from mortality the spirit,
the mind, and the character with which in his day he perchance put
perversity and corruption to flight, established uprightness, aroused
sluggishness, and uplifted dejection, and to deposit these, as his
best legacy to posterity, in the spirits of his survivors, in order
that, in their turn, they may again bequeath them equally adorned and
augmented? What noble-minded man does not wish, by act or thought,
to sow a seed for the infinite and eternal perfecting of his race;
to cast into Time something new and hitherto non-existent, which
may abide there and become the unfailing source of new creations;
to repay, for his place on this earth and for the short span of
life vouchsafed him, something that shall last forever even here on
earth--to the end that he as an individual, even though unnamed by
history (since thirst for fame is contemptible vanity), may leave
behind in his own consciousness and in his own belief manifest tokens
that he himself existed? What noble-minded man does not wish this,
I asked; yet the world is to be considered as organized only in
accordance with the requirements of those who thus view themselves as
the norm of how all men should be. It is for their sakes alone that
the world exists! They are indeed its kernel; and those who think
otherwise must be regarded as merely a part of the transitory world so
long as they reason on so low a plane, for they exist merely for the
sake of the noble-minded and must accommodate themselves to the latter
until they have risen to their height.

What, now, could it be that might give solid foundation to this
challenge and to this belief of the noble in the eternity and the
imperishability of his work? Obviously, only an order of things which
he could recognize as eternal in itself and as capable of receiving
eternal elements within itself. Such an order is, however, the
special, spiritual nature of human surroundings, which can, it is
true, be comprised in no concept, but which is, nevertheless, truly
present--the surroundings from which he has himself come forth with
all his thought and activity and with his faith in their eternity--the
nation from which he is descended, amid which he was educated and grew
up to what he now is. For however undoubtedly true it may be that his
work, if he rightly lays claim to its eternity, is in no wise the mere
result of the spiritual, natural law of his nation, simply merging
into this result--no, it must be thought of as an element greater
than that--a something which flows immediately from the primitive
and divine life. Nevertheless, it is equally true that this something
more, immediately after its formation as a visible phenomenon, has
subordinated itself to that special spiritual law of nature, has
acquired a perceptual expression only in accordance with that law.
Under this same natural law, so long as this nation endures, all
further revelations of the divine will also appear and be formed
within it. Yet, through the fact that the man existed and so labored,
this law itself is further determined, and his activity has become
a permanent component of it; everything subsequent will likewise be
compelled to adapt itself accordingly and to conform to the law in
question. And thus he is made certain that the culture which he has
achieved remains with his nation for all time and becomes a permanent
basis of determination for all its further development.

In the higher conception of the word considered in general from the
viewpoint of an insight into a spiritual world, a nation is this: The
totality of human beings living together in society and constantly
perpetuating themselves both bodily and spiritually; and this totality
stands altogether under a certain specific law through which the
divine develops itself. The universality of this specific law is what
binds this multitude into a natural totality, inter-penetrated by
itself, in the eternal world, and, for that very reason, in the
temporal world as well. The law itself, in its essence, can be
generally comprehended as we have applied it to the case of the
Germans as a primal nation; through consideration of the phenomena
of such a nation it may be even more exactly grasped in many of its
further determinations; yet it can never be entirely understood by any
one who, unknown to himself, personally remains continually under its
influence; it may in general, however, be clearly perceived that
such a law exists. This law is a surplus of the figurative
which amalgamates directly with the surplus of the unfigurative
primitiveness in the phenomenon, and thus, precisely in the
phenomenon, both are then no longer separable. That law absolutely
determines and completes what has been called the national character
of a people--the law, namely, of the development of the primitive and
of the divine. From the latter it is clear that men who do not in the
least believe in a primitive being and in a further development of
it, but simply in an eternal circle of visible life, and who, through
their belief, become what they believe, are no nation whatsoever in
the higher sense; and since they do not, strictly speaking, actually
exist, they are equally powerless to possess a national character.

The belief of the noble-minded man in the eternal continuance of his
activity, even upon this earth, is based, accordingly, on the hope
for the eternal continuance of the nation from which he has himself
developed, and of its individuality in accordance with that hidden
law, without intermixture and corruption by any alien element and
by what does not appertain to the totality of this legislation.
This individuality is the permanent element to which he intrusts the
eternity of himself and of his continued action--the eternal order
of things in which he lays his perpetuity. He must desire its
continuance, for it is alone the releasing agency whereby the brief
span of his life here is extended to a continuous life upon the earth.
His belief and his endeavor to plant what shall not pass away, and
the concept in which he comprehends his own life as an eternal life,
constitute the bond which most intimately associates with himself,
first, his own nation and, through that, the entire human race--which
brings the needs of them all, to the end of time, into his broadened
heart. This is his love for his nation, and through it, first, he
respects, trusts, rejoices in it, and takes pride in his descent from
it; the Divine has appeared in it, and has deigned to make it his
covering and his means of direct communication with the world; the
Divine, therefore, will continue to break forth from it. Therefore
man is, secondly, active, efficacious, and self-sacrificing for his
nation. Life, simply as life, as a continuance of changing existence,
has certainly never possessed value for him apart from this--he has
desired it merely as the source of the permanent. This permanence,
however, alone promises him the independent continuance of the
existence of his nation; and to save this he must even be willing to
die that it may live, and that in it he may live the only life that
has ever been possible to him.

Thus it is. Love, to be really love, and not merely a transitory
desire, never clings to the perishable, but is awakened and kindled
by, and based upon, the eternal only. Man is not even able to love
himself unless he consider himself as eternal; moreover, he cannot
even esteem and approve himself. Still less can he love anything
outside himself, except, that is, that he receive it within the
eternity of his belief and of his soul, and connect it with this
eternity. He who does not, first of all, regard himself as eternal,
has no love whatever, nor can he, moreover, love a fatherland, since
nothing of the sort exists for him. It is true that he who, perchance,
regards his invisible life as eternal, but who does not, therefore,
esteem his visible life as eternal in the same sense, may perhaps
have a heaven, and in this his fatherland, but here on earth he has no
fatherland; for this also is seen only under the metaphor of eternity
and, indeed, of visible eternity, rendered perceptible to the senses;
moreover, he cannot, therefore, love his fatherland. If such a man has
none, he is to be pitied; but he to whom one has been given, and
in whose soul heaven and earth, the invisible and the visible,
interpenetrate, and thus for the first time create a true and worthy
heaven, fights to the last drop of his blood again to transmit the
precious possession undiminished to posterity.

Thus has it been from time immemorial, though it has not been
expressed from time immemorial with this generality and with this
clearness. What inspired the noble spirits among the Romans, whose
sentiments and mode of thought still live and breathe among us in
their monuments, to struggle and to sacrifice, to endure and be
patient, for their fatherland? They themselves state it frequently and
clearly. It was their firm belief in the eternal continuance of their
Rome, and their confident expectation of themselves continuing to live
in this eternity. In so far as this conviction had foundation, and
in so far as they themselves would have grasped it if they had been
perfectly clear within themselves, it never deceived them.

Unto this day what was really eternal in their eternal Rome lives on
and they with it in our midst, and it will continue to live, in its
results, until the end of time.

In this sense--as the vehicle and the pledge of earthly eternity,
and the interpretation of the eternal here--nation and fatherland
far transcend the State in the ordinary sense of the term social
organization, as this is conceived in its simple, clear connotation,
and as it is founded and maintained in accordance with this
conception--a conception which demands sure justice and internal
peace, and requires that every one through his efforts obtain his
support and the prolongation of his sentient existence so long as God
will grant it to him. All this is only a means, a condition, and a
scaffolding of what patriotism really means--the development of the
eternal and the divine in the world, which is ever to become purer,
more perfect in infinite progression. For that very reason this
patriotism must, first of all, rule the State itself as absolutely the
highest, ultimate, and independent authority, by limiting it in the
choice of means for its immediate purpose--inner peace. To reach this
goal, the natural freedom of the individual must be limited in many
ways, it is true; and if this were absolutely the only consideration
and intention regarding them, it would be well to restrict this
liberty as closely as possible, in order to bring all their movements
under one uniform rule, and to keep them under constant supervision.
Granted that such severity be necessary, it could at least do no harm
for this single end; only the higher concept of the human race and of
the nations widens this limited view. Even in the manifestations
of external life freedom is the soil in which the higher culture
germinates; a legislation which keeps this later aim in view will give
the broadest possible scope to freedom, even at the risk that a less
degree of uniform quiet and calm may result, and that government may
become a little more difficult and laborious.

To elucidate this by an example--it has been known to happen that
nations have been told to their faces that they did not require as
much freedom as many other nations do. This statement might, indeed,
be dictated by forbearance and a desire to palliate, the true meaning
being that they were utterly unable to endure so great freedom and
that only a high degree of rigidity could prevent them from destroying
one another. If, however, the words are taken as they are spoken,
they are true under the presupposition that such a nation is entirely
incapable of the natural life and of the impulse toward it. Such a
nation--in case such a one, in which some few of the nobler sort did
not make an exception to the general rule, were possible--would indeed
require no freedom whatever, since this is only for the higher ends
which transcend the State; it requires simply taming and training in
order that the individuals may live peaceably side by side, and that
the whole may be made an efficient means for arbitrary ends which
lie outside its proper sphere. We need not decide whether this may
truthfully be said of any nation whatever; but this much is clear,
that a primitive nation requires freedom, that this freedom is the
pledge of its persistence as a primitive people, and that, as it
continues, it bears, without any danger, an ever ascending degree of
freedom. And this is the first example of the necessity of patriotism
governing the state itself.

It must, then, be patriotism which governs the state in that it sets
for it itself a higher end than the ordinary one of the maintenance of
the internal peace, of the property, of the personal freedom, of the
life, and of the well-being of all. Solely for this higher end, and
with no other intention, the state assembles an armed force. When the
problem of the application of this armed force arises, when it is
a question of hazarding all the aims of the state in the
abstract-property, personal freedom, life, welfare, and the
continuance of the state itself--when, answerable to God alone, they
are called upon to decide without a clear and rational conception of
the sure attainment of the end in view, which in matters of this sort
it is never possible to gain--then only the true primitive life holds
the rudder of the state, and here for the first time enters the true
sovereign right of the government, like God, to imperil the lower
life for the sake of the higher. In the maintenance of the traditional
organization, of the laws, and of civic welfare, there is absolutely
no genuine life and no primitive decision. Circumstances and
situations, legislators who have perhaps long been dead, have created
those things; succeeding ages go trustingly forward in the road they
have entered, and thus, as a matter of fact, they do not live a public
life of their own, but merely repeat a former. In such periods there
is no need of a real government. If, however, this uniform progress
is imperiled, and the problem arises of deciding with reference to
new cases, then a life is required which has its roots in itself. What
spirit is it, now, which in such cases may take its place at the helm,
which is able to decide with individual certainty and without uneasy
wavering, and which has an indubitable right authoritatively to lay
demands upon every one who may be concerned, whether he will or not,
and to compel the recalcitrant to imperil everything, even to his
life? Not the spirit of calm civilian love for the constitution and
the laws, but the burning flame of the higher patriotism which regards
the nation as the veil of the eternal, for which the noble joyfully
sacrifices himself, and for which the ignoble, who exists only for
the sake of the noble, should also sacrifice himself! It is not that
civilian love for the constitution, for this is absolutely incapable
of such action if it is founded on reason only.

Whatever may be the outcome, since governance is not unrewarded, some
one will always be found to take charge of it. Let the new ruler even
favor slavery (and in what does slavery consist except in contempt
and suppression of the individuality of a primitive people?), since
advantage may be derived from the life of slaves, from their number,
and even from their welfare, then slavery will be endurable under him
provided he is a calculator to any extent. They will at least always
find life and support. Why, then, should they thus struggle? According
to both of them, it is peace which transcends everything in their
opinion, but this is disturbed only by the continuance of the
struggle. The slave, therefore, puts forth every effort to end it
quickly; he will yield and submit--and why should he not? He never had
a higher purpose, and he has never expected anything more from life
than the continuance of his existence under endurable conditions. The
promise of a life lasting, even here, beyond the duration of earthly
life--this alone is what can inspire him to death for the fatherland.

Thus it has always been. Wheresoever real government has existed,
where serious struggles have been fought out, where victory has been
won against mighty resistance, it has been the promise of eternal
life that governed and fought and conquered. The German Protestants,
formerly mentioned in these addresses, fought with faith in this
promise. Did they not perhaps know that nations might also be governed
with the old faith and be held in legal order, and that a good
livelihood might be found under this faith also? Why, then, did
their princes thus determine upon armed resistance, and why did their
peoples lend themselves to it with enthusiasm? It was heaven and
eternal happiness for which they gladly shed their blood. Yet what
earthly power could then have penetrated into the inmost sanctuary of
their souls and have been able to eradicate the faith which had now
once sprung up within them, and on which alone they based their hope
of salvation? It was not, therefore, their own happiness for which
they struggled--of that they were already assured; it was the
happiness of their children, of their grandchildren still unborn,
and of all posterity. These, too, should be brought up in the same
doctrine which alone seemed to them to bring salvation; they, too,
should share in the salvation which had dawned for them. It was this
hope alone that was threatened by the foe; for that hope, for an order
of things which should bloom above their graves long after they were
dead, they shed their blood thus joyfully. If we grant that they were
not entirely clear to themselves, that in their designation of the
noblest they verbally mistook what was within them, and with their
mouths did injustice to their souls; if we willingly acknowledge that
their confession of faith was not the sole and exclusive means of
attaining heaven beyond the grave--yet, this, at least, is eternally
true that more heaven on this side of the grave, a more courageous and
more joyous lifting of the gaze above the earth, and a freer impulse
of spirit have come through their sacrifice into all the life of
succeeding ages; and the descendants of their opponents, as well as
we ourselves, their own descendants, enjoy the fruits of their labors
unto this day.

In this belief our oldest common ancestors, the parent nation of
civilization, the Teutons whom the Romans called Germans, boldly
opposed the advancing world-dominion of the Romans. Did they not then
see before their eyes the higher bloom of the Roman provinces near
them, the more refined enjoyments in them, and, in addition, laws,
judgment-seats, rods, and axes in superabundance? Were not the Romans
willing enough to allow them to share in all these blessings? Did they
not experience, in the case of several of their own princes who had
allowed themselves to be persuaded that war against such benefactors
of humanity was rebellion, proofs of the lauded Roman clemency,
since Rome adorned these submissive lords with kingly titles, with
generalships in their armies, and with Roman fillets, and gave
them, if, perchance, they had been driven out by their compatriots,
maintenance and a place of refuge in their colonies? Had they no
feeling for the advantages of Roman culture, as, for example, for the
better organization of their armies, in which even an Arminius did
not disdain to learn the trade of war? None of all these ignorances
or negligences is to be charged against them. Their descendents even
adopted the culture of the Romans as soon as they could do it without
loss of their freedom and in so far as it was possible without
impairment of their individuality. Why did they, then, thus struggle
for several generations in sanguinary war, ever renewed with the same
virulence? A Roman author makes their leaders ask "whether anything
was then left for them except either to assert their freedom or to die
before they became slaves?" Freedom meant to them that they remained
Germans, that they continued to decide their affairs independently,
in conformity with their national genius, and, likewise in conformity
with this spirit, that they continued to go forward in their
development and transmitted this independence to their posterity;
slavery meant to them all the blessings which the Romans offered them,
because in that case they must be something else than Germans--they
might be half Romans. It is self-evident, they presuppose, that every
one would rather die than become thus, and that a true German can wish
to live only that he may be and remain forever a German and may train
all that belong to him to be Germans also.

They have not all died; they have not seen slavery; they have
bequeathed liberty to their children. All the modern world owes it to
their stubborn resistance that it exists as it does. If the Romans had
succeeded in subjugating them also and, as the Roman everywhere did,
in eradicating them as a nation, then the entire future development of
mankind would have taken a direction that we cannot imagine would
have been more pleasant. We, the immediate heirs of their land, their
language, and their thought, owe it to them that we be still Germans,
that the stream of primitive and independent life still bear us on;
to them we owe everything that we have since become as a nation; and,
unless we have now perhaps come to an end, and unless the last drop
of blood inherited from them is dried up in our veins, we shall owe
to them all that we shall be in the future. Even the other Teutonic
races, among whom are our brethren, and who have now become foreigners
to us, owe to them their existence; when they conquered eternal Rome,
no one of all these nations yet existed; at that time the possibility
of their future origin was simultaneously won in the struggle.

These, and all others in universal history who have been of their type
of thought, have conquered because the eternal inspired them, and thus
this inspiration ever and of necessity prevails over him who is not
inspired. It is not the might of arms nor the fitness of weapons
that wins victories, but the power of the soul. He who sets himself
a limited goal for his sacrifices, and who can dare no further than a
certain point, surrenders resistance as soon as the danger reaches a
crisis where he cannot yield or dodge. He who has set himself no limit
whatsoever, but who hazards everything, even life--the highest
boon that can be lost on earth--never ceases to resist, and, if his
opponent has a more limited goal, he indubitably conquers. A people
that is capable, though it be only in its highest representatives and
leaders, of keeping firmly before its vision independence, the face
from the spirit world, and of being inspired with love for it, as
were our remotest forefathers, surely conquers a people that, like the
Roman armies, is used merely as a tool for foreign dominion and for
the subjugation of independent nations; for the former have everything
to lose, the latter have merely something to gain. But even a whim can
prevail over the mental attitude which regards war as a game of hazard
for temporal gain or loss, and which, even before the game starts, has
fixed the limit of the stake. Think, for example, of a Mohammed--not
the real Mohammed of history, concerning whom I confess that I have
no judgment, but the Mohammed of a distinguished French poet--who
had once become firmly convinced that he was one of the extraordinary
natures who are called to guide the obscure and common folk of earth,
and to whom, in consequence of this first presupposition, all his
whims, however meagre and limited they may really be, must necessarily
appear to be great, exalted and inspiring ideas because they are his
own, while everything that opposes them must seem obscure, common
folk, enemies of their own weal, evil-minded, and hateful. Such a man,
in order to justify this self-conceit to himself as a divine vocation,
and entirely absorbed in this thought, must stake everything upon it,
nor can he rest until he has trampled under foot all that will not
think as highly of him as he does himself, or until his own belief in
his divine mission is reflected from the whole contemporary world. I
shall not say what would be his fortunes in case a spiritual vision
that is true and clear within itself should actually come against
him on the field of battle, but he certainly wins from those limited
gamblers, for he hazards everything against those who do not so
hazard; no spirit inspires them, but he is altogether inspired by a
fanatical spirit--that of his mighty and powerful self-conceit.

It follows from all this that the state, as mere governance of human
life proceeding in its normal peaceable course, is not a primal thing
and one existing for itself, but that it is simply the means to the
higher end of the eternally uniform development of the purely human in
this nation; that it is only the vision and the love of this eternal
development which is continually to guide the higher outlook upon the
administration of the state, even in periods of calm, and which alone
can save the independence of the nation when this is endangered. In
the case of the Germans, among whom, as being a primitive people, this
love of country was possible and, as we firmly believe, has actually
existed hitherto, such patriotism could, up to our own time, count
with a high degree of certainty upon the safety of its most important
interests. As was the case only among the Greeks in antiquity, among
the Germans the State and the nation were actually severed from
each other, and each was represented separately; the former in the
individual German kingdoms and principalities; the latter visibly in
the Federation of the Empire, and invisibly--valid not in consequence
of written law but as a sequence of a law living in the hearts of all,
and in its results striking the eyes at every turn--in a multitude
of customs and institutions. As far as the German language extended,
every one who saw the light within its domain could regard himself
as a citizen in a two-fold sense, partly of his natal city, to whose
immediate protection he was recommended; and partly of the entire
common fatherland of the German nation. Throughout the whole extent of
this fatherland each man might seek for himself that culture which was
most akin to his spirit, or he might search for the sphere of activity
most suited for it; and talent did not grow into its place, like a
tree, but he was permitted to search for that place. He who became
estranged from his immediate surroundings through the direction taken
by his culture, easily found welcome reception elsewhere; he found new
friends instead of those whom he had lost; he found time and quiet in
which to explain himself more accurately and perhaps to win over and
to reconcile the wrathful themselves, and thus to unite the whole. No
German-born prince could ever bring himself to mark off the fatherland
of his subjects within the mountains or rivers where he ruled, and to
regard them as bound to the soil. A truth which could not be uttered
in one place might be proclaimed in another, where, perhaps, on the
contrary, those truths were forbidden which were allowable in the
former district; and thus, despite many instances of partiality and
narrow-mindedness in the individual states, in Germany, taken as
a whole, was found the utmost freedom of investigation and of
communication that ever a nation possessed. Higher culture was, and
remained on every hand, the result of the reciprocity of the citizens
of all German states, and this higher culture then gradually descended
in this form to the greater masses, who, consequently, have always,
on the whole, continued to educate themselves. As has been said, no
German with a German heart, placed at the head of a government, has
ever diminished this essential pledge of the continuance of a German
nation; and even though, in view of other primitive decisions, what
the higher German patriotism must desire was not invariably to
be effected, yet at least there was no direct opposition to its
interests; no effort was made to undermine that love, to eradicate it,
and to replace it by an antagonistic love.

But if, now, the original guidance both of that higher culture and
of the national power--which should be used only in behalf of that
culture and to further its continuance--the employment of German
wealth and German blood is to pass from the supremacy of the German
spirit to that of another, what would then necessarily result?

Here is the place where there is special need of applying the policy
which we outlined in our first address, namely, to be unwilling to
be deceived in regard to our own interest, and to have the courage
willingly to see the truth and acknowledge it. Moreover, it is still
permissible, so far as I know, to talk with one another in German
about our fatherland, or at least to sigh in German, and, I
believe, we should not do well if we ourselves precipitated such an
interdiction and wished to lay the fetters of individual timidity on
the courage which, no doubt, will already have considered the risk of
the venture.

Well then, picture to yourself the presupposed new regime to be as
kind and as benevolent as you will; make it good as God; will you also
be able to invest it with divine understanding? Even though it may, in
all earnestness, desire the highest happiness and welfare of all,
will the best welfare that it can comprehend also be the welfare of
Germany? I accordingly hope that I shall be perfectly understood in
reference to the main point that I have presented to you today; I hope
that in the course of my remarks many have thought and felt that I
merely express clearly in words what has always lain within their
hearts; I hope the same will be the case with the other Germans
who will some day read this address. Several Germans have said
approximately the same things before me, and that sentiment has
lain obscurely at the basis of the opposition continually manifested
against a merely mechanical establishment and estimate of the State.
And now I challenge all who are acquainted with modern foreign
literature to prove to me what later sage, poet, or lawgiver among
them has ever given birth to a prophetic thought similar to this,
which regarded the human race as being in continual progress, and
which correlated all its temporal activity only with this progress;
whether any one of them, even in the period when they soared most
boldly to political creation, demanded from the state more than
equality, internal peace, external national fame, and, when their
demands reached the extreme limit, domestic happiness? If this is
their highest conception, as must be deduced from all that has been
said, they can attribute to us likewise no higher needs and no
higher demands upon life, and--always presupposing those beneficent
sentiments toward us and an absence of all selfishness and of all
desire to be more than we--they believe that they have made admirable
provision for us when they give us all that they alone recognize as
desirable. On the other hand, that for which alone the nobler soul
among us can live is then eradicated from public life, and the people,
who have always shown themselves receptive toward the impulses of
higher things, and the majority of whom, it might be hoped, could even
be raised to that nobility, are--in so far as it is treated as they
wish it to be treated--abased beneath its rank, dishonored, and
blotted out, since it coalesces with the populace of the baser sort.

If, now, those higher claims upon life, together with the sense of
their divine right, still remain living and potent in any one, he,
with deep indignation, feels himself crushed back into those first
ages of Christianity in which it was said: "Resist not evil: but
whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other
also. And if any man will take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak
also." And rightly so, for as long as he still sees a cloak upon thee,
he seeks an opportunity to quarrel with thee in order to take this
also from thee; not until thou art utterly naked dost thou escape his
attention and art unmolested by him. Even his higher feelings, which
do him honor, make earth a hell and an abomination to him; he wishes
that he had not been born; he wishes that his eyes may close to the
light of day, the sooner the better; unceasing sorrow lays hold upon
his days until the grave claims him; he can wish for those dear to him
no better gift than a quiet and contented spirit, that with less pain
they may live on in expectation of an eternal life beyond the grave.

These addresses lay upon you the task of preventing, by the sole means
which still remains after the others have been tried in vain, the
destruction of every nobler impulse that may in the future possibly
arise among us and this debasement of our entire nation. They present
to you a true and omnipotent patriotism, which, in the conception
of our nation as of one that is eternal, and as citizens of our own
eternity, is to be deeply and ineradicably founded in the minds of
all, by means of education. What this education may be, and in what
way it may be achieved, we shall see in the following addresses.

[Illustration: VOLUNTEERS OF 1813 BEFORE KING FRIEDRICH WILHELM III IN
BRESLAU _From the Painting by F.W. Scholtz_]

       *       *       *       *       *




ADDRESS FOURTEEN

Conclusion of the Whole


The addresses which I here conclude have, indeed, been directed
primarily to you,[4] but they had in view the entire German nation;
and, in intention, they have gathered about them, in the space wherein
you visibly breathe, all that would be capable of understanding
them as far as the German tongue extends. Should I have succeeded in
casting into any bosom throbbing before my eyes some sparks which may
glimmer on and take life, it is not in my thought that they remain
solitary and alone, but, traversing the whole ground in common, I
would gather about them similar sentiments and purposes and weld them
so unitedly that a continuous and coherent flame of patriotic thought
might spread and be enkindled from this centre over the soil of the
fatherland and to its furthest bounds. My addresses have not been
directed to this generation for the pastime of idle ears and eyes, but
I desire at last to know--even as every one who is like-minded should
know--whether there is anything outside us that is akin to our type
of thought. Every German who still believes that he is a member of a
nation, who thinks of it in grand and noble fashion, who hopes in it,
and who dares, suffers, and endures for it, should at last be torn
from the uncertainty of his belief; he should clearly discern whether
he is right or whether he is only a fool and a fanatic; henceforth he
should either continue his path with sure and joyous consciousness,
or, with healthy resolution, should renounce a fatherland here below
and comfort himself solely with that which is in heaven. To you,
therefore, not as such-and-such persons in our daily and circumscribed
life, but as representatives of the nation, and, through your ears, to
the nation as a whole, these addresses appeal.

Centuries have passed since you have been convened as you are
today--in such numbers, in so great, so insistent, so mutual an
interest, so absolutely as a nation and as Germans. Never again will
you be so bidden. If you do not listen now and examine yourselves, if
you again let these addresses pass you by as an empty tickling of the
ears or as a strange prodigy, no human being will longer take account
of you. Hear at last for once; for once at last reflect! Only do not
go this time from the spot without having made a firm resolve; let
every one who hears this voice make this resolution within himself
and for himself, even as though he were alone and must do everything
alone. If very many individuals think thus, there will soon be a great
whole uniting into a single, close-knit power. If, on the contrary,
each one, excluding himself, relies on the rest and relinquishes the
affair to others, then there are no others at all, for, even though
combined, all remain just as they were before. Make it on the
spot--this resolution! Do not say, "Yet a little more sleep, a
little more slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep," until,
perchance, improvement shall come of itself. It will never come of
itself. He who has once missed the opportunity of yesterday, when
clear perception would have been easier, will not be able to make
up his mind today, and will certainly be even less able to do so
tomorrow. Every delay only makes us still more inert and but lulls us
more and more into gentle acquiescence to our wretched plight. Neither
could the external stimulations to reflection ever be stronger and
more insistent, for surely he whom these present conditions do not
arouse has lost all feeling. You have been called together to make
a last, determined resolution and decision--not by any means to give
commands and mandates to others, or to depute others to do the work
for you. No, my purpose is to urge you to do the work yourself. In
this connection that idle passing of resolutions, the will to will,
some time or other, are not sufficient, nor is it enough to remain
sluggishly satisfied until self-improvement sets in of its own
accord. On the contrary, from you is demanded a determination which
is identical with action and with life itself, and which will continue
and control, unwavering and unchilled, until it gains its goal.

Or is perchance the root, from which alone can grow a tenacity of
purpose which takes hold upon life, utterly eradicated and vanished
within you? Or is your whole being actually rarefied into a hollow
shade, devoid of sap and blood and of individual power of movement, or
dissolved to a dream in which, indeed, a motley array of faces arise
and busily cross one another, but the body lies stiff and dead? Long
since it has been openly proclaimed to our generation and repeated
under every guise, that this is very nearly its condition. Its
spokesmen have believed that this was declared merely in insult, and
have regarded themselves as challenged to return the insults, thinking
that thus the affair would resume its natural course. As for the rest,
there was not the slightest trace of change or of improvement. If
you have heard this, and if it was capable of rousing your
indignation--well then, through your very actions, give the lie to
those who thus think and speak of you. Once show yourselves to be
different before the eyes of all the world, and before the eyes of all
the world they will be convicted of their falsehood. It may be that
they have spoken thus harshly of you with the precise intention of
forcing this refutation from you, and because they despaired of any
other means of arousing you. How much better, then, would have been
their intentions toward you than were the purposes of those who
flattered you that you might be kept in sluggish calm and in careless
thoughtlessness!

However weak and powerless you may be, during this period clear and
calm reflection has been vouchsafed you as never before. What
really plunged us into confusion regarding our position, into
thoughtlessness, into a blind way of letting things go, was our sweet
complacency with ourselves and our mode of existence. Things had thus
gone on hitherto, and so they continued and would continue to go. If
any one challenged us to reflect, we triumphantly showed him, instead
of any other refutation, our continued existence which went on without
any thought or effort on our part; yet things flowed along simply
because we were not put to the test. Since that time we have passed
through the ordeal and it might be supposed that the deceptions, the
delusions, and the false consolations with which we all misguided one
another would have collapsed! The innate prejudices which, without
proceeding from this point or from that, spread over all like a
natural cloud and wrapped all in the same mist, ought surely, by this
time, to have utterly vanished! That twilight no longer obscures our
eyes, and can therefore no longer serve for an excuse. Now we stand,
naked and bare, stripped of all alien coverings and draperies, simply
as ourselves. Now it must appear what each self is, or is not.

Some one among you might come forward and ask me "What gives you in
particular, the only one among all German men and authors, the special
task, vocation, and prerogative of convening us and inveighing against
us? Would not any one among the thousands of the writers of Germany
have exactly the same right to do this as you have? None of them does
it; you alone push yourself forward." I answer that each one would,
indeed, have had the same right as I, and that I do it for the very
reason that no one among them has done it before me; that I would be
silent if any one else had spoken previous to me. This was the first
step toward the goal of a radical amelioration, and some one must take
it. I seemed to be the first vividly to perceive this--accordingly, it
was I who first took it. After this, a second step will be taken, and
thereto every one has now the same right; but, as a matter of fact,
it, in its turn, will be taken by but one individual. One man must
always be the first, and let him be he who can!

Without anxiety regarding this circumstance, let your attention rest
for an instant on the consideration to which we have previously led
you--in how enviable a position Germany and the world would be if the
former had known how to utilize the good fortune of her position and
to recognize her advantage. Let your eyes rest upon what they both
are now, and let your minds be penetrated by the pain and indignation
which, in this reflection, must lay hold upon every noble soul. Then
examine yourselves and see that it is you who can release the age from
the errors of ancient times, and that, if only you will permit it,
your own eyes can be cleared of the mist that covers them; learn, too,
that it has been vouchsafed to you, as to no generation before you, to
undo what has been done and to efface the dishonorable interval from
the annals of the German nation.

Let the various conditions among which you must choose pass before
you. If you drift along in your torpor and your heedlessness, all the
evils of slavery await you--deprivations, humiliations, the scorn and
arrogance of the conqueror; you will be pushed about from pillar to
post, because you have never found your proper niche, until, through
the sacrifice of your nationality and of your language, you slip into
some subordinate place where your nation shall sink its identity. If,
on the other hand, you rouse yourselves, you will find, first of all,
an enduring and honorable existence, and will behold a flourishing
generation which promises to you and to the Germans the most glorious
and lasting memory. Through the instrumentality of this new generation
you will see in spirit the German name exalted to the most glorious
among all nations; you will discern in this nation the regenerator and
restorer of the world.

It depends upon you whether you will be the last of a dishonorable
race, even more surely despised by posterity than it deserves, and in
whose history--if there can be any history in the barbarism which will
then begin--succeeding generations will rejoice when it perishes and
will praise fate that it is just; or whether you will be the beginning
and the point of development of a new age which will be glorious
beyond all your expectations, and become those from whom posterity
will date the year of their salvation. Bethink yourselves that you
are the last in whose power this great change lies. You have heard
the Germans called a unit; you have still a visible sign of their
unity--an Empire and an Imperial League--or you have heard of it;
among you even yet, from time to time, voices have been audible which
were inspired by this higher patriotism. After you become accustomed
to other concepts and will accept alien forms and a different course
of occupation and of life--how long will it then be before no one
longer lives who has seen Germans or who has heard of them?

What is demanded of you is not much. You should only keep before you
the necessity of pulling yourselves together for a little time and of
reflecting upon what lies immediately and obviously before your eyes.
You should merely form for yourselves a fixed opinion regarding
this situation, remain true to it, and utter and express it in your
immediate surroundings. It is the presupposition, yea, it is our firm
conviction, that this reflection will lead to the same result in all
of you; that, if you only seriously consider, and do not continue in
your previous heedlessness, you will think in harmony; and that,
if you can bring your intelligence to bear, and if only you do not
continue to vegetate, unanimity and unity of spirit will come of
themselves. If, however, matters once reach this point, all else that
we need will result automatically.

This reflection is, moreover, demanded from each one of you who can
still consider for himself something lying obviously before his eyes.
You have time for this; events will not take you unawares; the records
of the negotiations conducted with you will remain before your eyes.
Lay them not from your hands until you are in unity with your selves.
Neither let, oh, let not yourselves be made supine by reliance upon
others or upon anything whatsoever that lies outside yourselves, nor
yet through the unintelligent belief of our time that the epochs of
history are made by the agency of some unknown power without any aid
from man. These addresses have never wearied in impressing upon you
that absolutely nothing can help you but yourselves, and they find it
necessary to repeat this to the last moment. Rain and dew, fruitful or
unfruitful years, may indeed be made by a power which is unknown to us
and is not under our control; but only men themselves--and absolutely
no power outside them--give to each epoch its particular stamp. Only
when they are all equally blind and ignorant do they fall the victims
of this hidden power, though it is within their own control not to
be blind and ignorant. It is true that to whatever degree, greater
or less, things may go ill with us, in part depends upon that unknown
power; but far more is it dependent upon the intelligence and the good
will of those to whom we are subjected. Whether, on the other hand,
it will ever again be well with us depends wholly upon ourselves;
and surely nevermore will any welfare whatsoever come to us unless we
ourselves acquire it for ourselves--especially unless each individual
among us toils and labors in his own way as though he were alone and
as though the salvation of future generations depended solely upon
him.

This is what you have to do; and these addresses adjure you to do this
without delay.

They adjure you, young men! I, who have long since ceased to belong
to you, maintain--and I have also expressed my conviction in these
addresses--that you are yet more capable of every thought transcending
the commonplace, and are more easily aroused to all that is good and
great, because your time of life still lies closer to the years of
childish innocence and of nature. Very differently does the majority
of the older generation regard this fundamental trait in you. It
accuses you of arrogance, of a rash, presumptuous judgment which soars
beyond your strength, of obstinacy, and of desire of innovation; yet
it merely smiles good-naturedly at these, your errors. All this, it
thinks, is based simply on your lack of knowledge of the world, that
is, of universal human corruption, since it has eyes for nothing else
on earth. You are now supposed to have courage only because you hope
to find help-mates like-minded with yourselves and because you do not
know the grim and stubborn resistance which will be opposed to your
projects of improvement. When the youthful fire of your imagination
shall once have vanished, when you shall have perceived the universal
selfishness, idleness, and horror of work, when you yourselves shall
once rightly have tasted the sweetness of plodding on in the customary
rut--then the desire to be better and wiser than all others will soon
fade away. They do not by any chance entertain these good expectations
of you in imagination alone; they have found them confirmed in their
own persons. They must confess that in the days of their foolish youth
they dreamed of improving the world, exactly as you dream today; yet
with increasing maturity they have become tame and quiet as you see
them now. I believe them; in my own experience, which has not been
very protracted, I have seen that young men who at first roused
different hopes nevertheless, later, exactly fulfilled the kind
expectations of mature age. Do this no longer, young men, for how else
could a better generation ever begin? The bloom of youth will indeed
fall from you, and the flame of imagination will cease to be nourished
from itself; but feed this flame and brighten it through clear
thought, make this way of thinking your own, and as an additional gift
you will gain character, the fairest adornment of man. Through this
clear thinking you will preserve the fountain of eternal youth;
however your bodies grow old or your knees become feeble, your spirit
will be reborn in freshness ever renewed, and your character will
stand firm and unchangeable. Seize at once the opportunity here
offered you; reflect clearly upon the theme presented for your
deliberation; and the clarity which has dawned for you in one point
will gradually spread over all others as well.

These addresses adjure you, old men! You are regarded as you have just
heard, and you are told so to your faces; and for his own past the
speaker frankly adds that--excluding the exceptions which, it must
be admitted, not infrequently occur, and which are all the more
admirable--the world is perfectly right with regard to the great
majority among you. Go through the history of the last two or three
decades; everything except yourselves agrees--and even you yourselves
agree, each one in the specialty that does not immediately concern
him--that (always excluding the exceptions, and regarding only the
majority) the greatest uselessness and selfishness are found in
advanced years in all branches, in science as well as in practical
occupations. The whole world has witnessed that every one who desired
the better and the more perfect still had to wage the bitterest battle
with you in addition to the battle with his own uncertainty and with
his other surroundings; that you were firmly resolved that nothing
must thrive which you had not done and known in the same way; that you
regarded every impulse of thought as an insult to your intelligence;
and that you left no power unutilized to conquer in this battle
against improvement--and in fact you generally did prevail. Thus you
were the impeding power against all the improvements which kindly
nature offered us from her ever--youthful womb until you were
gathered to the dust which you were before, and until the succeeding
generations, which were at war with you, had become like unto you and
had adopted your attitude. Now, also, you need only conduct yourselves
as you have previously acted in case of all propositions for
amelioration; you need only again prefer to the general weal your
empty honor in order that there may be nothing between heaven and
earth that you have not already fathomed; then, through this last
battle, you are relieved from all further battle; no improvement
will accrue, but deterioration will follow in the footsteps of
deterioration, and thus there will be much satisfaction in reserve for
you.

No one will suppose that I despise and depreciate old age as old
age. If only the source of primitive life and of its continuance is
absorbed into life through freedom, then clarity--and strength with
it--increases so long as life endures. Such a life is easier to live;
the dross of earthly origin falls away more and ever more; it is
ennobled to the life eternal and strives toward it. The experience
of such an old age is irreconcilable with evil, and it only makes the
means clearer and the skill more adroit victoriously to battle against
wickedness. Deterioration through increasing age is simply the fault
of our time, and it necessarily results in every place where society
is much corrupted. It is not nature which corrupts us--she produces
us in innocence; it is society. He who has once surrendered to the
influence of society must naturally become ever worse and worse the
longer he is exposed to this influence. It would be worth the trouble
to investigate the history of other extremely corrupt generations in
this regard, and to see whether--for example, under the rule of the
Roman emperors--what was once bad did not continually become worse
with increasing age.

First of all, therefore, these addresses adjure you, old men and
experienced--you who form the exception! Confirm, strengthen, counsel
in this matter the younger generation, which reverently looks up to
you. And the rest of you also, who are average souls, they adjure!
If you are not to help, at least do not interfere, this time; do not
again--as always hitherto--put yourselves in the way with your wisdom
and with your thousand hesitations. This thing, like every rational
thing in the world, is not complicated, but simple; and it also
belongs among the thousand matters which you know not. If your wisdom
could save, it would surely have saved us before; for it is you who
have counseled us thus far. Now, like everything else, all this is
forgiven you, and you should no longer be reproached with it. Only
learn at last once to know yourselves, and be silent.

These addresses adjure you men of affairs! With few exceptions you
have thus far been cordially hostile to abstract thought and to all
learning which desired to be something for itself, even though you
demeaned yourselves as if you merely haughtily despised all this.
As far as you possibly could, you held from you the men who did such
things as well as their propositions; the reproach of lunacy, or the
advice that they be sent to the mad-house, was the thanks from you on
which they might usually count. They, in their turn, did not venture
to express themselves regarding you with the same frankness, since
they were dependent upon you; but their innermost thought was this,
that, with a few exceptions, you were shallow babblers and inflated
braggarts, dilettante who have only passed through school, blind
gropers and creepers in the old rut who had neither wish nor ability
for aught else. Give them the lie through your deeds, and to this end
grasp the opportunity now offered you; lay aside that contempt for
profound thought and learning; let yourselves be advised and hear and
learn what you do not know, or else your accusers win their case.

These addresses adjure you, thinkers, scholars, and authors who are
still worthy of this name! In a certain sense that reproach of the men
of affairs was not unjust. You often proceeded too unconcerned in
the realm of abstract thought, without troubling yourselves about the
actual world and without considering how the one might be connected
with the other; you circumscribed your own world for yourselves, and
let the real world lie to one side, disdained and despised. Every
regulation and every formation of actual life must, it is true,
proceed from the higher regulating concept, and progress in the
customary rut is insufficient for it; this is an eternal truth, and,
in God's name, it crushes with undisguised contempt every one who
is so bold as to busy himself with affairs without knowing this. Yet
between the concept and the introduction of it into any individual
life there is a great gulf fixed. The filling of this gulf is the
task both of the men of affairs--who, however, must already first have
learned enough to understand you--and also of yourselves, who should
not forget life on account of the world of thought. Here you both
meet. Instead of regarding each other askance and depreciating each
other across the gulf, endeavor rather to fill it, each on his own
side, and thus seek to construct the road to union. At last, I beg
you, realize that you both are as mutually necessary to each other as
head and arm are indispensable the one to the other.

In other respects as well, these addresses adjure you, thinkers,
scholars, and authors who are still worthy of this name! Your laments
over the general shallowness, thoughtlessness, and superficiality,
over self-conceit and inexhaustible babble, over the contempt for
seriousness and profundity in all classes, may be true, even as they
actually are. Yet what class is it, pray, that has educated all these
classes, that has transformed everything pertaining to science into a
jest for them, and that has trained them from their earliest youth
in that self-conceit and that babble? Who is it, pray, who still
continues to educate the generations that have outgrown the schools?
The most obvious source of the torpor of the age is that it has read
itself torpid in the writings which you have written. Why are you,
nevertheless, so continually solicitous to amuse this idle people,
despite the fact that you know that they have learned nothing and wish
to learn nothing? Why do you call them "the Public," flatter them as
your judge, stir them up against your rivals, and seek by every means
to win this blind and confused mob over to your side? Finally, in your
literary reviews and in your magazines, why do you yourselves furnish
them with material and example for rash judgments by yourselves
judging as unconnectedly, as carelessly, as recklessly, and, for the
most part, as tastelessly as even the least of your readers could?
If you do not all think thus, and if among you there are still some
animated by better sentiments, why, then, do not these latter unite to
put an end to the evil? As to those men of affairs, in particular they
have passed through your schools--you say so yourselves. Why, then,
did you not at least make use of this transit of theirs to inspire in
them some silent respect for learning, and especially to break betimes
the self-conceit of the young aristocrat and to show him that
birth and station are of no assistance in the realm of thought? If,
perchance, even at that time you flattered him and exalted him unduly,
now endure that for which you yourselves are responsible.

These addresses desire to excuse you on the supposition that you had
not grasped the importance of your occupation; they adjure you that,
from this hour, you make yourselves acquainted with this importance,
and that you no longer ply your occupation as a mere trade. Learn to
respect yourselves, and by your actions show that you do so, and the
world will respect you. You will give the first proof of this through
the amount of influence which you assume in regard to the resolution
that is proposed, and through the manner in which you conduct
yourselves regarding it.

These addresses adjure you, princes of Germany! Those who act toward
you as though no man dared say aught to you, or had aught to say, are
despicable flatterers, are base slanderers of you yourselves. Drive
them far from you! The truth is that you were born exactly as ignorant
as all the rest of us, and that, exactly like ourselves, you must hear
and learn if you are to escape from this natural ignorance. Your share
in bringing about the fate which has befallen you simultaneously with
your peoples is here set forth in the mildest way and, as we believe,
in the way which is alone right and just; and in case you wish to
hear only flattery, and never the truth, you cannot complain regarding
these addresses. Let all this be forgotten, even as all the rest of us
also desire that our share in the guilt may be forgotten. Now begins
a new life as well for yourselves as for all of us. May this voice
penetrate to you through all the surroundings which normally make you
inaccessible! With proud self-reliance it dares to say to you: You
rule nations, faithful, plastic, and worthy of good fortune, such as
princes of no time and of no nation have ruled. They have a feeling
for freedom and are capable of it; but, because you so willed, they
have followed you into sanguinary war against that which to them
seemed freedom. Some among you have later willed otherwise, and, again
because you so willed, they have followed you into that which to them
must seem a war of annihilation against one of the last remnants of
German independence. Since that time they have endured and have borne
the oppressive burden of common woes; yet they do not cease to be
faithful to you, to cling to you with inward devotion, and to love
you as their divinely appointed guardians. Yet may you notice them,
unobserved by them; set free from surroundings which do not invariably
present to you the fairest aspect of humanity, may you be able to
descend into the house of the citizen, into the peasant's cottage,
and may you be able attentively to follow the still and hidden life of
these classes, in which the fidelity and the probity which have become
more rare in the higher classes seem to have sought refuge! Surely,
oh, surely, you will resolve to reflect more seriously than ever how
they may be helped! These addresses have proposed to you a means of
assistance which they believe to be sure, thorough, and decisive. Let
your councillors deliberate whether they also find it so or whether
they know a better means, provided only that it be equally decisive.
But the conviction that something must be done and must be done
immediately, that this something must be radical and final, and
that the time for half-measures and procrastination is past--this
conviction these addresses would fain produce, if they could, in
you personally, as they still cherish the utmost confidence in your
integrity.

These addresses adjure you, Germans as a whole, whatever position
you may take in society, that each one among you who can think, think
first of all upon the theme that has been suggested, and that each one
do for it exactly what in his own place lies nearest to him.

Your forefathers unite with these addresses and adjure you. Imagine
that in my voice are mingled the voices of your ancestors from dim
antiquity, who with their bodies opposed the on-rushing dominion of
the world-power of Rome, who with their blood won the independence of
the mountains, plains, and streams which, under your governance, have
become the booty of the stranger. They call to you: Represent us;
transmit to posterity our memory honorable and blameless as it came
to you, and as you have boasted of it and of descent from us. Thus far
our resistance has been held to be noble and great and wise; we seemed
to be initiated into the secrets of the divine plan of the universe.
If our race terminates with you, our honor is turned to shame and our
wisdom to folly. For if the German stock was some time to be merged
into that of Rome, it was better that this had been into the old Rome
than into a new. We faced the former and conquered it; before the
latter you have been scattered like the dust. Now, however, since
affairs are as they are, you are not to conquer them with physical
weapons; only your spirit is to rise and stand upright over against
them. To you has been vouchsafed the greater destiny of establishing
generally the empire of the spirit and of reason, and of wholly
annihilating rude physical power as that which dominates the world. If
you shall do this, then are you worthy of descent from us.

In these voices also mingle the spirits of your later ancestors, of
those who fell in the holy struggle for freedom of religion and of
faith. Save our honor, likewise, they cry to you. It was not wholly
clear to us for what we fought. Besides the legitimate resolve not to
allow ourselves to be dominated in matters of conscience by a foreign
power, we were also impelled by a higher spirit who never revealed
himself entirely unto us. To you this spirit is revealed, if you have
the power to look into the spirit world, and he gazes upon you
with clear and lofty eyes. The motley and confused intermingling of
sensuous and of spiritual impulses is wholly to be deposed from
its world-dominion; and spirit alone, absolute, and stripped of all
sensuous impulses, is to take the helm of human affairs. Our blood was
shed that this spirit might have freedom to develop and to grow to an
independent existence. Upon you it depends to give to this sacrifice
its signification and its justification by installing this spirit into
the world-dominion destined for him. If this is not the final goal
toward which all the development of our nation has thus far aimed,
our struggles, too, become a passing, empty farce, and the freedom of
spirit and of conscience that we won is an empty word, if henceforth
there is to be no longer any spirit or any conscience whatsoever.

Your descendants, still unborn, adjure you. You boast of your
forefathers, they cry to you, and proudly you connect yourselves with
a noble lineage. Take care that the chain may not be broken in you; so
do that we also may boast of you, and that through you, as through
a faultless link, we may connect ourselves with the same glorious
lineage. Cause us not to be compelled to be ashamed of our descent
from you as a descent that is low, barbarous, and slavish, so that
we must conceal our ancestry or must feign an alien name and an alien
lineage, lest we be immediately rejected or trodden under foot without
further test. On the next generation that will proceed from you, will
depend your fame in history: honorable, if this honorably witnesses
for you; but ignominious, even beyond desert, if you have no offspring
to speak for you, and if it is left to the victor to write your
history. Never yet has a victor had sufficient inclination or
sufficient knowledge rightly to judge the conquered. The more he
abases them, the more justified does he appear. Who can know what
mighty deeds, what magnificent institutions, and what noble customs of
many a people of antiquity have been forgotten because their posterity
was subjugated, and because, ungainsaid, the conqueror made his report
upon them in accordance with his interests?

Even foreign lands adjure you so far as they still understand
themselves in the very least, and still have an eye for their true
advantage. Indeed, there are spirits among all peoples who still
cannot believe that the great promises made to the human race of a
reign of justice, of reason, and of truth can be a vain and an empty
phantom, and who assume, therefore, that the present iron age is but
a transit to a better state. They--and all modern humanity in
them--count on you. A great part of this humanity is descended from
us; the rest have received from us religion and culture. The former
adjure us by the soil of our common fatherland, which is also their
cradle, and which they have bequeathed free to us; the latter adjure
us by the culture which they have acquired from us as a pledge of a
higher happiness--they adjure us to maintain ourselves as we have ever
been, for their sake; and not to suffer this member, which is of so
much importance, to be torn from the continuity of the race that is
newly budded, lest they may painfully miss us if they some time need
our counsel, our example, our cooperation toward the true goal of
earthly life.

All generations, all the wise and good who have ever breathed upon
this earth, all their thoughts and aspirations for something higher
mingle in these voices and surround you and lift to you imploring
hands. Even Providence, if we may so say, and the divine plan of the
universe in the creation of a human race--a plan which, indeed, exists
only to be thought out by man and to be realized by man--adjures you
to save its honor and its existence. Whether those are justified
who have believed that mankind must always grow better, and that
the conception of a certain order and dignity among them is no empty
dream, but the prophecy and the pledge of an ultimate actuality,
or whether those are to prevail who slumber on in their animal and
vegetative life, and who mock every flight to higher worlds-upon these
alternatives it is left to you to pass a final and decisive judgment.
The ancient world with its magnificence and with its grandeur, and
also with its faults, has sunk through its own unworthiness and
through your fathers' prowess. If there is truth in what has been
presented in these addresses, then, among all modern peoples, it is
you in whom the germ of the perfecting of humanity most decidedly
lies, and on whom progress in the development of this humanity is
enjoined. If you perish as a nation, all the hope of the entire human
race for rescue from the depths of its woe perishes together with you.
Do not hope and console yourselves with the imaginary idea, counting
on mere repetition of events that have already happened, that once
more, after the fall of the old civilization, a new one, proceeding
from a half-barbarous nation, will arise upon the ruins of the first.
In antiquity such a nation, equipped with all the requisites for
this destiny, was at hand, and was very well known to the nation of
culture, and was described by them; had they been able to imagine
their destruction, they themselves might have found in that
half-barbarous nation the means of their restoration. To us, also, the
entire surface of the earth is very well known, and all the peoples
that live upon it. Do we, then, now know any such people, like to
the aborigines of the New World, of whom similar expectations may be
entertained? I believe that every one who has not merely a fanatical
opinion and hope, but who thinks after profound investigation, will
be compelled to answer this question in the negative. There is,
therefore, no escape; if you sink, all humanity sinks with you, devoid
of hope of restoration at any future time.

This it was, gentlemen, that at the close of these addresses I felt
compelled to impress upon you as representatives of the nation and,
through you, upon the nation as a whole.




_FRIEDRICH WILHELM JOSEPH VON SCHELLING_

       *       *       *       *       *

ON THE RELATION OF THE PLASTIC ARTS TO NATURE (1807)

A Speech on the Celebration of the 12th October, 1807, as the Name-Day
of His Majesty the King of Bavaria

Delivered before the Public Assembly of the Royal Academy of Sciences
of Munich

TRANSLATED BY J. ELLIOT CABOT


Plastic Art, according to the most ancient expression, is silent
Poetry. The inventor of this definition no doubt meant thereby
that the former, like the latter, is to express spiritual
thoughts--conceptions whose source is the soul; only not by speech,
but, like silent Nature, by shape, by form, by corporeal, independent
works.

Plastic Art, therefore, evidently stands as a uniting link between the
soul and Nature, and can be apprehended only in the living centre of
both. Indeed, since Plastic Art has its relation to the soul in common
with every other art, and particularly with Poetry, that by which
it is connected with Nature, and, like Nature, a productive force,
remains as its sole peculiarity; so that to this alone can a theory
relate which shall be satisfactory to the understanding, and helpful
and profitable to Art itself.

We hope, therefore, in considering Plastic Art in relation to its
true prototype and original source, Nature, to be able to contribute
something new to its theory--to give some additional exactness or
clearness to the conceptions of it; but, above all, to set forth
the coherence of the whole structure of Art in the light of a higher
necessity.

[Illustration: FRIEDRICH WILHELM JOSEPH VON SCHELLING Carl Begas]

But has not Science always recognized this relation? Has not indeed
every theory of modern times taken its departure from this very
position, that Art should be the imitator of Nature? Such has indeed
been the case. But what should this broad general proposition
profit the artist, when the notion of Nature is of such various
interpretation, and when there are almost as many differing views of
it as there are various modes of life? Thus, to one, Nature is
nothing more than the lifeless aggregate of an indeterminable crowd
of objects, or the space in which, as in a vessel, he imagines things
placed; to another, only the soil from which he draws his nourishment
and support; to the inspired seeker alone, the holy, ever-creative
original energy of the world, which generates and busily evolves all
things out of itself.

The proposition would indeed have a high significance, if it taught
Art to emulate this creative force; but the sense in which it was
meant can scarcely be doubtful to one acquainted with the universal
condition of Science at the time when it was first brought forward.
Singular enough that the very persons who denied all life to Nature
should set it up for imitation in Art! To them might be applied the
words of a profound writer:[5] "Your lying philosophy has put Nature
out of the way; and why do you call upon us to imitate her? Is it that
you may renew the pleasure by perpetrating the same violence on the
disciples of Nature?"

Nature was to them not merely a dumb, but an altogether lifeless
image, in whose inmost being even no living word dwelt; a hollow
scaffolding of forms, of which as hollow an image was to be
transferred to the canvas, or hewn out of stone.

This was the proper doctrine of those more ancient and savage nations,
who, as they saw in Nature nothing divine, fetched idols out of her;
whilst, to the susceptive Greeks, who everywhere felt the presence of
a vitally efficient principle, genuine gods arose out of Nature.

But is, then, the disciple of Nature to copy everything in Nature
without distinction?--and, of everything, every part? Only beautiful
objects should be represented; and, even in these, only the Beautiful
and Perfect.

Thus is the proposition further determined, but, at the same time,
this asserted, that, in Nature, the perfect is mingled with the
imperfect, the beautiful with the unbeautiful. Now, how should he who
stands in no other relation to Nature than that of servile imitation,
distinguish the one from the other? It is the way of imitators to
appropriate the faults of their model sooner and easier than its
excellences, since the former offer handles and tokens more easily
grasped; and thus we see that imitators of Nature in this sense have
imitated oftener, and even more affectionately, the ugly than the
beautiful.

If we regard in things, not their principle, but the empty abstract
form, neither will they say anything to our soul; our own heart, our
own spirit we must put to it, that they answer us.

But what is the perfection of a thing? Nothing else than the creative
life in it, its power to exist. Never, therefore, will he, who fancies
that Nature is altogether dead, be successful in that profound process
(analogous to the chemical) whence proceeds, purified as by fire, the
pure gold of Beauty and Truth.

Nor was there any change in the main view of the relation of Art to
Nature, even when the unsatisfactoriness of the principle began to
be more generally felt; no change, even by the new views and new
knowledge so nobly established by John Winckelmann. He indeed restored
to the soul its full efficiency in Art, and raised it from its
unworthy dependence into the realm of spiritual freedom. Powerfully
moved by the beauty of form in the works of antiquity, he taught that
the production of ideal Nature, of Nature elevated above the Actual,
together with the expression of spiritual conceptions, is the highest
aim of Art.

But if we examine in what sense this surpassing of the Actual by Art
has been understood by the most, it turns out that, with this view
also, the notion of Nature as mere product, of things as a lifeless
result, still continued; and the idea of a living creative Nature
was in no wise awakened by it. Thus these ideal forms also could be
animated by no positive insight into their nature; and if the forms
of the Actual were dead for the dead beholder, these were not less so.
Were no independent production of the Actual possible, neither would
there be of the Ideal. The object of the imitation was changed;
the imitation remained. In the place of Nature were substituted the
sublime works of Antiquity, whose outward forms the pupils busied
themselves in imitating, but without the spirit that fills them. These
forms, however, are as unapproachable, nay, more so, than the works of
Nature, and leave us yet colder if we bring not to them the spiritual
eye to penetrate through the veil and feel the stirring energy within.

On the other hand, artists, since that time, have indeed received a
certain ideal impetus, and notions of a beauty superior to matter;
but these notions were like fair words, to which the deeds do not
correspond. While the previous method in Art produced bodies without
soul, this view taught only the secret of the soul, but not that of
the body. The theory had, as usual, passed with one hasty stride to
the opposite extreme; but the vital mean it had not yet found.

Who can say that Winckelmann had not penetrated into the highest
beauty? But with him it appeared in its dissevered elements only: on
the one side as beauty in idea, and flowing out from the soul; on the
other, as beauty of forms.

But what is the efficient link that connects the two? Or by what power
is the soul created together with the body, at once and as if with one
breath? If this lies not within the power of Art, as of Nature,
then it can create nothing whatever. This vital connecting link,
Winckelmann did not determine; he did not teach how, from the idea,
forms can be produced. Thus Art went over to that method which we
would call the retrograde, since it strives from the form to come
at the essence. But not thus is the Unlimited reached; it is not
attainable by mere enhancement of the Limited. Hence, such works as
have had their beginning in form, with all elaborateness on that side,
show, in token of their origin, an incurable want at the very point
where we expect the consummate, the essential, the final. The miracle
by which the Limited should be raised to the Unlimited, the human
become divine, is wanting; the magic circle is drawn, but the spirit
that it should inclose, appears not, being disobedient to the call of
him who thought a creation possible through mere form.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nature meets us everywhere, at first with reserve, and in form more or
less severe. She is like that quiet and serious beauty, that excites
not attention by noisy advertisement, nor attracts the vulgar gaze.

How can we, as it were, spiritually melt this apparently rigid form,
so that the pure energy of things may flow together with the force of
our spirit and both become one united mold? We must transcend Form,
in order to gain it again as intelligible, living, and truly felt.
Consider the most beautiful forms; what remains behind after you have
abstracted from them the creative principle within? Nothing but mere
unessential qualities, such as extension and the relations of space.
Does the fact that one portion of matter exists near another, and
distinct from it, contribute anything to its inner essence? or does
it not rather contribute nothing? Evidently the latter. It is not mere
contiguous existence, but the manner of it, that makes form; and this
can be determined only by a positive force, which is even opposed to
separateness, and subordinates the manifoldness of the parts to the
unity of one idea--from the force that works in the crystal to the
force which, comparable to a gentle magnetic current, gives to the
particles of matter in the human form that position and arrangement
among themselves, through which the idea, the essential unity and
beauty, can become visible.

Not only, however, as active principle, but as spirit and effective
science, must the essence appear to us in the form, in order that we
may truly apprehend it. For all unity must be spiritual in nature and
origin; and what is the aim of all investigation of Nature but to find
science therein? For that wherein there is no Understanding cannot
be the object of Understanding; the Unknowing cannot be known. The
science by which Nature works is not, however, like human science,
connected with reflection upon itself; in it, the conception is not
separate from the act, nor the design from the execution. Therefore,
rude matter strives, as it were, blindly, after regular shape,
and unknowingly assumes pure stereometric forms, which belong,
nevertheless, to the realm of ideas, and are something spiritual in
the material.

The sublimest arithmetic and geometry are innate in the stars, and
unconsciously displayed by them in their motions. More distinctly, but
still beyond their grasp, the living cognition appears in animals;
and thus we see them, though wandering about without reflection, bring
about innumerable results far more excellent than themselves: the bird
that, intoxicated with music, transcends itself in soul-like tones;
the little artistic creature, that, without practise or instruction,
accomplishes light works of architecture; but all directed by an
overpowering spirit, that lightens in them already with single flashes
of knowledge, but as yet appears nowhere as the full sun, as in Man.

This formative science in Nature and Art is the link that connects
idea and form, body and soul. Before everything stands an eternal
idea, formed in the Infinite Understanding; but by what means does
this idea pass into actuality and embodiment? Only through the
creative science that is as necessarily connected with the Infinite
Understanding, as in the artist the principle that seizes the idea
of unsensuous Beauty is linked with that which sets it forth to the
senses.

If that artist be called happy and praiseworthy before all to whom
the gods have granted this creative spirit, then that work of art will
appear excellent which shows to us, as in outline, this unadulterated
energy of creation and activity of Nature.

It was long ago perceived that, in Art, not everything is performed
with consciousness; that, with the conscious activity, an unconscious
action must combine; and that it is of the perfect unity and mutual
interpenetration of the two that the highest in Art is born.

Works that want this seal of unconscious science are recognized by
the evident absence of life self-supported and independent of the
producer; as, on the contrary, where this acts, Art imparts to its
work, together with the utmost clearness to the understanding, that
unfathomable reality wherein it resembles a work of Nature.

It has often been attempted to make clear the position of the artist
in regard to Nature, by saying that Art, in order to be such, must
first withdraw itself from Nature, and return to it only in the final
perfection. The true sense of this saying, it seems to us, can be no
other than this--that in all things in Nature, the living idea shows
itself only blindly active; were it so also in the artist, he would be
in nothing distinct from Nature. But, should he attempt consciously to
subordinate himself altogether to the Actual, and render with servile
fidelity the already existing, he would produce _larvae_, but no works
of Art. He must therefore withdraw himself from the product, from the
creature, but only in order to raise himself to the creative energy,
spiritually seizing the same. Thus he ascends into the realm of
pure ideas; he forsakes the creature, to regain it with thousandfold
interest, and in this sense certainly to return to Nature. This spirit
of Nature working at the core of things, and speaking through form
and shape as by symbols only, the artist must certainly follow with
emulation; and only so far as he seizes this with genial imitation
has he himself produced anything genuine. For works produced by
aggregation, even of forms beautiful in themselves, would still be
destitute of all beauty, since that, through which the work on the
whole is truly beautiful, cannot be mere form. It is above form--it
is Essence, the Universal, the look and expression of the indwelling
spirit of Nature.

Now it can scarcely be doubtful what is to be thought of the so-called
idealizing of Nature in Art, so universally demanded. This demand
seems to arise from a way of thinking, according to which not Truth,
Beauty, Goodness, but the contrary of all these, is the Actual. Were
the Actual indeed opposed to Truth and Beauty, it would be necessary
for the artist, not to elevate or idealize it, but to get rid of and
destroy it, in order to create something true and beautiful. But how
should it be possible for anything to be actual except the True; and
what is Beauty, if not full, complete Being?

What higher aim, therefore, could Art have, than to represent that
which in Nature actually _is_? Or how should it undertake to excel
so-called actual Nature, since it must always fall short of it?

For does Art impart to its works actual, sensuous life? This statue
breathes not, is stirred by no pulsation, warmed by no blood.

But both the pretended excelling and the apparent falling short show
themselves as the consequences of one and the same principle, as soon
as we place the aim of Art in the exhibiting of that which truly is.

Only on the surface have its works the appearance of life; in Nature,
life seems to reach deeper, and to be wedded entirely with matter.
But does not the continual mutation of matter and the universal lot
of final dissolution teach us the unessential character of this union,
and that it is no intimate fusion? Art, accordingly, in the merely
superficial animation of its works, but represents Nothingness as
non-existing.

How comes it that, to every tolerably cultivated taste, imitations of
the so-called Actual, even though carried to deception, appear in the
last degree untrue--nay, produce the impression of spectres; whilst a
work in which the idea is predominant strikes us with the full force
of truth, conveying us then only to the genuinely actual world? Whence
comes it, if not from the more or less obscure feeling which tells us
that the idea alone is the living principle in things, but all else
unessential and vain shadow?

On the same ground may be explained all the opposite cases which
are brought up as instances of the surpassing of Nature by Art. In
arresting the rapid course of human years; in uniting the energy of
developed manhood with the soft charm of early youth; or exhibiting
a mother of grown-up sons and daughters in the full possession of
vigorous beauty--what does Art except to annul what is unessential,
Time?

If, according to the remark of a discerning critic, every growth in
Nature has but an instant of truly complete beauty, we may also say
that it has, too, only an instant of full existence. In this instant
it is what it is in all eternity; besides this, it has only a coming
into and a passing out of existence. Art, in representing the thing
at that instant, removes it out of Time, and sets it forth in its pure
Being, in the eternity of its life.

After everything positive and essential had once been abstracted from
Form, it necessarily appeared restrictive, and, as it were, hostile,
to the Essence; and the same theory that had reproduced the false and
powerless Ideal, necessarily tended to the formless in Art. Form would
indeed be a limitation of the Essence if it existed independent of it.
But if it exists with and by means of the Essence, how could this feel
itself limited by that which it has itself created? Violence
would indeed be done it by a form forced upon it, but never by
one proceeding from itself. In this, on the contrary, it must rest
contented, and feel its own existence to be perfect and complete.

Determinateness of form is in Nature never a negation, but ever
an affirmation. Commonly, indeed, the shape of a body seems a
confinement; but could we behold the creative energy it would reveal
itself as the measure that this energy imposes upon itself, and in
which it shows itself a truly intelligent force; for in everything
is the power of self-rule allowed to be an excellence, and one of the
highest.

In like manner most persons consider the particular in a negative
manner--i.e., as that which is not the whole or all. Yet no
particular exists by means of its limitation, but through the
indwelling force with which it maintains itself as a particular Whole,
in distinction from the Universe.

This force of particularity, and thus also of individuality,
showing itself as vital character, the negative conception of it
is necessarily followed by an unsatisfying and false view of the
characteristic in Art. Lifeless and of intolerable hardness would be
the Art that should aim to exhibit the empty shell or limitation of
the Individual. Certainly we desire to see not merely the individual,
but, more than this, its vital Idea. But if the artist has seized the
inward creative spirit and essence of the Idea, and sets this forth,
he makes the individual a world in itself, a class, an eternal
prototype; and he who has grasped the essential character needs not
to fear hardness and severity, for these are the conditions of life.
Nature, that in her completeness appears as the utmost benignity,
we see, in each particular, aiming even primarily and principally at
severity, seclusion and reserve. As the whole creation is the work
of the utmost externization and renunciation [Entaeusserung], so
the artist must first deny himself and descend into the Particular,
without shunning isolation, nor the pain, the anguish of Form.

Nature, from her first works, is throughout characteristic; the energy
of fire, the splendor of light, she shuts up in hard stone, the tender
soul of melody in severe metal; even on the threshold of Life, and
already meditating organic shape, she sinks back overpowered by the
might of Form, into petrifaction.

The life of the plant consists in still receptivity, but in what
exact and severe outline is this passive life inclosed! In the animal
kingdom the strife between Life and Form seems first properly to
begin; her first works Nature hides in hard shells, and, where these
are laid aside, the animated world attaches itself again through its
constructive impulse to the realm of crystallization. Finally
she comes forward more boldly and freely, and vital, important
characteristics show themselves, being the same through whole classes.
Art, however, cannot begin so far down as Nature. Though Beauty is
spread everywhere, yet there are various grades in the appearance
and unfolding of the Essence, and thus of Beauty. But Art demands a
certain fulness, and desires not to strike a single note or tone, nor
even a detached accord, but at once the full symphony of Beauty.

Art, therefore, prefers to grasp immediately at the highest and most
developed, the human form. For since it is not given it to embrace
the immeasurable whole, and as in all other creatures only single
fulgurations, in Man alone full entire Being appears without
abatement, Art is not only permitted but required to see the sum of
Nature in Man alone. But precisely on this account--that she here
assembles all in one point--Nature repeats her whole multiformity, and
pursues again in a narrower compass the same course that she had gone
through in her wide circuit.

Here, therefore, arises the demand upon the artist first to be true
and faithful in detail, in order to come forth complete and beautiful
in the whole. Here he must wrestle with the creative spirit of Nature
(which in the human world also deals out character and stamp in
endless variety), not in weak and effeminate, but stout and courageous
conflict.

Persevering exercise in the study of that by virtue of which the
characteristic in things is a positive principle, must preserve him
from emptiness, weakness, inward inanity, before he can venture to
aim, by ever higher combination and final melting together of manifold
forms, to reach the extremest beauty in works uniting the highest
simplicity with infinite meaning.

Only through the perfection of form can Form be made to disappear; and
this is certainly the final aim of Art in the Characteristic. But as
the apparent harmony that is even more easily reached by the empty and
frivolous than by others, is yet inwardly vain; so in Art the quickly
attained harmony of the exterior, without inward fulness. And if it is
the part of theory and instruction to oppose the spiritless copying
of beautiful forms, especially must they oppose the tendency toward
an effeminate characterless Art, which gives itself, indeed, higher
names, but therewith only seeks to hide its incapacity to fulfil the
fundamental conditions.

That lofty Beauty in which the fulness of form causes Form itself to
disappear, was adopted by the modern theory of Art, after Winckelmann,
not only as the highest, but as the only standard. But as the deep
foundation upon which it rests was overlooked, it resulted that a
negative conception was formed even of that which is the sum of all
affirmation.

Winckelmann compares Beauty with water drawn from the bosom of the
spring, which, the less taste it has, the wholesomer it is esteemed.
It is true that the highest Beauty is characterless, but so we say
of the Universe that it has no determinate dimension, neither length,
breadth nor depth, since it has all in equal infinity; or that the Art
of creative Nature is formless, because she herself is subjected to no
form.

In this and in no other sense can we say that Grecian art in its
highest development rises into the characterless; but it did not aim
immediately at this. It was from the bonds of Nature that it struggled
upward to divine freedom. From no lightly scattered seed, but only
from a deeply infolded kernel, could this heroic growth spring up.
Only mighty emotions, only a deep stirring of the fancy through the
impression of all-enlivening, all-commanding energies of Nature,
could stamp upon Art that invincible vigor with which from the rigid,
secluded earnestness of earlier productions up to the period of works
overflowing with sensuous grace, it ever remained faithful to truth,
and produced the highest spiritual Reality which it is given to
mortals to behold.

In like manner, as their Tragedy commences with the grandest
characteristicness in morals, so the beginning of their Plastic Art
was the earnestness of Nature, and the stern goddess of Athens its
first and only Muse.

This epoch is marked by that style which Winckelmann describes as the
still harsh and severe, from which the next or lofty style was able to
develop itself by the mere enhancement of the Characteristic into the
Sublime and the Simple.

For in the statues of the most perfect or divine natures not only
all the complexity of form of which human nature is capable had to
be united, but moreover the union must be such as may be conceived to
exist in the system of the Universe itself--the lower forms, or those
relating to inferior attributes, being comprehended under higher, and
all at last under one supreme form, in which they indeed extinguish
one another as separately existing, but still continue in Essence and
efficiency.

Thus, though we cannot call this high and self-sufficing Beauty
characteristic, so far as herewith is connected the notion of
limitation or conditionality in the manifestation, yet still the
characteristic continues efficient, though indistinguishable, within;
as in the crystal, although transparent, the texture nevertheless
remains; each characteristic element has its weight, however slight,
and helps to bring about the sublime equipoise of Beauty.

The outer side or basis of all Beauty is beauty of form. But as
Form cannot exist without Essence, wherever Form is, there also is
Character, whether in visible presence or only perceptible in its
effects. Characteristic Beauty, therefore, is Beauty in the root,
from which alone Beauty can arise as the fruit. Essence may, indeed,
outgrow Form, but even then the Characteristic remains as the still
efficient groundwork of the Beautiful.

That most excellent critic,[6] to whom the gods have given sway over
Nature as well as Art, compares the Characteristic in its relation to
Beauty, with the skeleton in its relation to the living form. Were we
to interpret this striking simile in our sense, we should say that
the skeleton, in Nature, is not, as in our thought, detached from the
living whole; that the firm and the yielding, the determining and
the determined, mutually presuppose each other, and can exist only
together; thus that the vitally Characteristic is already the whole
form, the result of the action and reaction of bone and flesh, of
Active and Passive. And although Art, like Nature, in its higher
developments, thrusts inward the previously visible skeleton, yet the
latter can never be opposed to Shape and Beauty, since it has always
a determining share in the production of the one as well as of the
other.

But whether that high and independent Beauty should be the only
standard in Art, as it is the highest, seems to depend on the degree
of fulness and extent that belongs to the particular Art.

Nature, in her wide circumference, ever exhibits the higher with the
lower; creating in Man the godlike, she elaborates in all her other
productions only its material and foundation, which must exist in
order that in contrast with it the Essence as such may appear. And
even in the higher world of Man the great mass serves again as the
basis upon which the godlike that is preserved pure in the few,
manifests itself in legislation, government, and the establishment of
Religion. So that wherever Art works with more of the complexity of
Nature, it may and must display, together with the highest measure of
Beauty, also its groundwork and raw material, as it were, in distinct
appropriate forms.

Here first prominently unfolds itself the difference in Nature of the
forms of Art.

Plastic Art, in the more exact sense of the term, disdains to give
Space outwardly to the object, but bears it within itself. This,
however, narrows its field; it is compelled, indeed, to display the
beauty of the Universe almost in a single point. It must therefore aim
immediately at the highest, and can attain complexity only separately
and in the strictest exclusion of all conflicting elements. By
isolating the purely animal in human nature it succeeds in forming
inferior creations too, harmonious and even beautiful, as we are
taught by the beauty of numerous Fauns preserved from antiquity; yea,
it can, parodying itself like the merry spirit of Nature, reverse
its own Ideal, and, for instance, in the extravagance of the Silenic
figures, by light and sportive treatment appear freed again from the
pressure of matter.

But in all cases it is compelled strictly to isolate the work, in
order to make it self-consistent and a world in itself; since for
this form of Art there is no higher unity, in which the dissonance of
particulars should be melted into harmony.

Painting, on the contrary, in the very extent of its sphere, can
better measure itself with the Universe, and create with epic
profusion. In an Iliad there is room even for a Thersites; and what
does not find a place in the great epic of Nature and History!

Here the Particular scarcely counts anything by itself; the Universe
takes its place, and that, which by itself would not be beautiful,
becomes so in the harmony of the whole. If in an extensive painting,
uniting forms by the allotted space, by light, by shade, by
reflection, the highest measure of Beauty were everywhere employed,
the result would be the most unnatural monotony; for, as Winckelmann
says, the highest idea of Beauty is everywhere one and the same, and
scarcely admits of variation. The detail would be preferred to
the whole, where, as in every case in which the whole is formed by
multiplicity, the detail must be subordinate to it.

[Illustration: THE JUNGFRAU _From the Painting by Moritz von Schwind_]

In such a work, therefore, a gradation of Beauty must be observed, by
which alone the full Beauty concentrated in the focus becomes visible;
and from an exaggeration of particulars proceeds an equipoise of the
whole. Here, then, the limited and characteristic finds its place; and
theory at least should direct the painter, not so much to the narrow
space in which the entire Beauty is concentrically collected, as to
the characteristic complexity of Nature, through which alone he can
impart to an extensive work the full measure of living significance.

Thus thought, among the founders of modern art, the noble Leonardo;
thus Raphael, the master of high Beauty, who shunned not to exhibit
it in smaller measure, rather than to appear monotonous, lifeless, and
unreal--though he understood not only how to produce it, but also how
to break up uniformity by variety of expression.

For, although Character can show itself also in rest and equilibrium
of form, it is only in action that it becomes truly alive.

By character we understand a unity of several forces, operating
constantly to produce among them a certain equipoise and determinate
proportion, to which, if undisturbed, a like equipoise in the symmetry
of the forms corresponds. But if this vital Unity is to display itself
in act and operation, this can only be when the forces, excited by
some cause to rebellion, forsake their equilibrium. Every one sees
that this is the case in the Passions.

Here we are met by the well-known maxim of the theorists, which
demands that Passion should be moderated as far as possible, in its
actual outburst, that beauty of Form may not be injured. But we think
this maxim should rather be reversed, and read thus--that Passion
should be moderated by Beauty itself. For it is much to be feared that
this desired moderation too may be taken in a negative sense--whereas,
what is really requisite is to oppose to Passion a positive force. For
as Virtue consists, not in the absence of passions, but in the mastery
of the spirit over them, so Beauty is preserved, not by their removal
or abatement, but by the mastery of Beauty over them.

The forces of Passion must actually show themselves--it must be seen
that they are prepared to rise in mutiny, but are kept down by the
power of Character, and break against the forms of firmly-founded
Beauty, as the waves of a stream that just fills, but cannot overflow
its banks. Otherwise, this striving after moderation would resemble
only the method of those shallow moralists, who, the more readily
to dispose of Man, prefer to mutilate his nature; and who have so
entirely removed every positive element from actions that the
people gloat over the spectacle of great crimes, in order to refresh
themselves at last with the view of something positive.

In Nature and Art the Essence strives first after actualization,
or exhibition of itself in the Particular. Thus in each the utmost
severity is manifested at the commencement; for without bound, the
boundless could not appear; without severity, gentleness could not
exist; and if unity is to be perceptible, it can only be through
particularity, detachment, and opposition. In the beginning,
therefore, the creative spirit shows itself entirely lost in the Form,
inaccessibly shut up, and even in its grandeur still harsh. But the
more it succeeds in uniting its entire fulness in one product, the
more it gradually relaxes from its severity; and where it has fully
developed the form, so as to rest contented and self-collected in it,
it seems to become cheerful and begins to move in gentle lines. This
is the period of its fairest maturity and blossom, in which the pure
vessel has arrived at perfection; the spirit of Nature becomes free
from its bonds, and feels its relationship to the soul. By a gentle
morning blush stealing over the whole form, the coming soul announces
itself; it is not yet present, but everything prepares for its
reception by the delicate play of gentle movements; the rigid outlines
melt and temper themselves into flexibility; a lovely essence, neither
sensuous nor spiritual, but which cannot be grasped, diffuses itself
over the form, and intwines itself with every outline, every vibration
of the frame.

This essence, not to be seized, as we have already remarked, but yet
perceptible to all, is what the language of the Greeks designated by
the name _Charis_, ours as Grace.

Wherever, in a fully developed form, Grace appears, the work is
complete on the side of Nature; nothing more is wanting; all demands
are satisfied. Here, already, soul and body are in complete harmony;
Body is Form, Grace is Soul, although not Soul in itself, but the Soul
of Form, or the Soul of Nature.

Art may linger, and remain stationary at this point; for already,
on one side at least, its whole task is finished. The pure image of
Beauty arrested at this point is the Goddess of Love.

But the beauty of the Soul in itself, joined to sensuous Grace, is the
highest apotheosis of Nature.

The spirit of Nature is only in appearance opposed to the Soul;
essentially, it is the instrument of its revelation; it brings about
indeed the antagonism that exists in all things, but only that the
one essence may come forth, as the utmost benignity, and the
reconciliation of all the forces.

All other creatures are driven by the mere force of Nature, and
through it maintain their individuality; in Man alone, as the central
point, arises the soul, without which the world would be like the
natural universe without the sun. The Soul in Man, therefore, is not
the principle of individuality, but that whereby he raises himself
above all egoism, whereby he becomes capable of self-sacrifice, of
disinterested love, and (which is the highest) of the contemplation
and knowledge of the Essence of things, and thus of Art.

In him it is no longer concerned about Matter nor has it immediate
concern with it, but with the spirit only as the life of things.
Even while appearing in the body, it is yet free from the body, the
consciousness of which hovers in the soul in the most beauteous shapes
only as a light, undisturbing dream. It is no quality, no faculty, nor
anything special of the sort; it knows not, but is Science; it is
not good, but Goodness; it is not beautiful, as body even may be, but
Beauty itself.

In the first instance, it is true, in a work of art, the soul of the
artist is seen as invention in the detail, and in the total result as
the unity that hovers over the work in serene stillness. But the Soul
must be visible in objective representation, as the primeval energy
of thought, in portraitures of human beings, altogether filled by an
idea, by a noble contemplation; or as indwelling, essential Goodness.

Each of these finds its distinct expression even in the completest
repose, but a more living one where the Soul can reveal itself in
activity and antagonism; and since it is by the passions mainly that
the peace of life is interrupted, it is the generally received opinion
that the beauty of the Soul shows itself especially in its quiet
supremacy amid the storm of the passions.

But here an important distinction is to be made. For the Soul must not
be called upon to moderate those passions which are only an outbreak
of the lower spirits of Nature, nor can it be displayed in antithesis
with these; for where calm considerateness is still in contention
with them, the Soul has not yet appeared; they must be moderated by
unassisted Nature in Man, by the might of the Spirit. But there are
cases of a higher sort, in which not a single force alone, but the
intelligent Spirit itself breaks down all barriers--cases, indeed,
where even the Soul is subjected by the bond that connects it with
sensuous existence, to pain, which should be foreign to its divine
nature; where Man feels himself hard fought and attacked in the root
of his existence, not by mere powers of Nature, but by moral forces;
where innocent error hurries him into crime, and thus into misery;
where deep-felt injustice excites to rebellion the holiest feelings of
humanity.

This is the case in all situations, truly, and, in a high sense,
tragic, such as the Tragedy of the ancients brings before our eyes.
Where blindly passionate forces are aroused, the collected Spirit is
present as the guardian of Beauty; but if the Spirit itself be carried
away, as by an irresistible might, what power shall watch over
and protect sacred beauty? Or, if even the soul participate in the
struggle, how shall it save itself from pain and from desecration?

Arbitrarily to restrain the power of pain, of feeling in revolt, would
be to sin against the very meaning and aim of Art, and would betray a
want of feeling and soul in the artist himself.

Already therein, that Beauty, based on grand and firmly established
forms, has become Character, Art has provided the means of displaying
without injury to symmetry the whole intensity of Feeling. For where
Beauty rests on mighty forms, as upon immovable pillars, even a slight
change in its relations, scarcely touching the form, causes us to
infer the great force that was necessary in order to provide it. Still
more does Grace sanctify pain. It is the essential nature of Grace
that it does not know itself; but not being wilfully acquired, it also
cannot be wilfully lost. When intolerable anguish, when even madness,
sent by avenging gods, takes away consciousness and reason, Grace
stands as a protecting demon by the suffering person, and prevents it
from manifesting anything unseemly, anything discordant to Humanity,
but sees to it that, if the person falls, it falls at least a pure and
unspotted victim.

Although not yet the Soul itself, but its forebodings only, Grace
accomplishes by natural means what the Soul does by a divine power, in
transforming pain, torpor, even death itself, into Beauty.

Yet Grace, which thus maintained itself in the extremest adversity,
would be dead, without its transfiguration by the Soul. But what
expression can belong to the Soul in this situation? It delivers
itself from pain, and comes forth conquering, not conquered, by
relinquishing its connection with sensuous existence.

It is for the natural Spirit to exert its energies for the
preservation of sensuous existence; the Soul enters not into
this contest, but its presence moderates even the storms of
painfully-struggling life. Outward force can take away only outward
goods, but not reach the Soul; it can tear asunder a temporal bond,
not dissolve the eternal one of a truly divine love. Not hard and
unfeeling, nor giving up love itself, on the contrary the Soul
displays in pain this love alone, as the sentiment that outlasts
sensuous existence, and thus raises itself above the ruins of outward
life or fortune in divine glory.

It is this expression of the Soul that the creator of the Niobe has
presented to us. All the means by which Art tempers even the Terrible,
are here made use of. Mightiness of form, sensuous Grace, nay, even
the nature of the subject-matter itself, soften the expression,
through this, that Pain, transcending all expression, annihilates
itself, and Beauty, which it seemed impossible to preserve from
destruction when alive, is protected from injury by the commencing
torpor.

But what would it all be without the Soul, and how does this manifest
itself?

We see on the countenance of the mother, not grief alone for the
already prostrated flower of her children; not alone deadly anxiety
for the preservation of those yet remaining, and of the youngest
daughter, who has fled for safety to her bosom; nor resentment against
the cruel deities; least of all, as is pretended, cool defiance-all
these we see, indeed, but not these alone; for, through grief,
anxiety, and resentment streams, like a divine light, eternal love, as
that which alone remains; and in this is preserved the mother, as
one who was not, but now is a mother, and who remains united with the
beloved ones by an eternal bond.

Every one acknowledges that greatness, purity, and goodness of Soul
have also their sensuous expressions. But how is this conceivable,
unless the principle that acts in Matter be itself cognate and similar
to Soul?

For the representation of the Soul there are again gradations in
Art, according as it is joined with the merely Characteristic, or in
visible union with the Charming and Graceful.

Who perceives not already, in the tragedies of AEschylus, the presence
of that lofty morality which is predominant in the works of Sophocles?
But in the former it is enveloped in a bitter rind, and passes
less into the whole work, since the bond of sensuous Grace is still
wanting. But out of this severity, and the still rude charms of
earlier Art, could proceed the grace of Sophocles, and with it the
complete fusion of the two elements, which leaves us doubtful whether
it is more moral or sensuous Grace that enchants us in the works of
this poet.

The same is true of the plastic productions of the early and severe
style, in comparison with the gentleness of the later.

If Grace, besides being the transfiguration of the spirit of Nature,
is also the medium of connection between moral Goodness and sensuous
Appearance, it is evident how Art must tend from all points toward
it as its centre. This Beauty, which results from the perfect
interpenetration of moral Goodness and sensuous Grace, seizes and
enchants us when we meet it, with the force of a miracle. For, whilst
the spirit of Nature shows itself everywhere else independent of the
Soul, and, indeed, in a measure opposed to it, here, it seems, as if
by voluntary accord, and the inward fire of divine love, to melt into
union with it; the remembrance of the fundamental unity of the essence
of Nature and the essence of the Soul comes over the beholder with
sudden clearness--the conviction that all antagonism is only apparent,
that Love is the bond of all things, and pure Goodness the foundation
and substance of the whole Creation.

Here Art, as it were, transcends itself, and again becomes means only.
On this summit sensuous Grace becomes in turn only the husk and body
of a higher life; what was before a whole is treated as a part, and
the highest relation of Art and Nature is reached in this--that it
makes Nature the medium of manifesting the soul which it contains.

But though in this blossoming of Art, as in the blossoming of the
vegetable kingdom, all the previous stages are repeated, yet, on the
other hand, we may see in what various directions Art can proceed from
this centre. Especially does the difference in nature of the two
forms of Plastic Art here show itself most strongly. For Sculpture,
representing its ideas by corporeal things, seems to reach its highest
point in the complete equilibrium of Soul and Matter--if it give a
preponderance to the latter it sinks below its own idea--but it seems
altogether impossible for it to elevate the Soul at the expense of
Matter, since it must thereby transcend itself. The perfect sculptor
indeed, as Winckelmann remarks apropos of the Belvedere Apollo, will
use no more material than is needful to accomplish his spiritual
purpose; but also, on the other hand, he will put into the Soul no
more energy than is at the same time expressed in the material; for
precisely upon this, fully to embody the spiritual, depends his
art. Sculpture, therefore, can reach its true summit only in the
representation of those natures in whose constitution it is implied
that they actually embody all that is contained in their Idea or Soul;
thus only in divine natures. So that Sculpture, even if no Mythology
had preceded it, would of itself have come upon gods, and have
invented such if it found none.

Moreover as the Spirit, on this lower platform, has again the same
relation to Matter that we have ascribed to the Soul (being the
principle of activity and motion, as Matter is that of rest and
inaction), the law that regulates Expression and Passion must be a
fundamental principle of its nature.

But this law must be applicable not only to the lower passions, but
also equally to those higher and godlike passions, if it is permitted
so to call them, by which the Soul is affected in rapture, in
devotion, in adoration. Hence, since from these passions the gods
alone are exempt, Sculpture is inclined from this side also to the
imaging of divine natures.

The nature of Painting, however, seems to differ entirely from that of
Sculpture. For the former represents objects, not like the latter, by
corporeal things, but by light and color, through a medium therefore
itself incorporeal and in a measure spiritual. Painting, moreover,
gives out its productions nowise as the things themselves, but
expressly as pictures. From its very nature therefore it does not lay
as much stress on the material as Sculpture, and seems indeed for
this reason, while exalting the material above the spirit, to degrade
itself more than Sculpture in a like case; on the other hand to be so
much more justified in giving a clear preponderance to the Soul.

Where it aims at the highest it will indeed ennoble the passions by
Character, or moderate them by Grace, or manifest in them the power of
the Soul: but on the other hand it is precisely those higher passions,
depending on the relationship of the Soul with a Supreme Being, that
are entirely suited to the nature of Painting. Indeed, while Sculpture
maintains an exact balance between the force whereby a thing exists
outwardly and acts in Nature and that by virtue of which it lives
inwardly and as Soul, and excludes mere suffering even from Matter,
Painting may soften in favor of the Soul the characteristicness of the
force and activity in Matter, and transform it into resignation
and endurance, making it apparent that Man becomes more generally
susceptible to the inspirations of the Soul, and to higher influences
in general.

This diametrical difference explains of itself not only the necessary
predominance of Sculpture in the ancient, and of Painting in the
modern world (since in the former the tone of mind was thoroughly
plastic, whereas the latter makes even the Soul the passive instrument
of higher revelations); but this also is evident--that it is
not enough to strive after the Plastic in form and manner of
representation, but that it is requisite, before all, to think and to
feel plastically, that is, antiquely.

And as the deviation of Sculpture into the picturesque is destructive
to Art, so the narrowing down of Painting to the conditions and forms
belonging to Sculpture is an arbitrarily imposed limitation. For while
Sculpture, like gravitation, acts toward one point, it is permitted to
Painting, as to light, to fill all space with its creative energy.

This unlimited universality of Painting is demonstrated by History
itself, and by the examples of the greatest masters, who, without
injury to the essential character of their art, have developed to
perfection each particular stage by itself, so that we can find also
in the history of Art the same sequence that may be pointed out in its
nature--not indeed in exact order of time, but yet substantially. For
thus is represented in Michelangelo the oldest and mightiest epoch of
liberated Art, that in which it displays its yet uncontrolled strength
in gigantic progeny; as in the fables of the symbolic Fore-world, the
Earth, after the embrace of Uranus, brought forth at first Titans and
heaven-storming giants before the mild reign of the serene gods began.

Thus the painting of the Last Judgment, with which, as the sum of his
art, that giant spirit filled the Sistine Chapel, seems to remind
us more of the first ages of the Earth and its products, than of
its last. Attracted toward the most hidden abysses of organic,
particularly of the human form, he shuns not the Terrible; nay,
he seeks it purposely, and startles it from its repose in the dark
workshops of Nature. Want of delicacy, grace, pleasingness, he
balances by the extremest energy; and if he excites horror by his
representations, it is the terror that, according to fable, the
ancient god Pan spreads around him when he suddenly appears in the
assemblies of men.

It is the method of Nature to produce the extraordinary by isolation
and the exclusion of opposed qualities. Thus, it was necessary that,
in Michelangelo, earnestness and the deep significant energy of Nature
should prevail, rather than a sense of the grace and sensibility that
belong to the Soul, in order to display the extreme of pure plastic
force in the painting of modern times.

After the earlier violence and the vehement impulse of birth is
assuaged, the spirit of Nature is transfigured into Soul, and Grace is
born. This point Art reached, after Leonardo da Vinci, in Correggio,
in whose works the sensuous Soul is the active principle of Beauty.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the modern fable of Psyche closes the circle of the old mythology;
so Painting, by giving a preponderance to the Soul, attained a new,
though not a higher step of Art.

This Guido Reni strove after, and became the proper painter of the
Soul. Such seems to us to be the necessary interpretation of his whole
endeavor, often uncertain, and, in many of his works, losing itself in
the vague.

This is shown, as, perhaps, in few of his other pictures, in the
masterpiece that is offered to the admiration of all in the great
collection of our king.

In the figure of the heavenward-ascending Virgin, all harshness and
sternness are effaced, even to the last trace; and, indeed, does not
Painting itself seem in it to soar upward, transfigured on its own
pinions, as the liberated Psyche delivered from the severity of Form?

Here nothing outward remains, with separate natural force; everything
expresses receptivity and still endurance, even the perishable flesh,
the character of which the Italian language designates by the term
_morbidezza_, altogether unlike that with which Raphael invests the
descending Queen of Heaven, as she appears to the adoring pope and a
saint.

Though the remark be well-founded, that the original of Guido's female
heads is the Niobe of antiquity, yet the ground of this similarity is
surely no mere intentional imitation; perhaps a like aim led to like
means.

As the Florentine Niobe is an extreme in Sculpture, and the
representation in it of the Soul, so this well-known picture is
an extreme in Painting, which here ventures to lay aside even the
requisite of shade and the obscure, and to work almost with pure
Light.

Even though it might be permitted to Painting, from its peculiar
nature, to give a distinct preponderance to the Soul, yet theory and
instruction will do best constantly to aim at that original Centre,
whence alone Art may be produced ever anew; whereas, at the stage last
mentioned, it must necessarily stand still, or degenerate into cramped
mannerism. For even that higher passion is opposed to the idea of
having reached the acme of energy, whose image and reflex Art is
called upon to display.

A right intelligence will ever enjoy seeing a creature worthily, and,
as far as possible, also individually, represented; yea, Deity itself
would look down with pleasure on a being that, gifted with a pure
soul, should stoutly assert the dignity of its nature outwardly also,
and by its sensually efficient existence.

We have seen how the work of Art, springing up out of the depths of
Nature, begins with determinateness and limitation, unfolds its inward
plenitude and infinity, is finally transfigured in Grace, and at
last attains to Soul. But we can conceive only in detail what, in the
creative act of mature Art, is but one operation. No theory and no
rules can give this spiritual, creative power. It is the pure gift of
Nature, which here, for the second time, makes a close; for, having
fully actualized herself, she invests the creature with her creative
energy. But as, in the grand progress of Art, these different stages
appeared successively, until, at the highest, all joined in one; so
also, in particulars, sound culture can spring up only where it has
unfolded itself regularly from the germ and root to the blossom.

The requirement that Art, like everything living, should commence from
the first rudiments, and, to renew its youth, constantly return
to them, may seem a hard doctrine to an age that has so often
been assured that it has only to take from works of Art already in
existence the most consummate Beauty, and thus, as at a step, to reach
the final goal. Have we not already the Excellent, the Perfect? How
then should we return to the rudimentary and unformed?

Had the great founders of modern Art thought thus, we should never
have seen their miracles. Before them also stood the creations of the
ancients, round statues and works in relief, which they might have
transferred immediately to their canvas. But such an appropriation of
a Beauty not self-won, and therefore unintelligible, would not satisfy
an artistic instinct that aimed throughout at the fundamental, and
from which the Beautiful was again to create itself with free original
energy. They were not afraid, therefore, to appear simple, artless,
dry, beside those exalted ancients; nor to cherish Art for a long time
in the undistinguished bud, until the period of Grace had arrived.

Whence comes it that we still look upon these works of the older
masters, from Giotto to the teacher of Raphael, with a sort of
reverence, indeed with a certain predilection, if not that the
faithfulness of their endeavor, and the grand earnestness of their
serene voluntary limitation, compel our respect and admiration.

The same relation that they held to the ancients, the present
generation holds to them. Their time and ours are joined by no living
transmission, no link of continuous, organic growth; we must reproduce
Art in the way they did, but with energy of our own, in order to be
like them.

Even that Indian-summer of Art, at the end of the sixteenth and the
beginning of the seventeenth centuries, could call forth only a few
new blossoms on the old stem, but no productive germs, still less
plant a new tree of Art. But to set aside the works of perfected
Art, and to seek out its scanty and simple beginnings, as some have
desired, would be a new and perhaps greater mistake; it would be no
real return to the fundamental; simplicity would be affectation, and
grow into hypocritical show.

But what prospect does the present time offer for an Art springing
from a vigorous germ, and growing up from the root? For it is in a
great measure dependent on the character of its time; and who
would promise the approbation of the present time to such earnest
beginnings, when Art, on the one hand, scarcely obtains equal
consideration with other instruments of prodigal luxury, and, on the
other, artists and amateurs, with entire want of ability to grasp
Nature, praise and demand the Ideal?

Art springs only from that powerful striving of the inmost powers of
the heart and the spirit, which we call Inspiration. Everything that
from difficult or small beginnings has grown up to great power and
height, owes its growth to Inspiration. Thus spring empires and
states, thus arts and sciences. But it is not the power of the
individual that accomplishes this, but the Spirit alone, that diffuses
itself over all. For Art especially is dependent on the tone of the
public mind, as the more delicate plants on atmosphere and weather; it
needs a general enthusiasm for Sublimity and Beauty, like that which,
in the time of the Medici, as a warm breath of spring, called forth at
once and together all those great spirits.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is only when the public life is actuated by the same forces through
whose energy Art is elevated, that the latter can derive any advantage
from it; for Art cannot, without giving up the nobility of its nature,
aim at anything outward.

Art and Science can move only on their own axes; the artist, like
every spiritual laborer, can follow only the law that God and Nature
have written in his heart. None can help him--he must help himself;
nor can he be outwardly rewarded, since anything that he should
produce for the sake of aught out of itself, would thereby become a
nullity; hence, too, no one can direct him, nor prescribe the path
he is to tread. Is he to be pitied if he have to contend against his
time, he is deserving of contempt if he truckle to it. But how
should it be even possible for him to do this? Without great general
enthusiasm there are only sects--no public opinion; not an established
taste, not the great ideas of a whole people, but the voices of a few
arbitrarily-appointed judges, determine as to merit; and Art, which
in its elevation is self-sufficing, courts favor, and serves where it
should rule.

To different ages are given different inspirations. Can we expect none
for this age, since the new world now forming itself, as it exists in
part already outwardly, in part inwardly and in the hearts of men, can
no longer be measured by any standard of previous opinion, and since
everything, on the contrary, loudly demands higher standards and an
entire renovation?

Should not the sense to which Nature and History have more livingly
unfolded themselves, restore to Art also its great arguments? The
attempt to draw sparks from the ashes of the Past, and fan them again
into universal flame, is a vain endeavor. Only a revolution in the
ideas themselves is able to raise Art from its exhaustion; only new
Knowledge, new Faith, can inspire it for the work by which it can
display, in a renewed life, a splendor like the past.

An Art in all respects the same as that of foregoing centuries, will
never return; for Nature never repeats herself. Such a Raphael will
never be again, but another, who shall have reached in an equally
original manner the summit of Art. Only let the fundamental conditions
be fulfilled, and renewed Art will show, like that which preceded
it, in its first works, its aim and intent. In the production of the
distinctly characteristic, if it proceed from a fresh original energy,
Grace is already present, even though hidden, and in both the advent
of the Soul already determined. Works produced in this manner, even in
their rudimentary imperfection, are necessary and eternal. * * *




LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM

By George H. Danton, PH.D

Professor of German, Butler College


The group of later Romanticists is distinguished from the earlier
pioneers by less emphasis on speculative philosophy, by greater
spontaneity, and by more creative ability. The later school was less
interested in questions primarily esthetic and was more democratic.
Both groups were enemies of the aristocratic Enlightenment of the
eighteenth century; but where the earlier group worked with the
Kantian understanding and with a supersensuous philosophy, the younger
men lived in the world and were of it; they used the people to carry
on their propaganda. Thus, though later Romanticism contains nearly
all the ideas of earlier Romanticism, it displays in addition also,
political, national, and social tendencies which were in the main
foreign to the earlier writers.

There was in the later group a deeper sense of religion and a firmer
belief in the spiritual foundations of experience than is shown by
their predecessors, though all Romanticism tried to penetrate the
mysteries of life and all Romanticists were seers as well as
prophets. In the later school, too, there appears a development of the
nature-sense far beyond anything shown in the first group. Indeed,
the Schlegels may be said to have been without a sense for nature; in
Tieck there is a great discrepancy between the man, his beliefs,
and his practise, and Novalis' nature-feeling is not attached to
any specific place. But Brentano loves the Rhine, and Eichendorff's
landscape is genuinely Silesian. Caroline and Dorothea know nothing of
the mood which makes Bettina throw herself prone in the grass to watch
an insect crawl over her hand.

A keener appreciation of natural beauty led to a study of natural
science; thence it was but a step to the "night-sides" of nature;
and spiritism, mesmerism, occultism, and abnormal psychology fill the
minds of such men as the Romantic philosopher Schubert, and of the
physicians Carus and Passavant. Justinus Kerner wrote of the Seeress
of Prevorst, and Clemens Brentano watched for years at the bedside
of a stigmatized nun. On the other hand, from nature comes a love for
home and country, and this love serves as a bridge to the patriotism
which was the vital force in the Wars of Liberation and which, by
well-marked gradations, destroyed the cosmopolitanism engendered by
the French Revolution. Art went hand in hand with nature; the
wild, weird landscapes of Caspar David Friedrich, fascinating and
specifically German, express the Romantic spirit fully as well as the
delicate, spiritual, and thoroughly sane fancies of Philip Otto Runge,
the artist of early Romanticism.

As the earlier men centred in Jena, so the later Romanticists
flourished in Heidelberg, that city which Eichendorff called "itself
a magnificent Romanticism." The earlier group was largely North German
and brought with it clear perception and a certain power of analysis,
an ability to dissect and to reason. With the Heidelberg group the
South begins to play a larger part, though there were a number of
North Germans in it. The richer fancy, the longer literary tradition,
now add color to their productions. It is significant, too, that
though "castle Romanticism" does not die out, a new note is struck
with the celebration of the Rhine in song, story, and legend. The
river begins with Romantic tradition and in a Romantic _milieu_, but
rises to political significance as "Germany's stream and not Germany's
boundary." The southward tendency of the movement reached its climax
when its centre shifted to Munich, with a culture-loving king, an
Academy of Sciences and a new University. Munich was fortunately not
destined to become like Vienna, that other South German city, "a Capua
of the spirit."

Though certain members of the later Romantic group were closely
associated with each other in a way that was unknown to the older set,
Arnim and Savigny having each married a sister of Brentano, there was
less real solidarity among them than in their forerunners. By no means
all the men treated within the confines of the present article had the
close personal association which, when combined with intellectual or
literary activity, goes by the rather loose name of a "school." The
first Romanticists were held together by a common effort to formulate
or to attain a speculative philosophy. In the second group, there was
a decentralizing, catholicizing tendency, and, above all, a greater
individual creative ability. It was not merely the chance difference
of external fortunes that kept them apart, though they never held
together after the death of Brentano's wife in 1806, but that each
projected his individuality into his literary work rather than into a
common polemic ideal. The path-finding and discovery had already been
done; in the quieter backwater it was possible to develop well-rounded
works of real esthetic value.

Very significant of the differences between the schools is their
journalistic activity. The ideal of the first Romanticists was to work
without collaboration; but the very prospectus of Arnim's _Journal for
Hermits_ is signed by a company of editors. The early journals were
turned to the study of German literature through a renunciation of
the present; the later Germanic studies arose from a high idealism and
from a sincere desire to awaken the present to new national activity.
When, later in life, Goerres remarked of these journals that their
collaborators felt as if they were accompanying the Holy Roman Empire
to its grave, he was thinking of the year in which the most important
of them flourished, 1808. In this, Germany's darkest period, Kleist's
Phoebus, so cordially hated by many, and Arnim's _Journal for Hermits_
had their brief but influential career.

Such a journal as the _Athenaeum_, with its over-emphasis on the
esthetic, with its fighting spirit, its excoriating, inexorable wit,
its constructive and destructive criticism, its complete and total
silence on Schiller, would have been an impossibility in the later
period. The feeling for and thinking in Fragments, as practised by
Friedrich Schlegel and Novalis, was foreign to the new school. They
had no illusions that such thinking would become the daily custom
of the people; they kept their eyes open to that which went on about
them, and though they no more dared than the earlier group to work
directly upon the political conditions of the day as did Goerres later
(1814) in his _Rheinischer Merkur_, they attempted indirectly to
react on the broad mass by branching out into religion and other
folk-interests as the earlier school never cared to do. Perhaps this
is an excuse for the shallowness of some of the product, especially of
the fiction; at any rate, the attempt at dissemination was not without
its success.

The external link connecting the two schools as well as the Romantic
groups in general and the object of their star-worship, Goethe, was
Clemens Maria Brentano (1778-1842), in many ways the most typical
Romantic figure of either school. Brentano's grandmother, Sophie La
Roche, had been the friend of Wieland; his mother, Maximiliane,
played a not unimportant role in the life of the young Goethe and
is immortalized in the latter part of _Werther_. Maximiliane married
Brentano, an Italian from the Como region, and Clemens was the third
child of this loveless union. Brentano's early life was not happy; he
was destined for a business career but was a failure in it, and then
studied at various universities but with no great application or
success. From 1797-1800 he was at Jena, where he succeeded in making
himself hated by the Schlegels in spite of his defense of them in
his satirical play, _Gustav Wasa_ (1800). This play, in the manner of
Tieck's _Puss in Boots_, attempts to ridicule Kotzebue. The method
is the same as Tieck's: there is the play within the play, the gagged
officer (to take the place of the critic Boettger), the puns, of which,
perhaps, the one on Lucinde _(Lux inde)_ is the best, and which,
as often in Brentano, go beyond and surpass Tieck. Romantic irony
flourishes: the whole world of the theatre, the author, the very
lights, the building, the working day and the musical instruments in
the orchestra are dramatized in turn. The dialogue of the latter far
more intimately suggests their quality than does the speech of
the flutes in Tieck, where their spirit is cerulean blue. _Wasa_,
unfortunately, runs off into dull allegory, and this work is not to be
compared with August von Schlegel's _Gate of Honor_ as a satire on the
same subject.

Brentano's _Godwi_ (1801), the sub-title of which, "An Unmanageable
Novel by Maria," shows its character, is a far better production. It
has the strong, full-blooded, passionate love of life characteristic
of its author, "the many-souled" Brentano, whose Romantic irony
resulted from his being ashamed of his sentimentality, and whose
hatred of philistinism was caused by his fear of his own latent
tendency toward that point of view. The plot of _Godwi_ runs wild, but
the satire and the interspersed lyrics make it interesting reading.
Romantic irony can go no farther than in this book, in which the
author's own death-bed scene is portrayed and in which the preceding
parts of the work are referred to by page and line--"This is the pond
into which I fall on page so and so."

If Brentano's _Rosary_ cycle (1809) is somewhat unpleasantly
superhuman, and if, at times, he mixes sex and religion like a mystic
of the Middle Ages or a Spaniard of the Counter Reformation, he rises
to wonderful lyric heights when he touches his own experiences, or
when he expresses the note of the people. His use of the supernatural,
of the subconscious mood, gives rise to such poems as _The Lore-Lay_,
the legend of which was actually invented by Brentano. Like all
Romanticists, Brentano was a poet of incomplete works, of moods
which abandoned him before the artistic perfection of his effort was
reached; but his suggestive touches, and, above all, his constant use
of the refrain in all phases and _genres_, especially to emphasize
and summarize his musical consciousness, are a striking proof of the
French adage, "Quand le coeur chante, c'est toujours un refrain."
Brentano surrenders himself passionately to his mood. His surrender
and his distorting irony, like Heine's, arise from his desire to
assimilate all of the outside world; it explains, in part, the
Romantic desire to mediate, to translate, to bridge the cleft between
oneself and the world. In part, too, it explains the desire for
musical imitation so apparent in both Tieck and Brentano. It is an
attempt to express in terms of one sense the ideas or apperceptions
of another. But where Tieck falls into meaningless jingle, Brentano
succeeds, not merely in suggesting but in producing the effect, as in
his _Merry Musicians_ (1803), or in bringing about its latent mood,
as in his _Spinner's Song_ or in his version of the old
folk-epithalamium, "Come out, come out, thou lovely, lovely bride."

Brentano's prose tales vary in quality from the over-allegorized
latter part of _The Fairy Tale of the Rhine and the Miller Radlauf_
(1816) to the simple and homely _Kasper and Annie_ (1817), with its
elemental clash of soldiers and citizens. Through many of the tales
there runs a note of satire and of symbolism, but the fancy is
exuberant and the interest well maintained. Brentano's discovery
of the Rhine as an object of poetry and veneration is completely
summarized in _Radlauf_, where the Rhine lyrics are often of wonderful
beauty and definiteness and the river becomes a benevolent _deus ex
machina_, who--significantly--in dreams, guides and aids the simple,
honest miller in his search for a bride.

Later in life, Brentano returned to the Roman Church into which he
had been baptized as a child, and gradually withdrew from literary
activity. Long before his death in 1842, he had renounced his earlier
life as wicked and abhorrent, and had given himself over entirely to
the Church. But his career with its constant wanderings, its lack
of permanency of occupation, of family ties, and of a real home,
his inability to grow old, his inner unreality, his excessive
productivity-in short, all that is incomplete, over-stimulated,
destructive of self, make him the most typical figure of the later
Romantic group.

Ludwig Achim von Arnim (1781-1831) is by no means so bizarre a figure.
Born in Berlin of a noble family, he inherited a peculiar
patriotism and his love of culture, and developed these without
the eccentricities which characterized his brother-in-law. The main
influences of his early years were Goethe and Jena, but, as a direct
inspiration, Tieck must also be mentioned. Arnim's early works lie
largely in the field of natural science, especially in physics. He had
little of Brentano's lyric gift; indeed, his poems, where not wooden,
are often merely reminiscent. They show, too, in an unusual degree,
the ability to adapt himself to another's mood and assimilate it--that
which the Germans call "Nachempfinden," a quality which stood him in
excellent stead in his work on _The Boy's Magic Horn_.

The drama _Halle and Jerusalem_ (1810) is an amalgamation of the story
of Cardenio and Celinde used by Gryphius and Immermann, with the story
of the Wandering Jew. The first four acts take place in Halle where
Cardenio is a teacher and where he is living in incestuous relation
with Olympia. He is a Faust-nature and his father is Ahasuerus.
The fifth act is taken up with a pilgrimage to Jerusalem where the
romantic fates of the characters are decided. The play abounds in
contemporary satire and, as in all of Arnim's work, there is distinct
emphasis on action, the goal of human endeavor.

Arnim's prose is better than his verse. Soon, in _The Guardians of
the Crown_ (1817; volume 2 unfinished and published in his literary
remains, 1854), he strikes an individual note. This novel is one
of the best products of German Romanticism. The Guardians are a
mysterious secret organization who guard the imperial crown in a fairy
castle and are favorable to the ancient house of Hohenstaufen but
inimical to the ruling Habsburgs. The basis is the newly awakening
ideal of German unity but Arnim fails to express this clearly, and
the concluding motif, that Germany's crown is to be spiritually won,
resolves the whole into a frosty allegory. The progress of the story
is, however, extremely interesting; the whole spacious and varied
scene of medieval life is there, and as Tieck and Wackenroder
discovered Nuremberg, and Brentano the Rhine, so Arnim may be said to
have shown in its full activity the Ghibelline city of Waiblingen. It
is, to be sure, a Romantic Waiblingen, and not the real city, as Arnim
himself was afterward forced to admit with some disappointment when he
actually saw it. But as Arnim portrays it, it rises to typical value
without losing any of its poetic individuality. It is the city of the
Hohenstaufens, the last stand of medievalism against the encroachment
of a new civilization. The echoes from Gotz von Berlichingen are at
once apparent to the reader. But Arnim's city of the sixteenth century
does not look backward only; the conflicts in it point forward also.
Its abbess is not the traditional pious, fat old lady, but a tall,
thin, practical and active woman. Its Faust is a figure of aggressive
naturalism, a charlatan and quack who practises blood-transfusion on
the hero and who lies drunk in a pig-sty--a scene which shows Arnim's
power of drastic contrast at its best. The hero, Berthold, does
not sit back and wait for the crown to come to him, but with money
mysteriously given him builds a cloth-mill on the site of his
ancestral palace and becomes the mayor of the city. How different a
picture from the hazy cities of Novalis' _Heinrich von Ofterdingen_!
It is a part of the new spirit in Romanticism to point the way for the
people of Germany to go forward--to leave mysticism and dreams, and to
grapple with the life around them.

A similar impulse toward popularization actuated Arnim and Brentano
in their joint work, _The Boy's Magic Horn_ (1806-8). This is the
achievement upon which their greatest fame will always rest. It is
one of the best collections of folk-songs and popular ballads in any
language, and has been of the greatest influence upon Germany. There
was no desire on the part of the editors to write a learned treatise;
they simply wished to gather together and record the folk-songs of the
Fatherland before they were lost forever. In Arnim's own words: "The
richness of this our national song cannot fail to attract universal
attention; it will surprise many; it will supplement many an effort of
our own times, or will render such effort needless. We expect a great
deal from the joyous happy life in these songs--a manifold, full tone
in poetry, an echo of very definite ideas, or an impulse to arouse
many a half-forgotten youthful memory. These poems will not only be
read, they will be remembered and sung. They embrace in their content,
perhaps the greatest portion of German poetry. They will thus set free
many an indefinite longing--a something which is not satisfied by much
re-reading."

Goethe greeted the new undertaking with enthusiasm and urged the
editors to "keep their poetic archives clean, strict, and in good
order." He, too, urged that "this book should be in every house where
joyful humans dwell, by the window, under the mirror, or where song
book and cook book lie. There it should remain, ready to be opened,
and there something should be found for every varying mood." While
this fate has not been granted the work, it has grown deservedly
popular. Philological criticism has caviled at the free hand which
Arnim, especially, used in remolding the songs, but the editors are
freed of any possible charge of intellectual dishonesty toward reader
and source in that their object was to present artistic unities and
not material for further study and dissection.

A folk-song is a song which has become a part of the lyric
consciousness of the people; often the singers do not know that
what they are singing has a literary origin--they have thoroughly
assimilated it. In the best sense of the term, the songs of _The Boy's
Magic Horn_ are folk-songs. They are both narrative and dramatic as
well as pure lyric in form, and are simple, powerful, and direct in
expression. They treat all phases of German life of the past, from a
crude version of the _Lay of Hildebrant_ to the riddles, lullabies,
and counting-out rhymes of children. Pictures of the moral and social
life of peasant Germany are followed by poems of nature and of the
supernatural. Tragedies vary with humorous skits, extravagant and
mocking, and the collection is enlivened with many flyting poems
about tailors--a favorite butt of the peasant past. Ballads of popular
origin and ballads with an added sentimental touch, such as the famous
Strassburg poem with the added Alpine horn motif, are found here.
Delicate, haunting rhymes alternate with crude assonances, and
occasionally one meets with banalities; but, as a whole, the
collection is of surprising merit. It is a product of the Romantic
return to the past, but is filled with a poetic outlook toward the
future. Of the work as a whole Heine says, "I cannot praise the book
enough. It contains the most graceful flowers of the German spirit,
and he who wishes to know the German people at their best, let him
read these folk-songs. * * * In these songs one feels the heart-beat
of the German folk. It is a revelation of all melancholy cheerfulness,
all their foolish reason. Here German anger beats its drum, here is
the pipe of German scorn, the kiss of German love."

The part which the Romantic mood played in the Wars of Liberation is
definite and well-recognized. The soldier, Gneisenau, felt that the
politics of the future lay in the poetry of the day, and Adam Muller
proudly proclaimed poetry to be a war-power: The Romantic longing
for the distance, for love, when directed to the remote past of
the Fatherland, not only yielded a new life in art and religion but
induced a tremendous patriotism as well. The cosmopolitan temper which
caused Lessing to say that love of country was an unknown feeling to
him, gave way before an intenser nationalism. The earlier Romanticists
began it; in the later group it took more specific form and became
a propaganda. It was also precipitated in verse and prose. The spark
came from Fichte, who was gradually led to see in the destiny of
the German people a large cultural fact. Fichte, like a true German,
emphasized education as the means of progress: Arnim grasped the
problem from another side; he felt himself autochthonous, and
consciously set out to make his connection with the soil react on
those sprung from the soil. In him, as well as in Fichte, dawns the
ideal of the German people as an entity, as a nation.

There are three poets whose main value lies in the appeal they made to
the belligerent spirit of the day. They represent three phases of the
German character. Ernst Moritz Arndt (1769-1860), the eldest of the
group, is the pamphleteer, the politician, and the teacher, as well
as the poet. He is the hard-headed, earnest intellectual whose lyric
poetry, whatever its esthetic weaknesses, arouses to action by its
deadly insistence on an idea, on hatred of the French, on salvation by
the sword. Arndt is all virility and fire.

The life of Theodor Koerner (1791-1813), the son of Schiller's intimate
friend, shows that mixture of idealism and practicality for which the
Germans are becoming more and more noted. Koerner was aroused from his
poetic diletantism by the alarms of war. He enlisted in the famous
Luetzow corps and died a soldier's death, thus becoming the symbol of
all that was ideal for the patriotic youth of his day, the hero and
the poet, the man of "Lyre and Sword." His patriotic poems, often
composed on the very field of battle, were sung by the soldiers to the
roll of cannon and the beat of drum. The trace of Schiller's rhetoric
in Koerner's poems adds to their effectiveness, spurring to action and
firing young minds to patriotic emulation of high ideals. Like Arndt's
lyrics, Koerner's poems are actual documents in the struggle for
liberty-verses which affected men.

The German mystic trait, the touch of the religious, marks the poetry
of Max Schenkendorf (1783-1817). His was a quieter nature, which
loved the Fatherland, its language, its romantic scenes and past.
Characteristic also is his veneration for Queen Luise, whose beauty,
tenderness, and fortitude had endeared her to the people as well as to
the poets.

Though every Romantic poet took some stand on the questions of
the day, the most distinctly lyric of them, Joseph von Eichendorff
(1788-1857), was not of a military temperament. Even he, however,
followed the King of Prussia's call to arms but, significantly enough
for "the last Knight of Romanticism," as he was called, arrived a day
too late on the field of Waterloo. The somewhat fanciful title by no
means indicates a jouster at windmills; it implies, rather, that
in Eichendorff there were gathered for the last time with all their
poetic brilliancy, the declining rays of the Romantic movement. After
him, the enthusiasm is in its decline or changes to forms which lie
outside the confines of the Romantic spirit.

Eichendorff is a thorough _pleinairiste_, filled with the atmosphere
of his native Silesia and, in some measure, hardly intelligible apart
from its landscape. His birth-place, the castle of Lubowitz, near
Ratibor, rising high on a hill in full sight of the Oder, is the
ultimate background of all his nature-poetry. Here must be localized
the ever-recurring hill and valley, wood, nightingale, and castle.
Here, too, he heard the rustling of the forest leaves and the
splashing of the fountain; here he was grounded in the strong
and pious, if somewhat narrow, Catholicism of his race. It was a
Catholicism, however, which was genuinely Romantic in that it sought
comfort in sorrow directly from nature, a tendency which gives rise
to some of the best and most heartfelt religious poetry in German
literature. A fine example of this is to be found in Eichendorff's
beautiful poems on the death of his child. It is interesting to see
how, in this spiritual poetry, there is a constant melting of nature
into religion, a dissolving of the Romantic atmosphere, of that
youthful fervor which Eichendorff never really outgrew but continued
to draw upon for inspiration for all his later work, into a broad,
deep, manly piety.

Eichendorff's poetry began with Tieckian notes; it was influenced by
Brentano, and, unfortunately, was colored by the productions of Count
Otto von Loeben (1786-1825), a pseudo-Romanticist of less than
mediocre ability. But Eichendorff's individuality, with its constant
accentuation of the acoustic, soon made itself felt and brought into
German poetry what Tieck had tried for and failed in--an effect of
perfect musical synthesis. The melody of the verse receives a peculiar
lilt by frequent changes in metre between stanzas or in the midst of
the stanza, and is thus saved from monotony. Were its metrical harmony
tiring in any way, it could not have been set to music with such
surprising success. As it is, Eichendorff's poetry has become a
permanent part of the musical life of the nation. _The Broken
Ring_ has passed into a folk-song, and _"O valleys wide!"_ with
Mendelssohn's music is a popular choral of deep religious import.

Yet Eichendorff does not attract either by the variety of his themes
or of his rhymes. It is his very repetitions which so endear him
to the popular heart. His is not passionate poetry, nor does it
subjectively portray the soul-life of its author. In fact, it is saved
from monotony of content at times only by its extreme honesty and
its lovable simplicity. There is none of Goethe's power of suggesting
landscape in a few touches, none of Goethe's logic of description,
none of Goethe's clear inner objectivity, but a certain haze lies over
Eichendorff's landscapes--the haze of a lyric Corot; at the same time,
this landscape has the power of suggestion to the German mind. Paul
Heyse, himself a poet, makes one of his characters say, "I have always
carried Eichendorff Is book of songs with me on my travels. Whenever a
feeling of strangeness comes over me in the variegated days, or I feel
a longing for home, I turn its leaves and am at home again. None of
our poets has the same magic reminiscence of home which captures our
hearts with such touching monotony, with so few pictures and notes.
* * * He is always new, as the voices of Nature itself, and never
oppresses, but rather lulls one to sweet dreams as if a mother were
singing her child to sleep."

The one novel of Eichendorff which has lived, _From the Life of
a Good-for-nothing_ (1826), is a last Romantic shoot of Friedrich
Schlegel's doctrine of divine laziness--a delightful story, abounding
in those elements which perennially endear Romanticism to the young
heart, for it is full of nature and love and fortunate happenings.
What could be more charming than the spirit in which the hero throws
away the vegetables in his garden and puts in flowers? What more naive
than his spyings, his fiddlings? The strength of the story lies in the
fact that while its head is in the clouds, its feet are on the ground.
There is no sentimentalizing, no breaking down of class distinctions;
the good-for-nothing marries his lady-love, but she is of his own
rank. The pseudo-Romanticism of modern novels is avoided; the
hero neither wins a kingdom nor is he the long-lost heir of some
potentate--he remains just what he was, a lovable good-for-nothing.
The weather-eye on probability is what in later times has helped the
Romanticists to slip so easily into Realism--and to reactionary views.

Of all the great mass of material left by Friedrich de la Motte Fouque
(1777-1843), only a lyric or two and the fairy tale _Undine_ have any
value for the present day. Fouque represents the talent which develops
in the glare of the world, is popular for a decade, but soon withers
when the sun is set. His relations to Romanticism are largely
external; he frequented the salons of Rachel Levin and Henrietta Herz
in Berlin, was aided by August von Schlegel, and was praised by
Jean Paul; but in his heart he was not inspired by any of the deeper
longings that characterize the true Romantic spirit. Even though he is
to be credited with the first modern dramatization of the Nibelungen
story, _The Hero of the North_ (1810), and though he took subjects
from the Germanic past and from the chivalric days, he brought no new
life to his rehabilitations. Fouque was too productive, too facile,
too external, too indifferent to psychological motivation to be real.
He diluted Romanticism and sentimentalized it. In him patriotism
becomes chauvinism; love, philandering; and his age of chivalry, a
thinly veiled and sentimental picture of his own times. The strength
and the indigenousness of Arnim are gone, and that power to throw a
Romantic glamor over life which Tieck and Hoffmann had, is lacking.

Only in his charming fairy-tale, _Undine_ (1811), does Fouque rise
above his _milieu. Undine_, the source of which, according to Fouque
himself, is to be found in a work of Paracelsus on supernatural
beings, remains one of the best creations of the Romantic school and,
like Eichendorff's novel, has become international, not only in
its original form but in the opera by Lortzing (first performance,
Hamburg, 1845). The value of the story lies in the author's power
to make the reader believe in Undine, the water sprite, and in
the presentation of a new nature-mythology. All Romanticists have
consciously or unconsciously attempted to satisfy Friedrich Schlegel's
demand for anew mythology: Fouque's earth, air, and water spirits
people the elements with graceful forms from the world of nature; the
nymph Undine in the form of a flowing stream embraces even in death
the grave of her lover.

Ludwig Uhland (1787-1862) was not fundamentally a Romantic
personality. He is called "the classicist of Romanticism," and
with justice. The term shows that he is felt to have something of
completion, of inner perfection, of harmony of form and content which
was lacking in the truer Romanticists. Uhland was without their early
cosmopolitanism. Political life as manifested in him was, first of
all, Suabian--for Uhland was a Suabian and most intimately associated
with that section of Germany. He was actively and practically
interested in the politics of his native land as a member of its
legislative bodies and as delegate to the national parliament at
Frankfurt in 1848. Uhland had a conservative love for the "good old
Suabian law." He felt the doubtful position of the South German states
in the struggle against Napoleon, and it was only when Wuertemberg took
its stand with the allies in the final conflict that the embarrassment
of his position was relieved, and Uhland's patriotic verse assumed its
full tone. But his poetry never became a spur to national achievement
like the verse of Arndt, that other German poet-professor. As a member
of the national parliament, Uhland was opposed to the exclusion
of Austria from the hegemony, and to the two-chamber system of
legislation. But Uhland's conservatism is unalterably honest without
any reactionary traits; he resigned his professorship rather than be
hindered in his political activities, and refused, with the peasant's
dourness, all the orders and distinctions that were offered him.

Indeed, there is something of the peasant nature in all of Uhland's
verse. Sturdy reserve characterizes it--that reserve which forbids the
peasant to show his feelings under the stress of the greatest emotion.
Uhland does not carry his feelings to market; like Schiller, he is
not a love poet. There is no display, no self-analysis, no
self-exaltation, no amalgamation of self with nature. Uhland as a poet
is not interested in his own psychology, but in the impinging world
and in the tender past. When Goethe said that Uhland was primarily
a balladist, he was right, for the ballad presupposes just
that permeation of the object by the emotion that satisfies the
unquestionable lyric gift possessed by Uhland, without in any way
destroying the essentially narrative objectivity of his style.

Uhland's greatest fame rests, then, on his ballads. The difference
between these and those of Goethe and Schiller is not merely in
the so-called "castle-Romanticism" of Uhland, not in a lingering
sentimentality in some of the poorer ones, but in Uhland's ability at
will to catch the folk-tone. Sometimes this folk-tone is a question
of certain technical tricks, such as the abrupt shift of scene,
repetition, varying series of scenes or words, archaized language; but
it is just as often in the mood which Uhland throws over the whole. He
thus can catch the inner form and essential mood of the popular ballad
in a way that not even Goethe does in his _Erlking_. Uhland's ballads
and romances vary greatly in quality; none, perhaps, has the grandiose
dramatic and ethical note of Schiller's _The Cranes of Ibycus_
and none the power of revealing the hidden forces of nature in
anthropomorphic and demoniac form as Goethe does in his _Erlking_ and
_The Fisher_. But Uhland's poems are more varied in treatment, even
though he cannot be said to have brought any new forms and themes into
German verse. There is much talk of poets and poetry in his verse and
much of the tender melancholy of parting lovers, of separation and
death. There are also some very healthy bacchic notes. Often the
ballads are a mere presentation of a scene, with neither plot nor
moral; once in a while, too, Uhland shows a humorous touch. But
various as are his themes and treatments, the treatment is always
nicely adapted to the theme.

It is difficult to imagine a better suiting of form and content than
in _The Singer's Curse_. The management of the vowel sequences is
truly wonderful and the rhymes carry the emotional words with a fine
virtuosity. _The Luck of Edenhall_, a variation of a Scottish theme
and also of the Biblical "_Mene tekel_," displays without sermonizing
the greatest ethical vigor. It has far more dramatic energy than
either Byron's or Heine's "Belshazzar" poems, with fully as much
dismal foreboding. _Taillefer_, which has been called "the sparkling
queen" of Uhland's ballads, has fresh vigor but lacks the power
of handling the moral forces of the universe with as much dramatic
vividness. It has a naive joy of life not elsewhere found in Uhland's
ballads.

Uhland was the greatest poet of the "Suabian School," a group of young
men who objected to being denominated a school. Among them was
William Hauff (1802-27), who is known for several lyrics, a number
of excellent short stories, and a historical novel, _Lichtenstein_
(1826), in the manner of Scott. His _Trooper's Song_ is a variation
of an old theme and is of great metrical interest in that here, as
in Uhland, one may observe how the subtle handling of rhythm, the
lengthening or shortening of a line, or the shift of stress, brings
with it a corresponding shift of emotion. _Lichtenstein_ is the story
of the struggle of Ulrich of Wuertemberg against the Suabian League and
gives us a Romantic picture of the Duke which is not justified by the
facts. It was, however, an attempt to vitalize history and owes its
origin to the Romantic longing for fatherland. Its immediate impulse
among Scott's novels was _Quentin Durward_ and, like _Quentin
Durward_, it has a double plot--the sentimental young lovers and the
romantic ruler. It also shows all the pageantry of Romanticism and the
naive technique of the beginning of an art-form in the early stages of
a new literary movement.

Friedrich Rueckert (1788-1866) was prevented from taking part in the
Wars of Liberation by poor health, but added his _Sonnets in Harness_
to the poetry of the period. These sonnets had no such stirring effect
as the poems of Koerner, not only because of their literary form, but
because, in spite of their unquestioned belligerency, they had not the
tone of religious conviction against the enemy which characterized
the verses of Arndt and the rest. Other poems, like _Koerner's Spirit_,
show how deeply Rueckert felt himself in sympathy with his times; his
reward has been to have added a very large number of poems to the
every-day repertory of Germany. His _Barbarossa_ is found in almost
every reading book.

The cycle _Love's Spring_ is an imperishable monument to his love for
Louisa Wiethaus. But too many of the poems are dedicated to her and
too many inconsequential moods relating to her are recorded. In spite
of this, Rueckert has resolved the discord between every-day life and
poetry with the simplest poetic apparatus. Rueckert has also enriched
the German language with a mass of gnomic poetry, to the writing of
which he was led by his Oriental studies. This gnomic poetry (_The
Wisdom of the Brahman_) has been aptly said to recall at times the
ripeness of the mature Goethe and at other times--Polonius. Rueckert
was one of the first to introduce the Orient and its verse-forms
into German literature. Here the influence of Friedrich Schlegel
is unmistakable. He was also a master in the reproduction of the
complicated metres of the East and South. Though many of these
verse-forms have refused to become indigenous in Germany, a large
number of new words invented by Rueckert have had poetical vogue, and
even where the new formations were too bold or too _recherche_, they
accustomed German ears to a new idea-presentation through sound.
Rueckert, like the average Romanticist, lacked moderation in his
production, and was utterly without critical faculty in respect to
his own verse. Much that he has written has perished, but some of his
work--both original and translation--is a permanent part of the best
of German lyric verse.

More individual than Rueckert is Adalbert von Chamisso (1781-1838).
Though he was born in the Champagne in France, and was therefore a
fellow-countryman of Joinville and La Fontaine, he became a German
by education and preference, and his name is inseparably linked with
German scholarship and letters. It is remarkable that Chamisso began
to write German only after 1801 and is reported never to have spoken
it perfectly; yet his verse ranks with the best products of Germany in
fluency and in form. Much of it, especially that with woman's love as
its theme, is extremely German in thought and feeling, though perhaps
French in its keenness of analysis. So German is Chamisso felt to be
that at his best he is ranked with Goethe and Heine.

When the boy Chamisso was nine years old, the family was driven from
France but was later allowed to return, though Adalbert never went
back permanently. Thus it was that during the years 1806-13, the young
expatriate led a life of the greatest mental torment; France no longer
meant anything to him, and in Germany he felt himself a stranger and
an outcast. Always awkward personally, and of a nervous temperament,
he found it difficult to adjust himself to surrounding conditions.
His scholarly zeal, however, and his ability to sit for hours in close
study, show how completely his mentality was adjustable to the German
manner. In Berlin he was accepted by the younger Romantic group and
was a member of the famous North Star Club with Arnim and his set. In
1815-18 he made a trip around the world, and in later years devoted
himself especially to the study of botany.

Only the poetry of Chamisso's later period is of supreme consequence.
As a man in the fifties, he wrote some of his most beautiful verse.
He was a naive poet, but a poet of many moods. His love poetry is the
poetry of longing, and ranks with that of Brentano in its ability to
suggest states of feeling. Among his best poems are his verse-tales,
such as _The Women of Weinsberg_, where his narrative genius ranks
with that of his fellow-countryman, La Fontaine. Especially good are
his poems in terzines. These mark the real introduction of this metre
into Germany. The best of these, _Salas y Gomez_, has the additional
advantage of real experience, for the material observation at the
basis of it is derived from his tour of circumnavigation. His poems in
this metre are often genre poems, pure prose in part, but frequently
of a drastic humor that ranks with that of the best of the old French
fabliaux. His realism is, however, never common, and, in such poems as
_The Old Washerwoman_, to quote Goethe's _Tasso_, "he often ennobles
what seems vulgar to us."

Chamisso is Romantic in his interest in translations, in early
reminiscences of Uhland's "castle-Romanticism," and in his poetry of
indefinite longing, but his admiration for Napoleon and his tendency
toward realism point the way which all Romanticism naturally took--the
way leading through Heine to Young Germany on the one hand and through
Tieck's novelettes to realistic prose on the other.

As a matter of fact, the work for which Chamisso is best known, a
work which has become international in popularity, _Peter Schlemihl_
(1813), is an early bit of such realistic prose. The tale of the
man who sells his shadow to the devil for the sake of the sack of
Fortunatus has become in Chamisso's hands a genuine folk-fairy-tale
in key-note and style. At the same time it is thoroughly Romantic
in subject-matter and treatment. The word Schlemihl is a Hebrew word
variously interpreted as "Lover of God," or as "awkward fellow." If
it mean the former, Schlemihl then becomes a Theophilus, that medieval
Faust who also made a compact with the devil; if the latter, one who
breaks his finger when sticking it into a custard pie; then Schlemihl
is Chamisso himself, "that dean of Schlemihls," feeling himself at a
loss in any environment. He may be the man without a country, he may
be the man who draws attention to himself by selling what seems of
little value to him, but which afterward proves indispensable for the
right conduct of life. The story in this way brings forward a bit
of popular ethics, or, rather, it examines an ethical note from the
popular point of view. Like Hoffmann, Chamisso takes his reader into
the midst of current life, but, unlike Hoffmann, his moods are not
the dissolving views which leave the reader in doubt as to whether
the whole is a phantasmagoria and a hallucination. _Schlemihl_ is
genuinely and consistently realistic. It is a story in the first
person and has a rigidly logical arrangement of episodes leading up to
its climax. It does not make mood--it has mood.

The brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm are the products of Romantic
scholarship; they represent the highest type of scholarly attainment
and of scholarly personality. They are always thought of together, for
they shared all possessions alike and were not drawn apart by the fact
that William married and Jacob remained a bachelor. Their fidelity to
each other is touching, and no more lovable story is told than that
of Jacob's breaking down in a lecture and crying, "My brother is so
sick!"

Jacob (1785-1863) was the philologist, the inductive gatherer of
scientific material, the close logical deducer of facts. He "presented
Germany with its mythology, with its history of legal antiquities,
with its grammar and its history of language." He is the author of
Grimm's law of consonant permutation which laid the foundations of
modern philological science and is the founder of philological science
in general.

Wilhelm (1786-1859), no less exact a scientist, was more a Romantic
nature, with a greater power of synthesis under poetic stress. The
two brothers began their collecting activities under the influence
of Arnim, and their work with folk-tales in prose corresponds to _The
Boy's Magic Horn_ in verse. It was Wilhelm who gave Grimms' _Fairy
Tales_ their artistic form. He remolded, joined, separated--in
fact, wrought the crude materials into such shape that this work has
penetrated into every land and has become a household word for young
and old. The various early editions show the progress in the method
of Wilhelm. The first edition (1812) reproduces more exactly what the
brothers heard; the later ones show that Wilhelm consciously attempted
to give artistic form to the tales. That his method was justified
the history of the stories proves; they are not only material for
ethnological study, but are dear to all hearts. The stories have the
genuine folk-tone; they are true products of the folk-imagination,
with all the logic of that imagination. All phases of life are touched
and the interest never flags. The spirit of nature has been kept.

The Romanticists were not successful in the drama. Kleist, the
greatest dramatist of the period, was not primarily a Romantic
poet. The Schlegels wrote frosty plays and Tieck attempted dramatic
production. It was left for the most bizarre of the Romantic group to
write the play of greatest power in it and to set a dramatic fashion
which for more than a decade carried all before it.

Zacharias Werner (1768-1823), after a life of wild sensual excesses,
finally found refuge in the Roman Church and as a popular and
sensational preacher aroused Vienna with drastic sermons and clownish
antics. Of his various plays, _The Sons of the Valley_ (1803) and the
_Cross on the Baltic_ (1806) deserve mention for their religious
and mystic subject-matter, for which Werner himself has attempted an
explanation, though without adding to their understanding. _Martin
Luther, or the Consecration of Power_ (1807) is a pageant play of
great interest. Its recantation, _The Power of Weakness_, was written
after Werner's conversion. More important than these is his so-called
"fate tragedy," _The 24th of February_ (1810 per formed in Weimar;
published 1815). This day was a day of terror to Werner, for on it
he lost in the same year his mother and his most intimate friend. He
therefore in the play invests the day with a fatal significance, and
on it a malignant fate has especial power over the fortunes of the
persons of the drama; there is also a fatal requisite and a general
atmosphere of fatalism. The play started a whole series; some of
these were crude and weak imitations, others, like Grillparzer's _The
Ancestress_, were of great power. These plays were conditioned by
something in the air. Perhaps Napoleon, the man of fate, ruling the
minds and destinies of a whole continent, had something to do with the
philosophical background. Werner caught the fatalistic spirit, gave it
concise and logical form, and succeeded in producing a play which has
both atmosphere and logic of development. In all of these plays, in so
far as they are good, the effect is produced by the recognition
scenes which hold the reader rapt to the end. But the weak and vulgar
imitations of the category outnumbered the powerful plays in the
_genre_, and the well-merited death-blow was given them by Platen's
_The Fateful Fork_ (1826).

E.T.A. Hoffmann (1776-1822) was a thoroughly Romantic person. Like
his fellow-Koenigsberger, Werner, he went through a period of wildest
dissipation, and all his life was easily influenced by alcohol. He was
a painter, a writer, and a musician. His ability in the pictorial arts
was mainly in caricature and his career as a composer is typically
Romantic; though he never but once completed a composition, that he
started, he was thoroughly at home in the theory of the art. Like all
Romanticists, Hoffmann was interested in and tried all phases of life
and refused to recognize the boundaries between the various parts
of existence, between the arts, and between reality and unreality.
Hoffmann, with all his North German power of reasoning and his zeal
and conscientiousness in public office, was emphatically _that_
Romanticist associated with the night-sides of literature and life.
There is something uncanny both in the man and his writings. His
power of putting the scene of his most unreal stories in the midst of
well-known places, his ability to shift the reader from the real
to the unreal and _vice versa_, make some of his stories seem like
phantasmagorias.

In all of Hoffmann's stories there is some unpleasant, bizarre
character; this is the author's satire on his own strange personality.
There is none of Poe's objectivity in Hoffmann, but he uses his
subjectivity in a peculiarly Romantic fashion. It is his idea to raise
the reader above the every-day point of view, to flee from this to
a magic world where the unusual shall take the place of the real and
where wonder shall rule. So there are in Hoffmann's stories a series
of characters who are really doubles. To the uninitiated they seem
every-day creatures; to those who know, they are fairies or beings
from the supernatural world. Such characters are found at their best
in _The Golden Pot_.

Hoffmann has influenced both French and English literatures more than
any other Romantic poet. Hawthorne and Poe read him, and he was felt
by the French to be one of the first Germans whom they understood. It
was not merely that his clear reason appealed to the French, but that
they saw in him one endowed as with a sixth sense. He has a fineness
of observation, especially for the ridiculous sides of humanity,
together with a tenderness of spirit, that was new in German
literature as such men as Sainte-Beuve and Gautier saw it. The soul
at war with itself, uncovering its most secret thoughts, the _"malheur
d'etre poete,"_ coupled with wit, taste, gaiety, and the comedy
spirit--all these the French found in Hoffmann as in no other German.
Poe was also influenced by Hoffmann, but Poe's whole world is the
supernatural, and where Hoffmann slips with fantastic but logical
changes from the real to the unreal, Poe's metempsychosis is the real
in his world and he has a deeper insight into the world of terror. The
difference between Hawthorne and Hoffmann is even more striking, for
in the American the supernatural is the embodiment of the Puritan
New England conscience. In Hoffmann there is no such elevation of the
moral world to the rank of an atmosphere.

In Hoffmann there is no out-of-doors, no lyric love; some of his
characters are frankly insane. The musical takes on a supreme
significance among the sensations, and music seemed the only art which
was able to draw the soul of the man from his earth-bound habitation.
Only in music did Hoffmann find the ability to make the Romantic
escape from the homelessness of this existence to the all-embracing
world of the unreal. But too often in his works does the unreal fail
to satisfy the reader. There is an effort felt, an effect sought for,
and, while the amalgamation of the two worlds is perfect, the world
to which Hoffmann is able to take us proves to be without the cogency
which our imaginations expect. Here Hoffmann fails. His world of the
imagination cannot always be taken seriously.

Count August von Platen-Hallermund (1796-1835) is characterized by
the eternal Romantic homelessness; at every turn of his career this
impresses one. Of ancient noble Franconian stock, he felt himself a
foreigner in Bavaria which had acquired Franconia in the Napoleonic
period. In his early life in the military academy at Munich he was
never thoroughly at home, for his was not a military spirit and he was
unable to follow his literary tastes. When finally he was enabled to
study at Wuerzburg and Erlangen, even the friendship of Schelling could
not compensate for the late beginning of a university career which was
filled with the study of modern European and Oriental languages but
which had the bitterest personal disappointments. Even in Italy, the
land of every German poet's dreams, Platen never felt himself at
home, and the pictures of him from his Italian life are of a tragic,
lonesome figure. The discord between body and soul, that homelessness
in one's own physical body which characterized Hoffmann and made him
seem diabolical to so many, is also to be noted in Platen. Carried
over to the moral world, it accounts for his ardent cultivation of
friendship rather than love, and frees him from the bitter accusations
of Heine, whose attack in _The Baths of Lucca_ is one of the most
scurrilous and venomous pasquils in all literary history. Finally, in
the esthetic world, Platen seems largely un-German. His esthetics were
of the Classical and Renaissance times; in an age of the breaking
down of conventions and of literary revolutions, Platen held himself
rigidly aristocratic; he clung to a canon of beauty in an age which
was giving birth to realism.

Platen's poetry falls into two periods--the early German tentative
period and the later or foreign period, the poems of which were mostly
written in Italy and in imitation of, or adapted from, foreign metres.
Platen is always represented as a master of form, and, since
Jacob Grimm's characterization of him, has been accused of "marble
coldness." That Platen handled difficult metres with virtuosity is not
to be laid against him; it is to the advantage of German verse that
such poems as his _ghasels_ made indigenous, in part, the feeling for
mere beauty in verse. German poets have too often gone the road of
mere formlessness. Platen cultivated style, polished and revised his
lines with as great care as did his arch-enemy Heine, and it is only
a confession of lack of ear to refuse him the name of poet. No one who
reads his Polish Songs can help feeling that they are the products of
fire and inspiration.

It must be confessed, however, that there is in Platen a remarkable
lack of inner experience. He went through life without ever having
been shaken to the depths of his nature and was, unfortunately, not of
so Olympian a calmness that, like Goethe, he could present the world
in plastic repose and sublimity. With all his refinement and fervor he
has left but few poems of lasting interest, and of these _The Grave in
the Busento_ is perhaps the best.

[Illustration: THE MAGIC HORN]




_LUDWIG ACHIM VON ARNIM AND CLEMENS BRENTANO_

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE BOY'S MAGIC HORN[7] (1806)

  WERE I A LITTLE BIRD


  Were I a little bird,
  And had two little wings,
  I'd fly to thee;
  But I must stay, because
  That cannot be.

  Though I be far from thee,
  In sleep I dwell with thee,
  Thy voice I hear.
  But when I wake again,
  Then all is drear.

  Each nightly hour my heart
  With thoughts of thee will start
  When I'm alone;
  For thou 'st a thousand times
  Pledged me thine own.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE MOUNTAINEER


  Oh, would I were a falcon wild,
    I should spread my wings and soar;
  Then I should come a-swooping down
    By a wealthy burgher's door.

  In his house there dwells a maiden,
    She is called fair Magdalene,
  And a fairer brown-eyed damsel
    All my days I have not seen.

  On a Monday morning early,
    Monday morning, they relate,
  Magdalene was seen a-walking
    Through the city's northern gate.

  Then the maidens said: "Thy pardon--
    Magdalene, where wouldst thou go?"
  "Oh, into my father's garden,
    Where I went the night, you know."

  And when she to the garden came,
    And straight into the garden ran,
  There lay beneath the linden-tree
    Asleep, a young and comely man.

  "Wake up, young man, be stirring,
    Oh rise, for time is dear,
  I hear the keys a-rattling,
    And mother will be here."

  "Hearst thou her keys a-rattling,
    And thy mother must be nigh,
  Then o'er the heath this minute
    Oh come with me, and fly!"

  And as they wandered o'er the heath,
    There for these twain was spread,
  A shady linden-tree beneath,
    A silken bridal-bed.

  And three half hours together,
    They lay upon the bed.
  "Turn round, turn round, brown maiden;
    Give me thy lips so red!"

  "Thou sayst so much of turning round,
    But naught of wedded troth,
  I fear me I have slept away
    My faith and honor both."

  "And fearest thou, thou hast slept away
    Thy faith and honor too,
  I say I'll wed thee yet, my dear,
    So thou shalt never rue."

  Who was it sang this little lay,
    And sang it o'er with cheer?
  On St. Annenberg by the town,
    It was the mountaineer.

  He sang it there right gaily,
    Drank mead and cool red wine,
  Beside him sat and listened
    Three dainty damsels fine.

  As many as sand-grains in the sea,
  As many as stars in heaven be,
  As many as beasts that dwell in fields,
  As many as pence which money yields,
  As much as blood in veins will flow,
  As much as heat in fire will glow,
  As much as leaves in woods are seen
  And little grasses in the green,
  As many as thorns that prick on hedges,
  As grains of wheat that harvest pledges,
  As much as clover in meadows fair,
  As dust a-flying in the air,
  As many as fish in streams are found,
  And shells upon the ocean's ground,
  And drops that in the sea must go,
  As many as flakes that shine in snow--
  As much, as manifold as life abounds both far and nigh,
  So much, so many times, for e'er, oh thank the Lord on high!

[Illustration: LUDWIG ACHIM VON ARNIM Stroehling]

[Illustration: CLEMENS BRENTANO E. Linder]

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE SWISS DESERTER


  At Strassburg in the fort
  All woe began for me
  The Alpine bugle's call enticed me o'er,
  I had to swim to my dear country's shore;
  That should not be.

  One hour 'twas in the night,
  They took me in my plight,
  And led me straightway to the captain's door.
  O God, they caught me in the stream--what more?
  Now all is o'er.

  Tomorrow morn at ten
  The regiment I'll have to face;
  They'll lead me there to beg for grace.
  I'll have my just reward, I know.
  It must be so.

  Ye brothers, all ye men,
  Ye'll never see me here again;
  The shepherd boy, I say, began it all,
  And I accuse the Alpine bugle-call
  Of this my fall.

  I pray ye, brothers three,
  Come on and shoot at me;
  Fear not my tender life to hurt,
  Shoot on and let the red blood spurt--
  Come on, I say!

  O Lord of heaven, on high!
  Take my poor erring soul
  Unto its heavenly goal;
  There let it stay forever--
  Forget me never!

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE TAILOR IN HELL


  A tailor 'gan to wander
  One Monday morning fair,
  And then he met the devil,
  Whose feet and legs were bare:
  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,
  Come now with me to hell--oh,
  And measure clothes for us to wear,
  For what we will, is well, oh!

  The tailor measured, then he took
  His scissors long, and clipped
  The devils' little tails all off,
  And to and fro they skipped.
  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,
  Now hie thee out of hell--oh,
  We do not need this clipping, sir,
  For what we will, is well, oh!

  The tailor took his iron out,
  And tossed it in the fire;
  The devils' wrinkles then he pressed;
  Their screams were something dire.
  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,
  Begone now from our hell--oh,
  We do not need this pressing,
  For what we will, is well, oh!

  "Keep still!" he said and pierced their heads
  With a bodkin from his sack.
  "This way we put the buttons on,
  For that's our tailor's knack!
  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,
  Now get thee out of hell--oh,
  We do not need this dressing,
  For what we will, is well, oh!

  With thimble and with needle then
  His stitching he began,
  And closed the devils' nostrils up
  As tight as e'er one can.

  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,
  Now his thee out of hell--oh,
  We cannot use our noses,
  Do what we will for smell, oh!

  Then he began to cut away--
  It must have made them smart;
  With all his might the tailor ripped
  The devils' ears apart.
  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,
  Now march away from hell--oh,
  We else should need a doctor,
  If what we will were well--oh!

  And last of all came Lucifer
  And cried: "What horror fell!
  No devil has his little tail;
  So drive him out of hell."
  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,
  Now his thee out of hell--oh,
  We need to wear no clothes at all--
  For what we will, is well, oh!

  And when the tailor's sack was packed,
  He felt so very well--oh!
  He hopped and skipped without dismay
  And had a laughing spell, oh!
  And hurried out of hell--oh,
  And stayed a tailor-fellow;
  And the devil will catch no tailor now,
  Let him steal, as he will--it is well, though!

[Illustration: THE REAPER Walter Crane]

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE REAPER


  There is a reaper, Death his name;
  His might from God the highest came.
  Today his knife he'll whet,
  'Twill cut far better yet;
  Soon he will come and mow,
  And we must bear the woe--
  Beware, fair flower!

  The flowers fresh and green today,
  Tomorrow will be mowed away
  Narcissus so white,
  The meadows' delight,
  The hyacinthias pale
  And morning-glories frail--
  Beware, fair flower!

  Full many thousand blossoms blithe
  Must fall beneath his deadly scythe:
  Roses and lilies pure,
  Your end is all too sure!
  Imperial lilies rare
  He will not spare--
  Beware, fair flower!

  The bluet wee, of heaven's hue,
  The tulips white and yellow too,
  The dainty silver bell,
  The golden phlox as well--
  All sink upon the earth.
  Oh, what a sorry dearth!
  Beware, fair flower!

  Sweet lavender of lovely scent,
  And rosemary, dear ornament,
  Sword-lilies proud, unfurled,
  And basil, quaintly curled,
  And fragile violet blue--
  He soon will seize you too!
  Beware, fair flower!

  Death, I defy thee! Hasten near
  With one great sweep--I have no fear!
  Though hurt, I'll stay undaunted,
  For I shall be transplanted
  Into the garden by heaven's gate,
  The heavenly garden we all await.
  Rejoice, fair flower!





_JACOB AND WILHELM GRIMM_

       *       *       *       *       *

FAIRY TALES[8] (1812)

TRANSLATED AND EDITED BY MARGARET HUNT

THE FROG-KING, OR IRON HENRY


In old times, when wishing still helped one, there lived a king whose
daughters were all beautiful, but the youngest was so beautiful that
the sun itself, which has seen so much, was astonished whenever it
shone in her face. Close by the King's castle lay a great dark forest,
and under an old lime-tree in the forest was a well, and when the day
was warm the King's child went out into the forest and sat down by
the side of the cool fountain, and when she was dull she took a
golden ball and threw it up high and caught it, and this ball was her
favorite plaything.

Now it so happened that, on one occasion, the princess' golden ball
did not fall into the little hand which she was holding up for it, but
onto the ground beyond, and rolled straight into the water. The King's
daughter followed it with her eyes, but it vanished, and the well was
deep so deep that the bottom could not be seen. On this she began to
cry, and cried louder and louder, and could not be comforted. And
as she thus lamented, some one said to her: "What ails thee, King's
daughter? Thou weepest so that even a stone would show pity." She
looked around to the side from whence the voice came, and saw a
frog stretching forth its thick, ugly head from the water. "Ah! old
water-splasher, is it thou?" asked she; "I am weeping for my golden
ball, which has fallen into the well."

[Illustration: JACOB GRIMM E. Hader]

[Illustration: WILLIAM GRIMM E. Hader]

"Be quiet, and do not weep," answered the frog; "I can help thee; but
what wilt thou give me if I bring thy plaything up again?" "Whatever
thou wilt have, dear frog," said she--"my clothes, my pearls and
jewels, and even the golden crown which I am wearing."

The frog answered, "I do not care for thy clothes, thy pearls and
jewels, or thy golden crown, but if thou wilt love me and let me be
thy companion and play-fellow, and sit by thee at thy little table,
and eat off thy little golden plate, and drink out of thy little cup,
and sleep in thy little bed--if thou wilt promise me this I will go
down below and bring thee thy golden ball again."

"Oh, yes," said she, "I promise thee all thou wishest, if thou wilt
but bring me my ball back again." She, how ever, thought, "How the
silly frog does talk! He lives in the water with the other frogs and
croaks, and can be no companion to any human being!"

But the frog, when he had received this promise, put his head into the
water and sank down, and in a short time came swimming up again with
the ball in his mouth, and threw it on the grass. The King's daughter
was delighted to see her pretty plaything once more, and picked it up,
and ran away with it. "Wait, wait," said the frog; "take me with thee;
I can't run as thou canst." But what did it avail him to scream his
croak, croak, after her, as loudly as he could? She did not listen to
it, but ran home and soon forgot the poor frog, who was forced to go
back into his well again.

The next day, when she had seated herself at the table with the King
and all the courtiers and was eating from her little golden plate,
something came creeping splish splash, splish splash, up the marble
staircase, and when it had got to the top, it knocked at the door and
cried, "Princess, youngest princess, open the door for me." She ran to
see who was outside, but when she opened the door, there sat the frog
in front of it. Then she slammed the door to, in great haste, sat down
to dinner again, and was quite frightened. The King saw plainly that
her heart was beating violently, and said, "My child, what art thou so
afraid of? Is there perchance a giant outside who wants to carry thee
away?" "Ah, no," replied she, "it is no giant, but a disgusting frog."

"What does the frog want with thee?" "Ah, dear father, yesterday when
I was in the forest sitting by the well, playing, my golden ball fell
into the water. And because I cried so the frog brought it out again
for me, and because he insisted so on it, I promised him he should be
my companion; but I never thought he would be able to come out of his
water! And now he is outside there, and wants to come in to me."

In the meantime it knocked a second time, and cried

  "Princess! youngest princess!
  Open the door for me!
  Dost thou not know what thou saidst to me
  Yesterday by the cool waters of the fountain!
  Princess, youngest princess!
  Open the door for me!"

Then said the King, "That which thou has promised must thou perform.
Go and let him in." She went and opened the door, and the frog hopped
in and followed her, step by step, to her chair. There he sat still
and cried, "Lift me up beside thee." She delayed, until at last the
King commanded her to do it. When the frog was once on the chair he
wanted to be on the table, and when he was on the table he said, "Now,
push thy little golden plate nearer to me that we may eat together."
She did this, but it was easy to see that she did not do it willingly.
The frog enjoyed what he ate, but almost every mouthful she took
choked her. At length he said, "I have eaten and am satisfied; now I
am tired, carry me into thy little room and make thy little silken bed
ready, and we will both lie down and go to sleep."

The King's daughter began to cry, for she was afraid of the cold frog
which she did not like to touch, and which was now to sleep in her
pretty, clean little bed. But the King grew angry and said, "He
who helped thee when thou wert in trouble ought not afterward to be
despised by thee." So she took hold of the frog with two fingers,
carried him upstairs, and put him in a corner. But when she was in
bed he crept to her and said, "I am tired, I want to sleep as well
as thou; lift me up or I will tell thy father." Then she was terribly
angry, and took him up and threw him with all her might against the
wall. "Now thou wilt be quiet, odious frog," said she. But when he
fell down he was no frog but a king's son with beautiful kind eyes. He
by her father's will was now her dear companion and husband. Then he
told her how he had been bewitched by a wicked witch, and how no one
could have delivered him from the well but herself, and that tomorrow
they would go together into his kingdom. Then they went to sleep, and
next morning when the sun awoke them, a carriage came driving up with
eight white horses, which had white ostrich feathers on their heads,
and were harnessed with golden chains, and behind stood the young
King's servant, faithful Henry. Faithful Henry had been so unhappy
when his master was changed into a frog that he had caused three iron
bands to be laid round his heart, lest it should burst with grief and
sadness. The carriage was to conduct the young King into his kingdom.
Faithful Henry helped them both in, and placed himself behind again,
and was full of joy because of this deliverance. And when they had
driven a part of the way, the King's son heard a crackling behind him
as if something had broken. So he turned round and cried, "Henry, the
carriage is breaking."

"No, master, it is not the carriage. It is a band from my heart, which
was put there in my great pain when you were a frog and imprisoned in
the well." Again and once again while they were on their way something
cracked, and each time the King's son thought the carriage was
breaking; but it was only the bands which were springing from the
heart of faithful Henry because his master was set free and was happy.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE WOLF AND THE SEVEN LITTLE KIDS


There was once on a time an old goat who had seven little kids, and
she loved them with all the love of a mother for her children. One day
she wanted to go into the forest and fetch some food. So she called
all seven to her and said, "Dear children, I have to go into the
forest; be on your guard against the wolf; if he comes in, he will
devour you all--skin, hair, and everything. The wretch often disguises
himself, but you will know him at once by his rough voice and his
black feet." The kids said, "Dear mother, we will take good care of
ourselves; you may go away without any anxiety." Then the old one
bleated and went on her way with an easy mind.

It was not long before some one knocked at the house door, and cried,
"Open the door, dear children; your mother is here, and has brought
something back with her for each of you." But the little kids knew
that it was the wolf, by the rough voice. "We will not open the door,"
cried they; "thou art not our mother. She has a soft, pleasant voice,
but thy voice is rough; thou art the wolf!" Then the wolf went away to
a shopkeeper and bought himself a great lump of chalk, ate this, and
made his voice soft with it. Then he came back, knocked at the door
of the house, and cried, "Open the door, dear children; your mother is
here and has brought something back with her for each of you." But the
wolf had laid his black paws against the window, and the children saw
them and cried, "We will not open the door; our mother has not black
feet like thee; thou art the wolf!" Then the wolf ran to a baker and
said, "I have hurt my feet, rub some dough over them for me." And when
the baker had rubbed his feet over, he ran to the miller and said,
"Strew some white meal over my feet for me." The miller thought to
himself, "The wolf wants to deceive some one," and refused; but the
wolf said, "If thou wilt not do it, I will devour thee." Then the
miller was afraid, and made his paws white for him. Truly men are like
that.

So now the wretch went for the third time to the house door, knocked
at it, and said, "Open the door for me, children; your dear little
mother has come home, and has brought every one of you something back
from the forest with her." The little kids cried, "First show us thy
paws that we may know if thou art our dear little mother." Then he put
his paws in through the window, and when the kids saw that they were
white, they believed that all he said was true, and opened the door.
But who should come in but the wolf! They were terrified and wanted to
hide themselves. One sprang under the table, the second into the bed,
the third into the stove, the fourth into the kitchen, the fifth into
the cupboard, the sixth under the washing-bowl, and the seventh
into the clock-case. But the wolf found them all, and used no great
ceremony; one after the other he swallowed them down his throat. The
youngest in the clock-case was the only one he did not find. When the
wolf had satisfied his appetite he took himself off, laid himself
down under a tree in the green meadow outside, and went to sleep. Soon
afterward the old goat came home again from the forest. Ah! what
a sight she saw there! The house door stood wide open. The table,
chairs, and benches were thrown down, the washing-bowl lay broken to
pieces, and the quilts and pillows were pulled off the bed. She sought
her children, but they were nowhere to be found. She called them one
after another by name, but no one answered. At last, when she came
to the youngest, a soft voice cried, "Dear mother, I am in the
clock-case." She took the kid out, and it told her that the wolf had
come and had eaten all the others. Then you may imagine how she wept
over her poor children.

At length in her grief she went out, and the youngest kid ran with
her. When they came to the meadow, there lay the wolf by the tree
snoring so loud that the branches shook. She looked at him on every
side and saw that something was moving and struggling in his gorged
body. "Ah, heavens!" said she, "is it possible that my poor children,
whom he has swallowed down for his supper, can be still alive?" Then
the kid had to run home and fetch scissors, and a needle and thread,
and the goat cut open the monster's stomach. Hardly had she made one
cut than one little kid thrust its head out; and, when she had cut
further, all six sprang out one after another. They were all still
alive and had suffered no injury whatever, for in his greediness the
monster had swallowed them down whole. What rejoicing there was!
Then they embraced their dear mother, and jumped like a tailor at
his wedding. The mother, however, said, "Now go and look for some big
stones, and we will fill the wicked beast's stomach with them while he
is still asleep." Then the seven kids dragged the stones thither with
all speed, and put as many of them into his stomach as they could get
in; and the mother sewed him up again in the greatest haste, so that
he was not aware of anything, and never once stirred.

When the wolf at length had had his sleep out, he got on his legs,
and, as the stones in his stomach made him very thirsty, he wanted to
go to a well to drink. But when he began to walk and to move about,
the stones in his stomach knocked against one another and rattled.
Then cried he--

  "What rumbles and tumbles
  Against my poor bones?
  I thought 'twas six kids,
  But it's naught but big stones."

And when he got to the well and stooped over the water and was just
about to drink, the heavy stones made him fall in and there was no
help, but he had to drown miserably. When the seven kids saw that,
they came running to the spot, and cried aloud, "The wolf is dead!
The wolf is dead!" and danced for joy round about the well with their
mother.

       *       *       *       *       *




RAPUNZEL


There were once a man and a woman who had long in vain wished for
a child. At length the woman hoped that God was about to grant her
desire. These people had a little window at the back of their house
from which a splendid garden could be seen, which was full of the most
beautiful flowers and herbs. It was, however, surrounded by a high
wall, and no one dared to go into it because it belonged to an
enchantress, who had great power and was dreaded by all the world. One
day the woman was standing by this window and looking down into the
garden, when she saw a bed which was planted with the most beautiful
rampion (rapunzel), and it looked so fresh and green that she longed
for it, and had the greatest desire to eat some. This desire increased
every day, and as she knew that she could not get any of it, she
quite pined away and looked pale and miserable. Then her husband was
alarmed, and asked, "What aileth thee, dear wife?" "Ah," she replied,
"if I can't get some of the rampion, which is in the garden behind our
house, to eat, I shall die." The man, who loved her, thought, "Sooner
than let my wife die, I will bring her some of the rampion myself,
let it cost me what it will." In the twilight of evening, he clambered
down over the wall into the garden of the enchantress, hastily
clutched a handful of rampion, and took it to his wife. She at once
made herself a salad of it and ate it with much relish. She, however,
liked it so much, so very much, that the next day she longed for it
three times as much as before, and, if he was to have any rest,
her husband must once more descend into the garden. In the gloom
of evening, therefore, he let himself down again; but when he had
clambered down the wall he was terribly afraid, for he saw the
enchantress standing before him. "How can't thou dare," said she with
angry look, "to descend into my garden and steal my rampion like a
thief? Thou shalt suffer for it!" "Ah," answered he, "let mercy
take the place of justice; I only made up my mind to do it out of
necessity. My wife saw your rampion from the window, and felt such
a longing for it that she would have died if she had not got some to
eat." Then the enchantress allowed her anger to be softened, and said
to him, "If the case be as thou sayest, I will allow thee to take
away with thee as much rampion as thou wilt, only I make one
condition--thou must give me the child which thy wife will bring into
the world; it shall be well treated and I will care for it like a
mother." The man in his terror consented to everything, and when the
woman was brought to bed, the enchantress appeared at once, gave the
child the name of Rapunzel, and took it away with her.

Rapunzel grew into the most beautiful child beneath the sun. When she
was twelve years old, the enchantress shut her into a tower which lay
in a forest and had neither stairs nor door, but quite at the top
was a little window. When the enchantress wanted to go in, she placed
herself beneath this, and cried cried--

  "Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
  Let down thy hair to me."

Rapunzel had magnificent long hair, fine as spun gold, and when she
heard the voice of the enchantress she unfastened her braided tresses,
wound them round one of the hooks of the window above, and then the
hair fell twenty ells down, and the enchantress climbed up by it.

After a year or two, it came to pass that the King's son rode through
the forest and went by the tower; there he heard a song, which was so
charming that he stood still and listened. This was Rapunzel, who in
her solitude passed her time in letting her sweet voice resound. The
King's son wanted to climb up to her, and looked for the door of the
tower, but none was to be found. He rode home, but the singing had so
deeply touched his heart that every day he went out into the forest
and listened to it. Once, when he was thus standing behind a tree, he
saw that an enchantress came there, and he heard how she cried--

  "Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
  Let down thy hair."

Then Rapunzel let down the braids of her hair, and the enchantress
climbed up to her. "If that is the ladder by which one mounts, I will
for once try my fortune," said he; and the next day when it began to
grow dark, he went to the tower and cried--

  "Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
  Let down thy hair."

Immediately the hair fell down and the King's son climbed up.

At first Rapunzel was terribly frightened when a man such as her eyes
had never yet beheld came to her; but the King's son began to talk
to her quite like a friend, and told her that his heart had been so
stirred that it had let him have no rest, and he had been forced to
see her. Then Rapunzel lost her fear, and when he asked her if she
would take him for her husband, and she saw that he was young and
handsome, she thought, "He will love me more than old Dame Gothel
does;" and she said yes, and laid her hand in his. She said, "I will
willingly go away with thee, but I do not know how to get down. Bring
with thee a skein of silk every time that thou comest, and I will
weave a ladder with it, and when that is ready I will descend, and
thou wilt take me on thy horse." They agreed that, until that time, he
should always come to see her in the evening, for the old woman came
by day. The enchantress remarked nothing of this, until once Rapunzel
said to her, "Tell me, Dame Gothel, how it happens that you are so
much heavier for me to draw up than the young King's son--he is with
me in a moment." "Ah! thou wicked child," cried the enchantress, "what
do I hear thee say? I thought I had separated thee from all the world,
and yet thou hast deceived me!" In her anger she clutched Rapunzel's
beautiful tresses, wrapped them twice round her left hand, seized a
pair of scissors with the right, and, snip, snap, they were cut off,
and the lovely braids lay on the ground. And she was so pitiless that
she took poor Rapunzel into a desert where she had to live in great
grief and misery.

On the same day, however, that she cast out Rapunzel, the enchantress
in the evening fastened the braids of hair which she had cut off to
the hook of the window, and when the King's son came and cried cried--

  "Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
  Let down thy hair,"

she let the hair down. The King's son ascended, but he did not find
his dearest Rapunzel above-only the enchantress, who gazed at him with
wicked and venomous looks. "Aha!" she cried mockingly, "thou wouldst
fetch thy dearest, but the beautiful bird sits no longer singing in
the nest; the cat has got it, and will scratch out thy eyes as well.
Rapunzel is lost to thee; thou wilt never see her more." The King's
son was beside himself with pain, and in his despair leapt down from
the tower. He escaped with his life, but the thorns into which he fell
pierced his eyes. Then he wandered quite blind about the forest, ate
nothing but roots and berries, and did nothing but lament and weep
over the loss of his dearest wife. Thus he roamed about in misery for
some years, and at length came to the desert where Rapunzel, with
the twins to which she had given birth, a boy and a girl, lived in
wretchedness. He heard a voice, and it seemed so familiar to him that
he went toward it, and, when he approached, Rapunzel knew him and fell
on his neck and wept. Two of her tears wetted his eyes and they grew
clear again so that he could see with them as before. He led her to
his kingdom where he was joyfully received, and they lived for a long
time afterward, happy and contented.

       *       *       *       *       *




HAENSEL AND GRETHEL


Hard by a great forest dwelt a poor wood-cutter with his wife and his
two children. The boy was called Haensel and the girl Grethel. He had
little to bite and to break, and once, when great scarcity fell on the
land, he could no longer procure daily bread. Now when he thought over
this by night in his bed, and tossed about in his anxiety, he groaned
and said to his wife, "What is to become of us? How are we to feed
our poor children when we no longer have anything even for ourselves?"
"I'll tell you what, husband," answered the woman, "early tomorrow
morning we will take the children out into the forest to where it is
the thickest, and there we will light a fire for them, and give each
of them one piece of bread more; then we will go to our work and leave
them alone. They will not find the way home again, and we shall be
rid of them." "No, wife," said the man, "I will not do that; how can I
bear to leave my children alone in the forest? The wild animals would
soon come and tear them to pieces." "O, thou fool!" said she, "then we
must all four die of hunger and thou mayest as well plane the planks
for our coffins;" and she left him no peace until he consented. "But I
feel very sorry for the poor children, all the same," said the man.

[Illustration: HAeNSEL AND GRETHEL Ludwig Richter]

The two children had also not been able to sleep for hunger, and had
heard what their step-mother had said to their father. Grethel wept
bitter tears, and said to Haensel, "Now all is over with us." "Be
quiet, Grethel," said Haensel. "Do not distress thyself, I will soon
find a way to help us." And when the old folks had fallen asleep, he
got up, put on his coat, opened the door below, and crept outside. The
moon shone brightly and the white pebbles which lay in front of the
house glittered like real silver pennies. Haensel stooped and put as
many of them in the little pocket of his coat as he could possibly get
in. Then he went back and said to Grethel, "Be comforted, dear little
sister, and sleep in peace; God will not forsake us;" and he lay down
again in his bed. When day dawned, but before the sun had risen, the
woman came and awoke the two children, saying, "Get up, you sluggards!
we are going into the forest to fetch wood." She gave each a little
piece of bread, and said, "There is something for your dinner, but
do not eat it up before then, for you will get nothing else." Grethel
took the bread under her apron, as Haensel had the stones in his
pocket. Then they all set out together on the way to the forest. When
they, had walked a short time, Haensel stood still and peeped back at
the house, and did so again and again. His father said, "Haensel, what
art thou looking at there and staying behind for? Mind what thou art
about, and do not forget how to use thy legs." "Ah, father," said
Haensel, "I am looking at my little white cat, which is sitting upon
the roof, and wants to say good-bye to me." The wife said, "Fool, that
is not thy little cat; that is the morning sun which is shining on the
chimneys." Haensel, however, had not been looking back at the cat, but
had been constantly throwing one of the white pebble-stones out of his
pocket on the road.

When they had reached the middle of the forest, the father said, "Now,
children, pile up some wood, and I will light a fire that you may not
be cold." Haensel and Grethel gathered brushwood together, as high
as a little hill. The brushwood was lighted, and when the flames were
burning very high the woman said, "Now, children, lay yourselves down
by the fire and rest and we will go into the forest and cut some wood.
When we have done, we will come back and fetch you away."

Haensel and Grethel sat by the fire, and, when noon came, each ate a
little piece of bread, but, as they heard the strokes of the wood-axe,
they believed that their father was near. It was, however, not the
axe; it was a branch which he had fastened to a withered tree which
the wind was blowing backward and forward; and, as they had been
sitting such a long time, their eyes shut with fatigue and they
fell fast asleep. When at last they awoke it was already dark night.
Grethel began to cry and said, "How are we to get out of the forest
now?" But Haensel comforted her and said, "Just wait a little, until
the moon has risen, and then we will soon find the way." And when the
full moon had risen, Haensel took his little sister by the hand and
followed the pebbles, which shone like newly-coined silver pieces and
showed them the way.

They walked the whole night long, and by break of day came once more
to their father's house. They knocked at the door, and when the woman
opened it and saw that it was Haensel and Grethel, she said, "You
naughty children, why have you slept so long in the forest? We thought
you were never coming back at all!" The father, however, rejoiced, for
it had cut him to the heart to leave them behind alone.

Not long afterward, there was once more great scarcity in all parts,
and the children heard their mother saying at night to their father,
"Everything is eaten again; we have one-half loaf left, and after that
there is an end. The children must go. We will take them farther into
the wood, so that they will not find their way out again; there is no
other means of saving ourselves!" The man's heart was heavy, and he
thought, "It would be better for thee to share the last mouthful with
thy children." The woman, however, would listen to nothing that he
had to say, but scolded and reproached him. He who says A must say
B likewise, and, as he had yielded the first time, he had to do so a
second time also.

The children were, however, still awake and had heard the
conversation. When the old folks were asleep, Haensel again got up,
and wanted to go out and pick up pebbles; but the woman had locked
the door, and Haensel could not get out. Nevertheless he comforted his
little sister, and said, "Do not cry, Grethel, go to sleep quietly.
The good God will help us."

Early in the morning came the woman, and took the children out of
their beds. Their bit of bread was given to them, but it was still
smaller than the time before. On the way into the forest Haensel
crumbled his in his pocket, and often stood still and threw a morsel
on the ground. "Haensel, why dost thou stop and look around?" asked
the father; "go on." "I am looking back at my little pigeon which
is sitting on the roof, and wants to say good-bye to me," answered
Haensel. "Simpleton!" said the woman, "that is not thy little pigeon,
that is the morning sun that is shining on the chimney." Haensel,
however, little by little, threw all the crumbs on the path.

The woman led the children still deeper into the forest, where they
had never in their lives been before. Then a great fire was again
made, and the mother said, "Just sit there, you children, and when you
are tired you may sleep a little; we are going into the forest to cut
wood, and in the evening, when we are done, we will come and fetch
you away." When it was noon, Grethel shared her piece of bread with
Haensel, who had scattered his by the way. Then they fell asleep and
evening came and went, but no one came to the poor children. They did
not awake until it was dark night; but Haensel comforted his little
sister and said, "Just wait, Grethel, until the moon rises, and then
we shall see the crumbs of bread which I have strewn about. They will
show us our way home again." When the moon rose they set out, but they
found no crumbs, for the many thousands of birds which fly about in
the woods and fields had picked them all up. Haensel said to Grethel,
"We shall soon find the way," but they did not find it. They walked
the whole night and all the next day too, from morning till evening,
but they did not get out of the forest, and were very hungry, for they
had nothing to eat but two or three berries which grew on the ground.
And as they were so weary that their legs would carry them no longer,
they lay down beneath a tree and fell asleep.

It was now three mornings since they had left their father's house.
They began to walk again, but they always got so much deeper into the
forest that, if help did not come soon, they must die of hunger and
weariness. When it was mid-day, they saw a beautiful snow-white bird
sitting on a bough, which sang so delightfully that they stood still
and listened to it. And when it had finished its song, it spread
its wings and flew away before them, and they followed it until they
reached a little house, on the roof of which it alighted; and when
they came quite up to the little house they saw that it was built
of bread and covered with cakes, and that the windows were of clear
sugar. "We will set to work on that," said Haensel, "and have a good
meal. I will eat a bit of the roof, and thou, Grethel, canst eat some
of the window; it will taste sweet." Haensel reached up above, and
broke off a little of the roof to try how it tasted, and Grethel leant
against the window and nibbled at the panes. Then a soft voice cried
from the room--

  "Nibble, nibble, gnaw,
  Who is nibbling at my little house?"

The children answered--

  "The wind, the wind,
  The heaven-born wind,"

and went on eating without disturbing themselves.

Haensel, who thought the roof tasted very nice, tore down a
great piece of it, and Grethel pushed out the whole of one round
window-pane, sat down, and enjoyed herself with it. Suddenly the door
opened, and a very, very old woman, who supported herself on crutches,
came creeping out. Haensel and Grethel were so terribly frightened
that they let fall what they had in their hands. The old woman,
however, nodded her head, and said, "Oh, you dear children, who has
brought you here? Do come in, and stay with me. No harm shall happen
to you." She took them both by the hand, and led them into her little
house. Then good food was set before them, milk and pancakes, with
sugar, apples, and nuts. Afterward two pretty little beds were covered
with clean white linen, and Haensel and Grethel lay down in them, and
thought they were in heaven.

The old woman had only pretended to be so kind; she was in reality
a wicked witch, who lay in wait for children, and had only built the
little bread house in order to entice them there. When a child fell
into her power, she killed it, cooked and ate it, and that was a feast
day with her. Witches have red eyes, and cannot see far, but they have
a keen scent, like the beasts, and are aware when human beings draw
near. When Haensel and Grethel came into her neighborhood, she laughed
maliciously, and said mockingly, "I have them; they shall not escape
me again!" Early in the morning, before the children were awake, she
was already up, and when she saw both of them sleeping and looking so
pretty, with their plump red cheeks, she muttered to herself, "That
will be a dainty mouthful!" Then she seized Haensel with her shriveled
hand, carried him into a little stable, and shut him in with a grated
door. He might scream as he liked, that was of no use. Then she went
to Grethel, shook her till she awoke, and cried, "Get up, lazy thing,
fetch some water, and cook something good for thy brother; he is in
the stable outside, and is to be made fat. When he is fat, I will eat
him." Grethel began to weep bitterly, but it was all in vain; she was
forced to do what the wicked witch ordered her.

And now the best food was cooked for poor Haensel, but Grethel got
nothing but crab-shells. Every morning the woman crept to the little
stable, and cried, "Haensel, stretch out thy finger that I may feel if
thou wilt soon be fat." Haensel, however, stretched out a little bone
to her, and the old woman, who had dim eyes, could not see it, and
thought it was Haensel's finger, and was astonished that there was no
way of fattening him. When four weeks had gone by, and Haensel still
continued thin, she was seized with impatience and would not wait any
longer. "Hola, Grethel," she cried to the girl, "be active, and bring
some water. Let Haensel be fat or lean, tomorrow I will kill him and
cook him." Ah, how the poor little sister did lament when she had
to fetch the water, and how her tears did flow down over her cheeks!
"Dear God, do help us!" she cried. "If the wild beasts in the forest
had but devoured us, we should at any rate have died together." "Just
keep thy noise to thyself," said the old woman; "all that won't help
thee at all."

Early in the morning, Grethel had to go out and hang up the caldron
with the water, and light the fire. "We will bake first," said the old
woman; "I have already heated the oven, and kneaded the dough." She
pushed poor Grethel out to the oven from which flames of fire were
already darting. "Creep in," said the witch, "and see if it is
properly heated, so that we can shut the bread in." And when once
Grethel was inside, she intended to shut the oven and let her bake in
it, and then she would eat her, too. But Grethel saw what she had in
her mind, and said, "I do not know how I am to do it; how do you get
in?" "Silly goose," said the old woman. "The door is big enough; just
look, I can get in myself!" and she crept up and thrust her head into
the oven. Then Grethel gave her a push that drove her far into it, and
shut the iron door, and fastened the bolt. Oh! then she began to
howl quite horribly, but Grethel ran away, and the godless witch was
miserably burnt to death.

Grethel, however, ran as quick as lightning to Haensel, opened his
little stable, and cried, "Haensel, we are saved! The old witch is
dead!" Then Haensel sprang out like a bird from its cage when the door
is opened for it. How they did rejoice and embrace each other, and
dance about and kiss each other! And as they had no longer any need to
fear her, they went into the witch's house; and in every corner there
stood chests full of pearls and jewels. "These are far better than
pebbles!" said Haensel, and thrust into his pockets whatever could be
got in; and Grethel said, "I, too, will take something home with me,"
and filled her pinafore full. "But now we will go away," said Haensel,
"that we may get out of the witch's forest."

When they had walked for two hours, they came to a great piece of
water. "We cannot get over," said Haensel, "I see no foot-plank, and
no bridge." "And no boat crosses either," answered Grethel, "but a
white duck is swimming there; if I ask her, she will help us over."
Then she cried--

  "Little duck, little duck, dost thou see,
  Haensel and Grethel are waiting for thee?
  There's never a plank, or bridge in sight,
  Take us across on thy back so white."

The duck came to them, and Haensel seated himself on its back, and
told his sister to sit by him. "No," replied Grethel, "that will be
too heavy for the little duck; she shall take us across, one after the
other." The good little duck did so, and when they were once safely
across and had walked for a short time, the forest seemed to be more
and more familiar to them, and at length they saw from afar their
father's house. Then they began to run, rushed into the parlor, and
threw themselves into their father's arms. The man had not known one
happy hour since he had left the children in the forest; the woman,
however, was dead. Grethel emptied her pinafore until pearls and
precious stones ran about the room, and Haensel threw one handful
after another out of his pocket to add to them. Then all anxiety was
at an end, and they lived together in perfect happiness. My tale is
done. There runs a mouse; whosoever catches it may make himself a big
fur cap out of it.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE


There was once on a time a Fisherman who lived with his wife in a
miserable hovel close by the sea, and every day he went out fishing.
And once as he was sitting with his rod, looking at the clear water,
his line suddenly went down, far down below, and when he drew it up
again he brought out a large Flounder. Then the Flounder said to
him, "Hark, you Fisherman, I pray you, let me live; I am no Flounder
really, but an enchanted prince. What good will it do you to kill me?
I should not be good to eat; put me in the water again, and let me
go." "Come," said the Fisherman, "there is no need for so many words
about it--a fish that can talk I should certainly let go, anyhow."
With that he put him back again into the clear water, and the Flounder
went to the bottom, leaving a long streak of blood behind him.
Then the Fisherman got up and went home to his wife in the hovel.
"Husband," said the woman, "have you caught nothing today?" "No," said
the man; "I did catch a Flounder, who said he was an enchanted prince,
so I let him go again." "Did you not wish for anything first?" said
the woman. "No," said the man; "what should I wish for?" "Ah," said
the woman, "it is surely hard to have to live always in this dirty
hovel. You might have wished for a small cottage for us. Go back and
call him. Tell him we want to have a small cottage; he will certainly
give us that." "Ah," said the man, "why should I go there again?"
"Why," said the woman, "you did catch him, and you let him go again;
he is sure to do it. Go at once." The man still did not quite like to
go, but did not like to oppose his wife, either, and so went to the
sea. When he got there the sea was all green and yellow, and no longer
smooth, as before; so he stood and said--

  "Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,
  Come, I pray thee, here to me;
  For my wife, good Ilsabil,
  Wills not as I'd have her will."

Then the Flounder came swimming to him and said, "Well, what does she
want, then?" "Ah," said the man, "I did catch you, and my wife says I
really ought to have wished for something. She does not like to live
in a wretched hovel any longer; she would like to have a cottage."
"Go, then," said the Flounder, "she has it already."

When the man went home, his wife was no longer in the hovel, but,
instead of it, there stood a small cottage, and she was sitting on a
bench before the door. Then she took him by the hand and said to him,
"Just come inside, look, now isn't this a great deal better?" So they
went in, and there was a small porch, and a pretty little parlor and
bedroom and a kitchen and pantry, with the best of furniture, and
fitted up with the most beautiful things made of tin and brass,
whatsoever was wanted. And behind the cottage there was a small yard,
with hens and ducks, and a little garden with flowers and fruit.
"Look," said the wife, "is not that nice!" "Yes," said the husband,
"and so we must always think it; now we will live quite contented."
"We will think about that," said the wife. With that they ate
something and went to bed.

Everything went well for a week or a fortnight, and then the woman
said, "Hark you, husband, this cottage is far too small for us, and
the garden and yard are little; the Flounder might just as well
have given us a larger house. I should like to live in a great stone
castle; go to the Flounder, and tell him to give us a castle." "Ah,
wife," said the man, "the cottage is quite good enough; why should
we live in a castle?" "What!" said the woman; "just go there, the
Flounder can always do that." "No, wife," said the man, "the Flounder
has just given us the cottage; I do not like to go back so soon.
It might make him angry." "Go," said the woman, "he can do it quite
easily, and will be glad to do it; just you go to him."

The man's heart grew heavy, and he would not go. He said to himself,
"It is not right," and yet he went. And when he came to the sea the
water was quite purple and dark-blue, and gray and thick, and no
longer green and yellow; but it was still quiet. And he stood there
and said--

  "Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,
  Come, I pray thee, here to me;
  For my wife, good Ilsabil,
  Wills not as I'd have her will."

"Well, what does she want, then?" said the Flounder. "Alas," said the
man, half scared, "she wants to live in a great stone castle." "Go to
it, then, she is standing before the door," said the Flounder.

Then the man went away, intending to go home, but when he got there,
he found a great stone palace, and his wife was just standing on the
steps going in, and she took him by the hand and said, "Come in." So
he went in with her, and in the castle was a great hall paved with
marble, and many servants, who flung wide the doors; and the walls
were all bright with beautiful hangings, and in the rooms were
chairs and tables of pure gold, and crystal chandeliers hung from the
ceiling, and all the rooms and bedrooms had carpets, and food and wine
of the very best were standing on all the tables so that they nearly
broke down beneath it. Behind the house, too, there was a great
courtyard, with stables for horses and cows, and the very best of
carriages; there was a magnificent large garden, too, with the most
beautiful flowers and fruit-trees, and a park quite half a mile long,
in which were stags, deer, and hares, and everything that could
be desired. "Come," said the woman, "isn't that beautiful?" "Yes,
indeed," said the man; "now let it be; we will live in this beautiful
castle and be content." "We will consider about that," said the woman,
"and sleep upon it;" thereupon they went to bed.

Next morning the wife awoke first, and it was just daybreak, and from
her bed she saw the beautiful country lying before her. Her husband
was still stretching himself, so she poked him in the side with her
elbow, and said, "Get up, husband, and just peep out of the window.
Look you, couldn't we be the King over all that land? Go to the
Flounder, we will be the King." "Ah, wife," said the man, "why should
we be King? I do not want to be King." "Well," said the wife, "if you
won't be King, I will; go to the Flounder, for I will be King." "Oh,
wife," said the man, "why do you want to be King? I do not like to
say that to him." "Why not?" asked the woman; "go to him this instant;
I must be King!" So the man went, and was quite unhappy because his
wife wished to be King. "It is not right; it is not right," thought
he. He did not wish to go; but yet he went.

And when he came to the sea, it was quite dark-gray, and the water
heaved up from below, and smelt putrid. Then he went and stood by it,
and said--

  "Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,
  Come, I pray thee, here to me;
  For my wife, good Ilsabil,
  Wills not as I'd have her will."

"Well, what does she want, then?" asked the Flounder. "Alas," said the
man, "she wants to be King." "Go to her; she is King already."

So the man went, and when he came to the palace, the castle had become
much larger, and had a great tower and magnificent ornaments, and
the sentinel was standing before the door, and there were numbers of
soldiers with kettle-drums and trumpets. And when he went inside the
house, everything was of real marble and gold, with velvet covers
and great golden tassels. Then the doors of the hall were opened, and
there was the court in all its splendor, and his wife was sitting on
a high throne of gold and diamonds, with a great crown of gold on her
head, and a sceptre of pure gold and jewels in her hand, and on both
sides of her stood her maids-in-waiting in a row, each of them always
one head shorter than the last.

Then he went and stood before her, and said, "Ah, wife, and now you
are King!" "Yes," said the woman, "now I am King." So he stood and
looked at her, and when he had looked at her thus for a time he said,
"And now that you are King, let all else be; now we will wish for
nothing more." "Nay, husband," said the woman, quite anxiously,
"I find time pass very heavily; I can bear it no longer; go to the
Flounder. I am King, but I must be Emperor, too."

"Alas, wife, why do you wish to be Emperor?" "Husband," said she, "go
to the Flounder. I will be Emperor." "Alas, wife," said the man, "he
cannot make you Emperor; I may not say that to the fish. There is only
one Emperor in the land. An Emperor the Flounder cannot make you! I
assure you he cannot."

"What!" said the woman, "I am the King, and you are nothing but my
husband; will you go this moment? Go at once! If he can make a king
he can make an emperor. I will be Emperor; go instantly." So he was
forced to go. As the man went, however, he was troubled in mind,
and thought to himself, "It will not end well; it will not end well!
Emperor is too shameless! The Flounder will at last be tired out."

With that he reached the sea, and the sea was quite black and thick,
and began to boil up from below, so that it threw up bubbles, and such
a sharp wind blew over it that it curdled, and the man was afraid.
Then he went and stood by it, and said--

  "Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,
  Come, I pray thee, here to me;
  For my wife, good Ilsabil,
  Wills not as I'd have her will."

"Well, what does she want, then?" asked the Flounder. "Alas,
Flounder," said he, "my wife wants to be Emperor." "Go to her," said
the Flounder; "she is Emperor already."

So the man went, and when he got there the whole palace was made
of polished marble with alabaster figures and golden ornaments, and
soldiers were marching before the door blowing trumpets, and beating
cymbals and drums; and in the house, barons, and counts, and dukes
were going about as servants. Then they opened the doors to him,
which were of pure gold. And when he entered, there sat his wife on a
throne, which was made of one piece of gold, and was quite two miles
high; and she wore a great golden crown that was three yards high, and
set with diamonds and carbuncles, and in one hand she had the sceptre,
and in the other the imperial orb; and on both sides of her stood
the yeomen of the guard in two rows, each being smaller than the one
before him, from the biggest giant, who was two miles high, to the
very smallest dwarf, just as big as my little finger. And before it
stood a number of princes and dukes.

Then the man went and stood among them, and said, "Wife, are you
Emperor now?" "Yes," said she, "now I am Emperor." Then he stood and
looked at her well; and when he had looked at her thus for some time,
be said, "Ah, wife, be content, now that you are Emperor." "Husband,"
said she, "why are you standing there? Now, I am Emperor, but I will
be Pope too; go to the Flounder."

"Alas, wife," said the man, "what will you not wish for? You cannot
be Pope; there is but one in Christendom; he cannot make you Pope."
"Husband," said she, "I will be Pope; go immediately, I must be Pope
this very day." "No, wife," said the man, "I do not like to say that
to him; that would not do; it is too much; the Flounder can't make you
Pope." "Husband," said she, "what nonsense! If he can make an emperor
he can make a pope. Go to him directly. I am Emperor and you are
nothing but my husband; will you go at once?"

Then he was afraid, and went; but he was quite faint, and shivered and
shook, and his knees and legs trembled. And a high wind blew over the
land, and the clouds flew, and toward evening all grew dark, and the
leaves fell from the trees, and the water rose and roared as if it
were boiling, and splashed upon the shore; and in the distance he saw
ships which were firing guns in their sore need, pitching and tossing
on the waves. And yet in the midst of the sky there was still a small
bit of blue, though on every side it was as red as in a heavy storm.
So, full of despair, he went and stood in much fear and said--

  "Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,
  Come, I pray thee, here to me;
  For my wife, good Ilsabil,
  Wills not as I'd have her will."

"Well, what does she want, then?" asked the Flounder. "Alas," said the
man, "she wants to be Pope." "Go to her then," said the Flounder; "she
is Pope already."

So he went, and when he got there, he saw what seemed to be a large
church surrounded by palaces. Inside, however, everything was lighted
up with thousands and thousands of candles, and his wife was clad in
gold, and she was sitting on a much higher throne, and had three great
golden crowns on, and around about her there was much ecclesiastical
splendor; and on both sides of her was a row of candles the largest of
which was as tall as the very tallest tower, down to the very smallest
kitchen candle, and all the emperors and kings were on their knees
before her, kissing her shoe. He pushed his way through the crowd.
"Wife," said the man, and looked attentively at her, "are you now
Pope?" "Yes," said she, "I am Pope." So he stood and looked at her,
and it was just as if he was looking at the bright sun. When he had
stood looking at her thus for a short time, he said, "Ah, wife, if you
are Pope, do let well alone!" But she looked as stiff as a post, and
did not move or show any signs of life. Then said he, "Wife, now that
you are Pope, be satisfied; you cannot become anything greater now."
"I will consider about that," said the woman. Thereupon they both
went to bed, but she was not satisfied, and greediness let her have no
sleep, for she was continually thinking what there was left for her to
be.

The man slept well and soundly, for he had run about a great deal
during the day; but the woman could not fall asleep at all, and flung
herself from one side to the other the whole night through, thinking
always what more was left for her to be, but unable to call to mind
anything else. At length the sun began to rise, and when the woman saw
the red of dawn, she sat up in bed and looked at it. And when, through
the window, she saw the sun thus rising, she said, "Cannot I, too,
order the sun and moon to rise?" "Husband," said she, poking him in
the ribs with her elbow, "wake up! go to the Flounder, for I wish
to be even as God is." The man was still half asleep, but he was
so horrified that he fell out of bed. He thought he must have heard
amiss, and rubbed his eyes, and said, "Alas, wife, what are you
saying?" "Husband," said she, "if I can't order the sun and moon to
rise, and have to look on and see the sun and moon rising, I can't
bear it. I shall not know what it is to have another happy hour,
unless I can make them rise myself."

Then she looked at him so terribly that a shudder ran over him, and
said, "Go at once; I wish to be like unto God." "Alas, wife," said the
man, falling on his knees before her, "the Flounder cannot do that; he
can make an emperor and a pope; I beseech you, go on as you are, and
be Pope." Then she fell into a rage, and her hair flew wildly about
her head, and she cried, "I will not endure this, I'll not bear it any
longer; wilt thou go?" Then he put on his trousers and ran away like a
madman. But outside a great storm was raging and blowing so hard that
he could scarcely keep his feet; houses and trees toppled over, the
mountains trembled, rocks rolled into the sea, the sky was pitch
black, and it thundered and lightened, and the sea came in with black
waves as high as church-towers and mountains, and all with crests
of white foam at the top. Then he cried, but could not hear his own
words--

  "Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,
  Come, I pray thee, here to me;
  For my wife, good Ilsabil,
  Wills not as I'd have her will"

"Well, what does she want, then?" asked the Flounder. "Alas," said
he, "she wants to be like unto God." "Go to her, and you will find
her back again in the dirty hovel." And there they are living still at
this very time.




_ERNST MORITZ ARNDT_

       *       *       *       *       *


  SONG OF THE FATHERLAND[9] (1813)


  God, who gave iron, purposed ne'er
    That man should be a slave;
  Therefore the sabre, sword, and spear
    In his right hand He gave.
  Therefore He gave him fiery mood,
    Fierce speech, and free-born breath,
  That he might fearlessly the feud
    Maintain through blood and death.

  Therefore will we what God did say,
    With honest truth, maintain--
  And ne'er a fellow-creature slay,
    A tyrant's pay to gain!
  But he shall perish by stroke of brand
    Who fighteth for sin and shame,
  And not inherit the German land
    With men of the German name.

  O Germany! bright Fatherland!
    O German love so true!
  Thou sacred land--thou beauteous land--
    We swear to thee anew!
  Outlawed, each knave and coward shall
    The crow and raven feed;
  But we will to the battle all--
    Revenge shall be our meed.

  Flash forth, flash forth, whatever can,
    To bright and flaming life!
  Now, all ye Germans, man for man,
    Forth to the holy strife!
  Your hands lift upward to the sky--
    Your hearts shall upward soar--
  And man for man let each one cry,
    Our slavery is o'er!

  Let sound, let sound, whatever can
    Trumpet and fife and drum!
  This day our sabres, man for man,
    To stain with blood, we come;
  With hangman's and with coward's blood,
    O glorious day of ire
  That to all Germans soundeth good!--
    Day of our great desire!

  Let wave, let wave, whatever can--
    Standard and banner wave!
  Here will we purpose, man for man,
    To grace a hero's grave.
  Advance, ye brave ranks, hardily--
    Your banners wave on high;
  We'll gain us freedom's victory,
    Or freedom's death we'll die!

[Illustration: ERNST MORITZ ARNDT Julius Roeting]


       *       *       *       *       *


  UNION SONG[10] (1814)


  This blessed hour we are united,
    Of German men a mighty choir,
  And from the lips of each, delighted,
    Our praying souls to heaven aspire;
  With high and sacred awe abounding
    We join in solemn thoughts today,
  And so our hearts should be resounding
    In clear harmonic song and play.

  To whom shall foremost thanks be given?
    To God, the great, so long concealed,
  Who, when the cloud of shame was riven,
    Himself in flames to us revealed,
  Who, stubborn foes with lightning felling,
    Restored to us our strength of yore,
  Who, on the stars in power dwelling,
    Reigns ever and forevermore.

  Who should our second wish be hearing?
    The majesty of Fatherland--
  Destroyed be those who still are sneering!
    Hail them who with it fall and stand!
  By virtue winning admiration,
    Beloved for honesty and might,
  Long live through centuries our nation
    As strong in honor and in might!

  The third is German manhood's treasure--
    Ring out it shall, with clearness mete!
  For Freedom is the German pleasure,
    And Germans step to Freedom's beat.
  Be life and death by her inspired--
    Of German hearts, oh, longing bright!
  And death for Freedom's sake desired
    Is German honor and delight.

  The fourth--for noble consecration
    Now lift on high both heart and hand!
  Old loyalty within our nation
    And German faith forever stand!--
  These virtues shall, our weal assuring,
    Remain our union's shield and stay;
  Our manly word will be enduring
    Until the world shall pass away.

  Now let the final chord be ringing
    In jubilee--stand not apart!
  Let sound our mighty, joyful singing
    From lip to lip, from heart to heart!
  The weal from which no devils bar us,
    The word that doth our league infold--
  The bliss which tyrants cannot mar us
    We must believe in, we must hold!




_THEODOR KOeRNER_

       *       *       *       *       *

  MEN AND KNAVES[11] (1813)


  The storm is out; the land is roused;
  Where is the coward who sits well-housed?
  Fie, on thee, boy, disguised in curls,
  Behind the stove, 'mong gluttons and girls!
    A graceless, worthless wight thou must be;
    No German maid desires thee,
    No German song inspires thee,
    No German Rhine-wine fires thee.
        Forth in the van,
        Man by man,
    Swing the battle-sword who can!

  When we stand watching, the livelong night,
  Through piping storms, till morning light,
  Thou to thy downy bed canst creep,
  And there in dreams of rapture sleep.

  _Chorus_.

  When, hoarse and shrill, the trumpet's blast,
  Like the thunder of God, makes our hearts beat fast,
  Thou in the theatre lov'st to appear,
  Where trills and quavers tickle the ear.

  _Chorus_.

  When the glare of noonday scorches the brain,
  When our parched lips seek water in vain,
  Thou canst make the champagne corks fly,
  At the groaning tables of luxury.

  _Chorus_.

  When we, as we rush to the strangling fight,
  Send home to our true loves a long "Good night,"
  Thou canst hie thee where love is sold,
  And buy thy pleasure with paltry gold.

  _Chorus_.

  When lance and bullet come whistling by,
  And death in a thousand shapes draws nigh,
  Thou canst sit at thy cards, and kill
  King, queen, and knave, with thy spadille.

  _Chorus_.

  If on the red field our bell should toll,
  Then welcome be death to the patriot's soul.
  Thy pampered flesh shall quake at its doom,
  And crawl in silk to a hopeless tomb.
    A pitiful exit thine shall be;
    No German maid shall weep for thee,
    No German song shall they sing for thee,
    No German goblets shall ring for thee.
        Forth in the van,
        Man for man,
    Swing the battle-sword who can!

       *       *       *       *       *

  LUeTZOW'S WILD BAND[12] (1813)


  What gleams through the woods in the morning sun?
    Hear it nearer and nearer draw!
  It winds in and out in columns dun,
  And the trumpet-notes on the roused winds run,
    And they startle the soul with awe.
  Should you of the comrades black demand--
  That is Luetzow's wild and untamed band.

  What passes swift through the darksome glade,
    And roves o'er the mountains all?
  It crouches in nightly ambuscade;
  The hurrah breaks round the foe dismayed,
    And the Frankish sergeants fall.
  Should you of the rangers black demand--
  That is Luetzow's wild and audacious band.

  Where the vineyards flourish, there roars the Rhine;
    There the tyrant thought him secure;
  Then by thunder-crash and lightning-shine
  In the waters plunges the fighting line;
    Of the hostile bank makes sure.
  Should you of the swimmers black demand--
  That is Luetzow's wild and foolhardy band.

  There down in the valley what clamorous fight!
    What clangor of bloody swords!
  Fierce-hearted horsemen wage the fight,
  And the spark of freedom's at last alight,
    Flaming red the heavens towards.
  Should you of the horsemen black demand--
  That is Luetzow's wild and intrepid band.

  Who with death-rattle there bid the day farewell
    'Mid the moans of prostrate foes?
  Of the hand of death the drawn features tell,
  Yet the dauntless hearts triumphant swell,
    For his Fatherland's safe each knows!
  Should you of the black-clad fallen demand--
  That is Luetzow's wild and invincible band.

  The wild, fierce band and the Teuton band,
    For all tyrants' blood athirst!--
  So you who would mourn us, be not unmanned;
  For the morning dawns, and we freed our land,
    Though to free it we won death first!
  Then tell, at your grandsons' rapt demand:
  That was Luetzow's wild and unconquered band!

[Illustration: THEODOR KOeRNER]

       *       *       *       *       *

  PRAYER DURING BATTLE[13](1813)


        Father, I call to thee.
  The roaring artillery's clouds thicken round me,
  The hiss and the glare of the loud bolts confound me.
        Ruler of battles, I call on thee
        O Father, lead thou me!

        O Father, lead thou me;
  To victory, to death, dread Commander, O guide me;
  The dark valley brightens when thou art beside me;
        Lord, as thou wilt, so lead thou me.
        God, I acknowledge thee.

        God, I acknowledge thee;
  When the breeze through the dry leaves of autumn is moaning,
  When the thunder-storm of battle is groaning,
        Fount of mercy, in each I acknowledge thee.
        O Father, bless thou me!

        O Father, bless thou me;
  I trust in thy mercy, whate'er may befall me;
  'Tis thy word that hath sent me; that word can recall me.
        Living or dying, O bless thou me!
        Father, I honor thee.

        Father, I honor thee;
  Not for earth's hoards or honors we here are contending;
  All that is holy our swords are defending;
        Then falling, and conquering, I honor thee.
        God, I repose in thee.

        God, I repose in thee;
  When the thunders of death my soul are greeting,
  When the gashed veins bleed, and the life is fleeting,
        In thee, my God, I repose in thee.
        Father, I call on thee.




_MAXIMILIAN GOTTFRIED VON SCHENKENDORF_

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE MOTHER TONGUE[14] (1814)


  Mother tongue, oh, tongue most dear,
  Sweet and gladsome to mine ear!
    Word that first I heard, endearing
  Word of love, first timid sound
    That I stammered--still I'm hearing
  Thee within my soul profound.

  Oh, my heart will ever grieve
  When my Fatherland I leave,
    For in foreign tongues repeating
  Words of strangers, I lose cheer.
    Oh, they seem not like a greeting,
  And I'll never hold them dear.

  Speech so wonderful to hear--
  How thou ringest pure and clear!
    Though thy beauty hath enthralled me,
  Still I'll deepen my delight,
    Awed, as if my fathers called me
  From the grave's eternal night.

  Ring on ever, tongue of old,
  Tongue of lovers, heroes bold!
    Rise, old song, though lost for ages,
  From thy secret tomb, and go
    Live again in sacred pages,
  Set all hearts once more aglow.

  Breath of God is everywhere,
  Custom sacred here as there.
    Yet when I give thanks, am praying,
  A beloved heart would seek,
    When my highest thoughts I'm saying--
  Then my mother tongue I speak.


[Illustration: MAXIMILIAN GOTTFRIED VON SCHENKENDORF]

       *       *       *       *       *

  SPRING GREETING TO THE FATHERLAND[15] (1814)


  Fatherland, thy pleasures greet me
    After bondage, war's distress!
  I must steep my soul completely
    Here in all thy gorgeousness.
  Where the oak-trees murmur mildly
    With their crowns to heaven raised,
  Mighty streams are roaring wildly--
    There the German land be praised.

  From the Rhinefall, all delighted,
    I have walked, from Danube's spring;
  Mildly, in my soul benighted
    Love-stars rose, illumining;
  Now I would descend, and brightly
    Radiate a joyous shine
  Into Neckar's valleys sprightly,
    O'er the blue and silver Main.

  Onward fly, my message, bringing
    Freedom's greeting evermore,
  Far away thou shalt be ringing
    By my home on Memel's shore.
  Where the German tongue is spoken,
    Hearts have fought to make her free--
  Fought right gladly--there unbroken
    Stays our sacred Germany.

  All with sunlight seems a-blazing,
    All things seem adorned with green--
  Pastures where the herds are grazing,
    Hills where ripening grapes are seen.
  Such a spring time has not graced thee,
    Fatherland, for thousand years;
  Glory of thy fathers faced thee
    Once in dreams, and now appears.

  Once more weapons must be wielded;
    Go, a spirit-fray begin,
  Till the latest foe has yielded--
    He who threatens you within.
  Passions vile ye should be blighting,
    Hate, suspicion, envy, greed--
  Then take, after heavy fighting,
    German hearts, the rest ye need.

  Then shall all men be possessing
    Honor, humbleness, and might,
  And thus only can the blessing
    Sent our monarch shine with right.
  All the ancient sins must perish--
    In the God-sent deluge all,
  And the heritage we cherish
    To a worthy heir must fall.

  God has blessed the grain that's growing
    And the vineyard's fruit no less;
  Men with hunter's joy are glowing;
    In the homes reigns happiness.
  And our freedom's sure foundation,
    Pious longing, fills the breast;
  Love that charms in every nation
    In our German land is best.

  Ye that are in castles dwelling,
    Or in towns that grace our soil,
  Farmers that in harvests swelling
    Reap the fruits of German toil--
  German brothers dear, united,
    Mark my words both old and new!
  That our land may stay unblighted,
    Keep this concord, and be true!

       *       *       *       *       *

  FREEDOM[16] (1815)


  Freedom that I love,
    Shining in my heart,
  Come now from above,
    Angel that thou art.

  Wilt thou ne'er appear
    To the world oppressed?
  With thy grace and cheer
    Only stars are blessed?

  In the forest gay
    When the trees are green,
  'Neath the blooming spray,
    Freedom, thou art seen.

  Oh, what dear delight!
    Music fills the air,
  And thy secret might
    Thrills us everywhere,

  When the rustling boughs
    Friendly greetings send,
  When we lovers' vows
    Looks and kisses spend.

  But the heart aspires
    Upward evermore,
  And our high desires
    Ever sky-ward soar.

  From his simple kind
    Comes my rustic child,
  Shows his heart and mind
    To the world beguiled;

  For him gardens bloom,
    For him fields have grown,
  Even in, the gloom
    Of a world of stone.

  Where in that man's breast
    Glows a God-sent flame
  Who with loyal zest
    Loves the ancient name,

  Where the men unite
    Valiantly to face
  Foes of honor's right--
    There dwells freedom's race.

  Ramparts, brazen doors
    Still may bar the light,
  Yet the spirit soars
    Into regions bright;

  For the fathers' grave,
    For the church to fall,
  And for dear ones--brave,
    True at freedom's call--

  That indeed is light,
    Glowing rosy-red;
  Heroes' cheeks grow bright
    And more fair when dead.

  Down to us, oh, guide
    Heaven's grace, we pray!
  In our hearts reside--
    German hearts--to stay!

  Freedom sweet and fair,
    Trusting, void of fear,
  German nature e'er
    Was to thee most clear.




_LUDWIG UHLAND_

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE CHAPEL[17] (1805)


  Yonder chapel, on the mountain,
    Looks upon a vale of joy;
  There, below, by moss and fountain,
    Gaily sings the herdsman's boy.

  Hark! Upon the breeze descending,
    Sound of dirge and funeral bell;
  And the boy, his song suspending,
    Listens, gazing from the dell.

  Homeward to the grave they're bringing
    Forms that graced the peaceful vale;
  Youthful herdsman, gaily singing!
    Thus they'll chant thy funeral wail.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE SHEPHERD'S SONG ON THE LORD'S DAY[18] (1805)


    The Lord's own day is here!
  Alone I kneel on this broad plain;
  A matin bell just sounds; again
    'Tis silence, far and near.

    Here kneel I on the sod;
  O deep amazement, strangely felt!
  As though, unseen, vast numbers knelt
    And prayed with me to God!

    Yon heav'n afar and near--
  So bright, so glorious seems its cope
  As though e'en now its gates would ope--
    The Lord's own day is here!

[Illustration: LUDWIG UHLAND]

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE CASTLE BY THE SEA[19] (1805)


  Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
    That castle by the sea?
  Golden and red above it
    The clouds float gorgeously.

  And fain it would stoop downward
    To the mirrored lake below;
  And fain it would soar upward
    In the evening's crimson glow.

  Well have I seen that castle,
    That castle by the sea,
  And the moon above it standing,
    And the mist rise solemnly.

  The winds and the waves of ocean--
    Had they a merry chime?
  Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers,
    The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?

  The winds and the waves of ocean,
    They rested quietly;
  But I heard in the gale a sound of wail,
    And tears came to mine eye.

  And sawest thou on the turrets
    The king and his royal bride,
  And the wave of their crimson mantles,
    And the golden crown of pride?

  Led they not forth, in rapture,
    A beauteous maiden there,
  Resplendent as the morning sun,
    Beaming with golden hair!

  Well saw I the ancient parents,
    Without the crown of pride;
  They were moving slow, in weeds of woe--
    No maiden was by their side!

       *       *       *       *       *

  SONG OF THE MOUNTAIN BOY[20] (1806)


  The mountain shepherd-boy am I;
  The castles all below me spy.
  The sun sends me his earliest beam,
  Leaves me his latest, lingering gleam.
    I am the boy of the mountain!

  The mountain torrent's home is here,
  Fresh from the rock I drink it clear;
  As out it leaps with furious force,
  I stretch my arms and stop its course.
    I am the boy of the mountain!

  I claim the mountain for my own;
  In vain the winds around me moan;
  From north to south let tempests brawl--
  My song shall swell above them all.
    I am the boy of the mountain!

  Thunder and lightning below me lie,
  Yet here I stand in upper sky;
  I know them well, and cry, "Harm not
  My father's lowly, peaceful cot."
    I am the boy of the mountain!

  But when I hear the alarm-bell sound,
  When watch-fires gleam from the mountains round,
  Then down I go and march along,
  And swing my sword, and sing my song.
    I am the boy of the mountain!

[Illustration: THE VILLA BY THE SEA From the Painting by Arnold Boecklin]

       *       *       *       *       *

  DEPARTURE[21] (1806)


  What jingles and carols along the street!
  Fling open your casements, damsels sweet!
  The prentice' friends, they are bearing
  The boy on his far wayfaring.

  'Mid fluttering ribbons and tossing caps,
  Full merry the rabble huzzas and claps;
  But the boy regards not the token--
  He walks like one heartbroken.

  Full clear clinks the wine-can, full red gleams the wine
  "Drink deep and drink deeper, dear brother mine!"
  "Oh, have done with the red wine of parting
  That burns me within with its smarting!"

  And outside from the cottage, last of all,
  A maiden peeps out and her tear-drops fall,
  Yet her tear-drops to none she discloses
  But forget-me-nots and roses.

  And outside by the cottage, last of all,
  The boy glances up at a casement small,
  And glances down without greeting.
  'Neath his hand his heart is beating.

  "What, brother! Art lacking a bright nosegay?
  See yonder--the beckoning, blossomy spray!
  God save thee, thou prettiest sweeting!
  Drop down now a nosegay for greeting!"

  "Nay, brothers, pass yonder casement by.
  No prettiest sweeting like her have I.
  In the sun those blossoms would wither;
  The wind it would blow them thither."

  So farther and farther with shout and song!
  And the maiden listens and harkens long
  "Ah, me! he is flown now beyond me--
  The boy I have loved so fondly!

  And here I stay, with my lonely lot,
  With roses, ah!--and forget-me-not,
  And he whose heart I'd be sharing--
  He is gone on his far wayfaring!"

       *       *       *       *       *

  FAREWELL[22] (1807)


  Farewell, farewell! From thee
    Today, love, must I sever.
  One kiss, one kiss give me,
    Ere I quit thee forever!

  One blossom from yon tree
    O give to me, I pray!
  No fruit, no fruit for me!
    So long I may not stay.


[Illustration: LEAVING AT DAWN]

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE HOSTESS' DAUGHTER[23] (1809)


  Three students had cross'd o'er the Rhine's dark tide;
  At the door of a hostel they turned aside.

  "Hast thou, Dame hostess, good ale and wine
  And where is thy daughter, so sweet and fine?"

  "My ale and wine are cool and clear;
  On her death-bed lieth my daughter dear."

  And when to the chamber they made their way,
  In a sable coffin the damsel lay.

  The first--the veil from her face he took,
  And gazed upon her with mournful look:

  "Alas! fair maiden--didst thou still live,
  To thee my love would I henceforth give!"

  The second--he lightly replaced the shroud,
  Then round he turned him, and wept aloud:

  "Thou liest, alas I on thy death-bed here;
  I loved thee fondly for many a year!"

  The third--he lifted again the veil,
  And gently he kissed those lips so pale:

  "I love thee now, as I loved of yore,
  And thus will I love thee forevermore!"

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE GOOD COMRADE[24] (1809)


  I had a gallant comrade,
    No better e'er was tried;
  The drum beat loud to battle--
  Beside me, to its rattle,
    He marched, with equal stride.

  A bullet flies toward us us--
    "Is that for me or thee?"
  It struck him, passing o'er me;
  I see his corpse before me
    As 'twere a part of me!

  And still, while I am loading,
    His outstretched hand I view;
  "Not now--awhile we sever;
  But, when we live forever,
    Be still my comrade true!"

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE WHITE HART[25] (1811)


  Three huntsmen forth to the greenwood went;
  To hunt the white hart was their intent.

  They laid them under a green fir-tree,
  And a singular vision befell those three.

  THE FIRST HUNTSMAN

  I dreamt I arose and beat on the bush,
  When forth came rushing the stag--hush, hush!

  THE SECOND

  As with baying of hound he came rushing along,
  I fired my gun at his hide--bing, bang!

  THE THIRD

  And when the stag on the ground I saw,
  I merrily wound my horn--trara!

  Conversing thus did the huntsmen lie,
  When lo! the white hart came bounding by;

  And before the huntsmen had noted him well,
  He was up and away over mountain and dell!--
      Hush, hush!--bing, bang!--trara!

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE LOST CHURCH[26] (1812)


  When one into the forest goes,
    A music sweet the spirit blesses;
  But whence it cometh no one knows,
    Nor common rumor even guesses.
  From the lost Church those strains must swell
    That come on all the winds resounding;
  The path to it now none can tell,
    That path with pilgrims once abounding.

  As lately, in the forest, where
    No beaten path could be discover'd,
  All lost in thought, I wander'd far,
    Upward to God my spirit hover'd.
  When all was silent round me there,
    Then in my ears that music sounded;
  The higher, purer, rose my prayer,
    The nearer, fuller, it resounded.

  Upon my heart such peace there fell,
    Those strains with all my thoughts so blended,
  That how it was I cannot tell
    That I so high that hour ascended.
  It seem'd a hundred years and more
    That I had been thus lost in dreaming,
  When, all earth's vapors op'ning o'er,
    A free large place stood, brightly beaming.

  The sky it was so blue and bland,
    The sun it was so full and glowing,
  As rose a minster vast and grand,
    The golden light all round it flowing.
  The clouds on which it rested seem'd
    To bear it up like wings of fire;
  Piercing the heavens, so I dream'd,
    Sublimely rose its lofty spire.

  The bell--what music from it roll'd!
    Shook, as it peal'd, the trembling tower;
  Rung by no mortal hand, but toll'd
    By some unseen, unearthly power.
  The selfsame power from Heaven thrill'd
    My being to its utmost centre,
  As, all with fear and gladness fill'd,
    Beneath the lofty dome I enter.

  I stood within the solemn pile--
    Words cannot tell with what amazement,
  As saints and martyrs seem'd to smile
    Down on me from each gorgeous casement.
  I saw the picture grow alive,
    And I beheld a world of glory,
  Where sainted men and women strive
    And act again their godlike story.

  Before the altar knelt I low--
    Love and devotion only feeling,
  While Heaven's glory seem'd to glow,
    Depicted on the lofty ceiling.
  Yet when again I upward gazed,
    The mighty dome in twain was shaken,
  And Heaven's gate wide open blazed,
    And every veil away was taken.

  What majesty I then beheld,
    My heart with adoration swelling;
  What music all my senses fill'd,
    Beyond the organ's power of telling,
  In words can never be exprest;
    Yet for that bliss who longs sincerely,
  O let him to the music list,
    That in the forest soundeth clearly!

       *       *       *       *       *

  CHARLEMAGNE'S VOYAGE[27] (1812)


  With comrades twelve upon the main
    King Charles set out to sail.
  The Holy Land he hoped to gain,
    But drifted in a gale.

  Then spake Sir Roland, hero brave:
    "Well I can fight and shield;
  Yet neither stormy wind nor wave
    Will to my weapon yield."

  Sir Holger spoke, from Denmark's strand:
    "The harp I feign would play;
  But what avails the music bland
    When tempests roaring sway!"

  Sir Oliver was not too glad;
    Upon his sword he'd stare:
  "For my own weal 'twere not so bad,
    I grieve, for good Old Clare."

  Said wicked Ganilon with gall
    (He said it 'neath his breath):
  "The devil come and take ye all--
    Were I but spared this death!"

  Archbishop Turpin deeply sighed:
    "The knights of God are we.
  O come, our Savior, be our guide,
    And lead us o'er the sea!"

  Then spake Sir Richard Fearless stern:
    "Ye demons there in hell,
  I served ye many a goodly turn,
    Now serve ye me as well!"

  "My counsel often has been heard,"
    Sir Naimes did remark.
  "Fresh water, though, and helpful word
    Are rare upon a bark."

  Then spake Sir Riol, old and gray:
    "An aged knight am I;
  And they shall lay my corpse away
    Where it is good and dry."

  And then Sir Guy began to sing--
    He was a courtly knight:
  "Feign would I have a birdie's wing,
    And to my love take flight!"

  Then Count Garein, the noble, said:
    "God, danger from us keep!
  I'd rather drink the wine so red
    Than water in the deep."

  Sir Lambert spake, a sprightly youth:
    "May God behold our state!
  I'd rather eat good fish, forsooth,
    Than be myself a bait."

  Then quoth Sir Gottfried: "Be it so,
    I heed not how I fare;
  Whatever I must undergo,
    My brothers all would share."

  But at the helm King Charles sat by,
    And never said a word,
  And steered the ship with steadfast eye
    Till no more tempest stirred.

       *       *       *       *       *

  FREE ART[28] (1812)

  Thou, whom song was given, sing
    In the German poets' wood!
  When all boughs with music ring--
    Then is life and pleasure good.

  Nay, this art doth not belong
    To a small and haughty band;
  Scattered are the seeds of song
    All about the German land.

  Music set thy passions free
    From the heart's confining cage;
  Let thy love like murmurs be,
    And like thunder-storm thy rage!

  Singest thou not all thy days,
    Joy of youth should make thee sing.
  Nightingales pour forth their lays
    In the blooming months of spring!

  Though in books they hold not fast
    What the hour to thee imparts,
  Leaves unto the breezes cast,
    To be seized by youthful hearts!

  Fare thou well, thou secret lore:
    Necromancy, Alchemy!
  Formulas shall bind no more,
    And our art is poesy.

  Names we deem but empty air;
    Spirits we revere alone;
  Though we honor masters rare.
    Art is free--it is our own!

  Not in haunts of marble chill,
    Temples drear where ancients trod--
  Nay, in oaks on woody hill,
    Lives and moves the German God.

       *       *       *       *       *

  TAILLEFER[29] (1812)


  Duke William of the Normans spoke unto his servants all:
  "Who is it sings so sweetly in the court and in the hall?
  Who sings from early morn till the house is still at night
  So sweetly that he fills my heart with laughter and delight?"

  "'Tis Taillefer," they answered him, "so joyously that sings
  Within the courtyard, as the wheel above the well he swings,
  And when the fire upon the hearth he stirs to burn more bright,
  And when he rises to his toil or lays him down at night."

  Then spoke the Duke, "In him I trow I have a faithful knave--
  This Taillefer that serves me here, so loyal and so brave;
  He turns the wheel and stirs the fire with willing, sturdy arm,
  And, best of all, with blithesome song he knows my heart to charm."

  Then out spake lusty Taillefer, "Ah, lord, if I were free,
  Far better would I serve thee then, and gladly sing to thee.
  How on my stately charger would I serve thee in the field,
  How sing before thee cheerily, with clang of sword and shield!"

  The days went by, and Taillefer rode out as rides a knight
  Upon a prancing charger borne, a gay and gallant sight;
  And from the tower looked down on him Duke William's sister fair,
  And softly murmured, "By my troth, a stately knight goes there!"

  When as he rode before the tower, and spied her harkening,
  Now sang he like a driving storm, now like a breeze of spring;
  She cried, "To hear that wondrous song is of all joys the best--
  The very stones they tremble, and the heart within my breast."

  And now the Duke has called his men and crossed the salt sea-foam;
  With gallant knights and vassals bold to England he has come.
  And as he sprang from out the ship, he slipped upon the strand,
  And "By this token, thus," he cried, "I seize a subject land!"

  And now on Hastings field arrayed, the host for fight prepare;
  Before the Duke reins up his horse the valiant Taillefer:
  "If I have sung and blown the fire for many a weary year,
  And since for other years have borne the knightly shield and spear,

  "If I have sung and served thee well, and praises won from thee,
  First as a lowly knave and then a warrior, bold and free,
  Today I claim my guerdon just, that all the host may know--
  To ride the foremost to the field, strike first against the foe!"

  So Taillefer rode on before the glittering Norman line
  Upon his stately steed, and waved a sword of temper fine;
  Above the embattled plain his song rang all the tumult o'er--
  Of Roland's knightly deeds he sang and many a hero more.

  And as the noble song of old with tempest-might swelled out,
  The banners waved and knights pressed on with war-cry and with shout;
  And every heart among the host throbbed prouder still and higher,
  And still through all sang Taillefer, and blew the battle-fire.

  Then forward, lance in rest, against the waiting foe he dashed,
  And at the shock an English knight from out the saddle crashed;
  Anon he swung his sword and struck a grim and grisly blow,
  And on the ground beneath his feet an English knight lay low.

  The Norman host his prowess saw, and followed him full fain;
  With joyful shouts and clang of shields the whole field rang again,
  And shrill and fast the arrows sped, and swords made merry play--
  Until at last King Harold fell, his stubborn carles gave way.

  The Duke his banner planted high upon the bloody plain,
  And pitched his tent a conqueror amid the heaps of slain;
  Then with his captains sat at meat, the wine-cup in his hand,
  Upon his head the royal crown of all the English land.

  "Come hither, valiant Taillefer, and drink a cup with me!
  Full oft thy song has soothed my grief, made merrier my glee;
  But all my life I still shall hear the battle-shout that pealed
  Above the noise of clashing arms today on Hastings field!"

       *       *       *       *       *

  SUABIAN LEGEND[30] (1814)


  When Emperor Redbeard with his band
  Came marching through the Holy Land,
  He had to lead, the way to seek,
  His noble force o'er mountains bleak.
  Of bread there rose a painful need,
  Though stones were plentiful indeed,
  And many a German rider fine
  Forgot the taste of mead and wine.
  The horses drooped from meagre fare,
  The rider had to hold his mare.
  There was a knight from Suabian land
  Of noble build and mighty hand;
  His little horse was faint and ill,
  He dragged it by the bridle still;
  His steed he never would forsake,
  Though his own life should be at stake.
  And so the horseman had to stay
  Behind the band a little way.
  Then all at once, right in his course,
  Pranced fifty Turkish men on horse.
  And straight a swarm of arrows flew;
  Their spears as well the riders threw.
  Our Suabian brave felt no dismay,
  And calmly marched along his way.
  His shield was stuck with arrows o'er,
  He sneered and looked about--no more;
  Till one, whom all this pastime bored,
  Above him swung a crooked sword.
  The German's blood begins to boil,
  He aims the Turkish steed to foil,
  And off he knocks with hit so neat
  The Turkish charger's two fore-feet.
  And now that he has felled the horse,
  He grips his sword with double force
  And swings it on the rider's crown
  And splits him to the saddle down;
  He hews the saddle into bits,
  And e'en the charger's back he splits.
  See, falling to the right and left,
  Half of a Turk that has been cleft!
  The others shudder at the sight
  And hie away in frantic flight,
  And each one feels, with gruesome dread,
  That he is split through trunk and head.
  A band of Christians, left behind,
  Came down the road, his work to find;
  And they admired, one by one,
  The deed our hero bold had done.
  From these the Emperor heard it all,
  And bade his men the Suabian call,
  Then spake: "Who taught thee, honored knight,
  With hits like those you dealt, to fight?"
  Our hero said, without delay
  "These hits are just the Suabian way.
  Throughout the realm all men admit,
  The Suabians always make a hit."

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE BLIND KING[31] (1804, 1814)


  Why stands uncovered that northern host
    High on the seaboard there?
  Why seeks the old blind king the coast,
    With his white, wild-fluttering hair?
  He, leaning on his staff the while,
    His bitter grief outpours,
  Till across the bay the rocky isle
    Sounds from its caverned shores.

  "From the dungeon-rock, thou robber, bring
    My daughter back again!
  Her gentle voice, her harp's sweet string
    Soothed an old father's pain.
  From the dance along the green shore
    Thou hast borne her o'er the wave;
  Eternal shame light on thy head;
    Mine trembles o'er the grave."

  Forth from his cavern, at the word,
    The robber comes, all steeled,
  Swings in the air his giant sword,
    And strikes his sounding shield.
  "A goodly guard attends thee there;
    Why suffered they the wrong?
  Is there none will be her champion
    Of all that mighty throng?"

  Yet from that host there comes no sound;
    They stand unmoved as stone;
  The blind king seems to gaze around;
    Am I all, all alone?"
  "Not all alone!" His youthful son
    Grasps his right hand so warm--
  "Grant me to meet this vaunting foe!
    Heaven's might inspires my arm."

  "O son! it is a giant foe;
    There's none will take thy part;
  Yet by this hand's warm grasp, I know
    Thine is a manly heart.
  Here, take the trusty battle-sword--
    'Twas the old minstrel's prize;--
  If thou art slain, far down the flood
    Thy poor old father dies!"

  And hark! a skiff glides swiftly o'er,
    With plashing, spooming sound;
  The king stands listening on the shore;
    'Tis silent all around--
  Till soon across the bay is borne
    The sound of shield and sword,
  And battle-cry, and clash, and clang,
    And crashing blows, are heard.

  With trembling joy then cried the king:
    "Warrior! what mark you? Tell!
  'Twas my good sword; I heard it ring;
    I know its tone right well."
  "The robber falls; a bloody meed
    His daring crime hath won;
  Hail to thee, first of heroes! hail!
    Thou monarch's worthy son!"

  Again 'tis silent all around;
    Listens the king once more;
  "I hear across the bay the sound
    As of a plashing oar."
  Yes, it is they!--They come!--They come--
    Thy son, with spear and shield,
  And thy daughter fair, with golden hair,
    The sunny-bright Gunild."

  "Welcome!" exclaims the blind old man,
    From the rock high o'er the wave;
  "Now my old age is blest again;
    Honored shall be my grave.
  Thou, son, shalt lay the sword I wore
    Beside the blind old king.
  And thou, Gunilda, free once more,
    My funeral song shalt sing."

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE MINSTREL'S CURSE[32] (1814)


  Once in olden times was standing
    A castle, high and grand,
  Broad glancing in the sunlight,
    Far over sea and land.
  And round were fragrant gardens,
    A rich and blooming crown;
  And fountains, playing in them,
    In rainbow brilliance shone.

  There a haughty king was seated,
    In lands and conquests great;
  Pale and awful was his countenance,
    As on his throne he sate;
  For what he thinks, is terror,
    And what he looks, is wrath,
  And what he speaks, is torture,
    And what he writes, is death.
  And 'gainst a marble pillar
    He shiver'd it in twain;
  And thus his curse he shouted,
    Till the castle rang again:

  "Woe, woe, thou haughty castle,
    With all thy gorgeous halls!
  Sweet string or song be sounded
    No more within thy walls.
  No, sighs alone, and wailing,
    And the coward steps of slaves!
  Already round thy towers
    The avenging spirit raves!

  "Woe, woe, ye fragrant gardens,
    With all your fair May light!
  Look on this ghastly countenance,
    And wither at the sight!
  Let all your flowers perish!
    Be all your fountains dry!
  Henceforth a horrid wilderness,
    Deserted, wasted, lie!

  "Woe, woe, thou wretched murderer,
    Thou curse of minstrelsy!
  Thy struggles for a bloody fame,
    All fruitless shall they be.
  Thy name shall be forgotten,
    Lost in eternal death,
  Dissolving into empty air
    Like a dying man's last breath!"

  The old man's curse is utter'd,
    And Heaven above hath heard.
  Those walls have fallen prostrate
    At the minstrel's mighty word.
  Of all that vanish'd splendor
    Stands but one column tall;
  And that, already shatter'd,
    Ere another night may fall.

  Around, instead of gardens,
    In a desert heathen land,
  No tree its shade dispenses,
    No fountains cool the sand.
  The king's name, it has vanish'd;
    His deeds no songs rehearse;
  Departed and forgotten--
    This is the minstrel's curse.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE LUCK OF EDENHALL[33] (1834)


  Of Edenhall the youthful lord
    Bids sound the festal trumpets' call;
  He rises at the banquet board,
    And cries, 'mid the drunken revelers all,
  "Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!"

  The butler hears the words with pain--
    The house's oldest seneschal--
  Takes slow from its silken cloth again
    The drinking glass of crystal tall;
  They call it the Luck of Edenhall.

  Then said the lord, "This glass to praise,
    Fill with red wine from Portugal!"
  The graybeard with trembling hand obeys;
    A purple light shines over all;
  It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.

  Then speaks the lord, and waves it light--
    "This glass of flashing crystal tall
  Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite;
    She wrote in it, 'If this glass doth fall,
  Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall!'"

  "'Twas right a goblet the fate should be
    Of the joyous race of Edenhall!
  We drink deep draughts right willingly;
    And willingly ring, with merry call,
  Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!"

  First rings it deep, and full, and mild,
    Like to the song of a nightingale;
  Then like the roar of a torrent wild;
    Then mutters, at last, like the thunder's fall,
  The glorious Luck of Edenhall.

  "For its keeper, takes a race of might
    The fragile goblet of crystal tall;
  It has lasted longer than is right;
    Kling! klang!--with a harder blow than all
  We'll try the Luck of Edenhall!"

  As the goblet, ringing, flies apart,
    Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;
  And through the rift the flames upstart;
    The guests in dust are scattered all
  With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!

  In storms the foe with fire and sword!
    He in the night had scaled the wall;
  Slain by the sword lies the youthful lord,
    But holds in his hand the crystal tall,
  The shattered Luck of Edenhall.

  On the morrow the butler gropes alone,
    The graybeard, in the desert hall;
  He seeks his lord's burnt skeleton;
    He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall
  The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.

  "The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside;
    Down must the stately columns fall;
  Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride;
    In atoms shall fall this earthly hall,
  One day, like the Luck of Edenhall!"

       *       *       *       *       *

  ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD[34] (1859)


  You came, you went, as angels go,
    A fleeting guest within our land.
  Whence and where to?--We only know:
    Forth from God's hand into God's hand.




_JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF_

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE BROKEN RING[35] (1810)


  Down in yon cool valley
    I hear a mill-wheel go:
  Alas! my love has left me,
    Who once dwelt there below.

  A ring of gold she gave me,
    And vowed she would be true;
  The vow long since was broken,
    The gold ring snapped in two.

  I would I were a minstrel,
    To rove the wide world o'er,
  And sing afar my measures,
    And rove from door to door;

  Or else a soldier, flying
    Deep into furious fight,
  By silent camp-fires lying
    A-field in gloomy night.

  Hear I the mill-wheel going:
    I know not what I will;
  'Twere best if I were dying--
    Then all were calm and still.

[Illustration: JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF]

       *       *       *       *       *

  MORNING PRAYER[36] (1833)


  O silence, wondrous and profound!
    O'er earth doth solitude still reign;
  The woods alone incline their heads,
    As if the Lord walked o'er the plain.

  I feel new life within me glow;
    Where now is my distress and care?
  Here in the blush of waking morn,
    I blush at yesterday's despair.

  To me, a pilgrim, shall the world,
    With all its joy and sorrows, be
  But as a bridge that leads, O Lord,
    Across the stream of time to Thee.

  And should my song woo worldly gifts,
    The base rewards of vanity--
  Dash down my lyre! I'll hold my peace
    Before thee to eternity.




FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING (1826)

BY JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF TRANSLATED BY MRS. A.L.W. WISTER

CHAPTER I


The wheel of my father's mill was once more turning and whirring
merrily, the melting snow trickled steadily from the roof, the
sparrows chirped and hopped about, as I, taking great delight in the
warm sunshine, sat on the door-step and rubbed my eyes to rid them
of sleep. Then my father made his appearance; he had been busy in the
mill since daybreak, and his nightcap was all awry as he said to me--

You Good-for-nothing! There you sit sunning yourself, and stretching
yourself till your bones crack, leaving me to do all the work alone. I
can keep you here no longer. Spring is at hand. Off with you into the
world and earn your own bread!"

"Well," said I, "all right; if I am a Good-for-nothing, I will go
forth into the world and make my fortune." In fact, I was very glad to
have my father speak thus, for I myself had been thinking of starting
on my travels; the yellow-hammer, which all through the autumn and
winter had been chirping sadly at our window, "Farmer, hire me;
farmer, hire me," was, now that the lovely spring weather had set in,
once more piping cheerily from the old tree, "Farmer, nobody wants
your work." So I went into the house and took down from the wall my
fiddle, on which I could play quite skilfully; my father gave me a
few pieces of money to set me on my way; and I sauntered off along
the village street. I was filled with secret joy as I saw all my old
acquaintances and comrades right and left going to their work digging
and ploughing, just as they had done yesterday and the day before,
and so on, whilst I was roaming out into the wide world. I called
out "Good-by!" to the poor people on all sides, but no one took much
notice of me. A perpetual Sabbath seemed to reign in my soul, and when
I got out among the fields I took out my dear fiddle and played and
sang, as I walked along the country road--

  "The favored ones, the loved of Heaven,
    God sends to roam the world at will;
  His wonders to their gaze are given
    By field and forest, stream and hill.

  "The dullards who at home are staying
    Are not refreshed by morning's ray;
  They grovel, earth-born calls obeying,
    And petty cares beset their day.

  "The little brooks o'er rocks are springing,
    The lark's gay carol fills the air;
  Why should not I with them be singing
    A joyous anthem free from care?

  "I wander on, in God confiding,
    For all are His, wood, field, and fell;
  O'er earth and skies He, still presiding,
    For me will order all things well."

As I was looking around, a fine traveling-carriage drove along very
near me; it had probably been just behind me for some time without
my perceiving it, so filled with melody had I been, for it was going
quite slowly, and two elegant ladies had their heads out of the
window, listening. One was especially beautiful, and younger than the
other, but both pleased me extremely. When I stopped singing the elder
ordered the coachman to stop his horses, and accosted me with great
condescension: "Aha, my merry lad, you know how to sing very pretty
songs!" I, nothing loath, replied, "Please Your Grace, I know some
far prettier." "And where are you going so early in the morning?" she
asked. I was ashamed to confess that I did not myself know, and so I
said, boldly, "To Vienna." The two ladies then talked together in a
strange tongue which I did not understand. The younger shook her head
several times, but the other only laughed, and finally called to me,
"Jump up behind; we too are going to Vienna." Who more ready than I!
I made my best bow, and sprang up behind the carriage, the coachman
cracked his whip, and away we bowled along the smooth road so swiftly
that the wind whistled in my ears.

Behind me vanished my native village with its gardens and
church-tower, before me appeared fresh villages, castles, and
mountains, beneath me on either side the meadows in the tender green
of spring flew past, and above me countless larks were soaring in the
blue air. I was ashamed to shout aloud, but I exulted inwardly,
and shuffled about so on the foot-board behind the carriage that I
well-nigh lost my fiddle from under my arm. But when the sun rose
higher in the sky, while heavy, white, noonday clouds gathered on the
horizon, and the air hung sultry and still above the gently-waving
grain, I could not but remember my village and my father, and our
mill, and how cool and comfortable it was beside the shady mill-pool,
and how far, far away from me it all was. And the most curious
sensation overcame me; I felt as if I must turn and run back; but I
stuck my fiddle between my coat and my vest, settled myself on the
foot-board, and went to sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, the carriage was standing beneath tall
linden-trees, on the other side of which a broad flight of steps led
between columns into a magnificent castle. Through the trees beyond
I saw the towers of Vienna. The ladies, it appeared, had left the
carriage, and the horses had been unharnessed. I was startled to find
myself alone, and I hurried into the castle. As I did so I heard some
one at a window above laughing.

An odd time I had in this castle. First, as soon as I found myself in
the cool, spacious vestibule, some one tapped me on the shoulder with
a stick. I turned quickly about, and there stood a tall gentleman in
state apparel, with a broad bandolier of silk and gold crossing his
breast from his shoulder to his hip, a staff in his hand, gilded at
the top, and an extraordinarily large Roman nose; he strutted up to
me, swelling like a ruled-up turkey-cock, and asked me what I wanted
there. I was taken entirely aback, and in my confusion was unable
to utter a word. Several servants passed, going up and down the
staircase; they said nothing, but eyed me superciliously. Then
a lady's-maid appeared; she came up to me, declared that I was a
charming young fellow, and that her mistress had sent to ask me if
I did not want a place as gardener's boy. I put my hand in my
pocket--the few coins I had possessed were gone. They must have been
jerked out by my shuffling on the foot-board behind the carriage. I
had nothing to depend upon save my skill with the fiddle, for which
the gentleman with the staff, as he informed me in passing, would not
give a farthing. Therefore, in my distress, I said "yes" to the maid,
keeping my eyes fixed the while upon the portentous figure pacing
the hall to and fro like the pendulum of a clock in a church-tower,
appearing from the background with imposing majesty and with unfailing
regularity. At last a gardener came, muttering something about boors
and vagabonds, and led me off to the garden, preaching me a long
sermon on the way about my being diligent and industrious and never
loitering about the world any more, and how, if I would give up all my
idle and foolish ways, I might come to some good in the end. There was
a great deal of exhortation in this strain, very good and useful, but
I have since forgotten it nearly all. In fact, I really hardly know
how it all came about; I went on saying "yes" to everything, and I
felt like a bird with its wings clipped. But, thank God, in the end I
was earning my living!

I found life delightful in that garden. I had a hot dinner every day
and plenty of it, and more money than I needed for my glass of wine,
only, unfortunately, I had quite a deal to do. The pavilions, and
arbors, and long green walks delighted me, if I could only have
sauntered about and talked pleasantly like the gentlemen and ladies
who came there every day. Whenever the gardener was away and I was
alone, I took out my short tobacco-pipe, sat down, and thought of all
the beautiful, polite things with which I could have entertained
that lovely young lady who had brought me to the castle, had I been a
cavalier walking beside her. Or on sultry afternoons I lay on my
back on the grass, when all was so quiet that you could hear the bees
humming, and I gazed up at the clouds sailing away toward my native
village, and around me at the waving grass and flowers, and thought of
the lovely lady; and it sometimes chanced that I really saw her in the
distance walking in the garden, with her guitar or a book, tall and
beautiful as an angel, and I was only half conscious whether I were
awake or dreaming.

Thus, once as I was passing a summer-house on my way to work, I was
singing to myself--

  "I gaze around me, going
    By forest, dale, and lea,
  O'er heights where streams are flowing,
  My every thought bestowing,
    Ah, Lady fair, on thee!"--

when, through the half-opened lattice of the cool, dark summer-house
buried amid flowers, I saw the sparkle of a pair of beautiful,
youthful eyes. I was so startled that I could not finish my song, but
passed on to my work without looking round.

In the evening--it was Saturday, and, in joyous anticipation of the
coming Sunday, I was standing, fiddle in hand, at the window of
the gardener's house, still thinking of the sparkling eyes--the
lady's-maid came tripping through the twilight--"The gracious Lady
fair sends you this to drink her health, and a 'Good-Night' besides!"
And in a twinkling she put a flask of wine on the window-sill and
vanished among the flowers and shrubs like a lizard.

I stood looking at the wonderful flask for a long time, not knowing
what to think. And if before I played the fiddle merrily, I now
played it ten times more so, and I sang the song of the Lady fair all
through, and all the other songs that I knew, until the nightingales
wakened outside and the moon and stars lit up the garden. Ah, that was
a lovely night!

No cradle-song tells the child's future; a blind hen finds many a
grain of wheat; he laughs best who laughs last; the unexpected often
happens; man proposes, God disposes: thus did I meditate the next day,
sitting in the garden with my pipe, and as I looked down at myself I
seemed to myself to be a downright dunce. Contrary to all my habits
hitherto, I now rose betimes every day, before the gardener and the
other assistants were stirring. It was most beautiful then in the
garden. The flowers, the fountains, the rose-bushes, the whole place,
glittered in the morning sunshine like pure gold and jewels. And in
the avenues of huge beeches it was as quiet, cool, and solemn as
a church, only the little birds fluttered around and pecked in the
gravel paths. In front of the castle, just under the windows, there
was a large bush in full bloom. Thither I used to go in the early
morning, and crouch down beneath the branches where I could watch the
windows, for I had not the courage to appear in the open. Thence I
sometimes saw the Lady fair in a snow-white robe come, still drowsy
and warm, to the open window. She would stand there braiding her
dark-brown hair, gazing abroad over the garden and shrubbery, or she
would tend and water the flowers upon her window-sill, or would rest
her guitar upon her white arm and sing out into the clear air so
wondrously that to this day my heart faints with sadness when one of
her songs recurs to me. And ah, it was all so long ago!

So my life passed for a week and more. But once--she was standing at
the window and all was quiet around--a confounded fly flew directly
up my nose, and I was seized with an interminable fit of sneezing.
She leaned far out of the window and discovered me cowering in the
shrubbery. I was overcome with mortification and did not go there
again for many a day.

At last I ventured to return to my post, but the window remained
closed. I hid in the bushes for four, five, six mornings, but she did
not appear. Then I grew tired of my hiding-place and came out boldly,
and every morning promenaded bravely beneath all the windows of the
castle. But the lovely Lady fair was not to be seen. At a window a
little farther on I saw the other lady standing; I had never before
seen her so distinctly. She had a fine rosy face, and was plump, and
as gorgeously attired as a tulip. I always made her a low bow, and she
acknowledged it, and her eyes twinkled very kindly and courteously.
Once only, I thought I saw the Lady fair standing behind the curtain
at her window, peeping out.

Many days passed and I did not see her, either in the garden or at
the window. The gardener scolded me for laziness; I was out of humor,
tired of myself and of all about me.

I was lying on the grass one Sunday afternoon, watching the blue
wreaths of smoke from my pipe, and fretting because I had not chosen
some other trade which would not have bored me so day after day.
The other fellows had all gone off to the dance in the neighboring
village. Every one was strolling about in Sunday attire, the houses
were gay, and there was melody in the very air. But I walked off and
sat solitary, like a bittern among the reeds, by a lonely pond in the
garden, rocking myself in a little skiff tied there, while the vesper
bells sounded faintly from the town and the swans glided to and fro on
the placid water. A sadness as of death possessed me.

On a sudden I heard, in the distance, voices talking gaily, and bursts
of merry laughter. They sounded nearer and nearer, and red and white
kerchiefs and hats and feathers were visible through the shrubbery. A
party of gentlemen and ladies were coming from the castle, across the
meadow, directly toward me, and my two ladies among them. I stood up
and was about to retire, when the elder perceived me. "Aha, you are
just what we want!" she called to me, smiling. "Row us across the
pond to the other side." The ladies cautiously took their seats in
the boat, assisted by the gentlemen, who made quite a parade of their
familiarity with the water. When all the ladies were seated, I pushed
off from the shore. One of the young gentlemen who stood in the prow
began, unperceived, to rock the boat. The ladies looked frightened,
and one or two screamed. The Lady fair, who had a lily in her hand,
and was sitting well in the centre of the skiff, looked down with a
quiet smile into the clear water, touching the surface of the pond now
and then with a lily, her image, amid the reflections of the clouds
and trees, appearing like an angel soaring gently through the deep
blue skies.

As I was gazing at her, the other of my two ladies, the plump, merry
one, suddenly took it into her head that I must sing as we glided
along. A very elegant young gentleman with an eye-glass, who sat
beside her, instantly turned to her, and, as he kissed her hand, said,
"Thanks for the poetic idea! A folk-song sung by one of the people in
the open air is an Alpine rose, upon the very Alps--the Alpine horns
are nothing but herbaria--the soul of the national consciousness."
But I said I did not know anything fine enough to sing to such great
people. Then the pert lady's-maid, who was beside me with a basket of
cups and bottles, and whom I had not perceived before, said, "He knows
a very pretty little song about a lady fair." "Yes, yes, sing that
one!" the lady exclaimed. I felt hot all over, and the Lady fair
lifted her eyes from the water and gave me a look that went to my very
soul. So I did not hesitate any longer, but took heart and sang with
all my might might--

  "I gaze around me, going
    By forest, dale, and lea,
  O'er heights where streams are flowing,
  My every thought bestowing,
    Ah, Lady fair, on thee!

  "And in my garden, finding
    Bright flowers fresh and rare,
  While many a wreath I'm binding,
  Sweet thoughts therein I'm winding
    Of thee, my Lady fair.

  "For me 'twould be too daring
    To lay them at her feet.
  They'll soon away be wearing,
  But love beyond comparing
    Is thine, my Lady sweet.

  "In early morning waking,
    I toil with ready smile,
  And though my heart be breaking,
  I'll sing to hide its aching,
    And dig my grave the while."

The boat touched the shore, and all the party got out; many of the
young gentlemen, as I had perceived, had made game of me in whispers
to the ladies while I was singing. The gentleman with the eye-glass
took my hand as he left the boat, and said something to me, I do not
remember what, and the elder of my two ladies gave me a kindly glance.
The Lady fair had never raised her eyes all the time I was singing,
and she went away without a word. As for me, before my song was ended
the tears stood in my eyes; my heart seemed like to burst with shame
and misery. I understood now for the first time how beautiful she
was, and how poor and despised and forsaken I, and when they had all
disappeared behind the bushes I could contain myself no longer, but
threw myself down on the grass and wept bitterly.




CHAPTER II


The highroad was close on one side of the castle garden, and separated
from it only by a high wall. A very pretty little toll-house with a
red-tiled roof stood near, with a gay little flower-garden inclosed by
a picket-fence behind it. A breach in the wall connected this garden
with the most secluded and shady part of the castle garden itself. The
toll-gate keeper who occupied the cottage died suddenly, and early one
morning, when I was still sound asleep, the Secretary from the castle
waked me in a great hurry and bade me come immediately to the
Bailiff. I dressed myself as quickly as I could and followed the brisk
Secretary, who, as we went, plucked a flower here and there and stuck
it into his button-hole, made scientific lunges in the air with his
cane, and talked steadily to me all the while, although my eyes and
ears were so filled with sleep that I could not understand anything
he said. When we reached the office, where as yet it was hardly light,
the Bailiff, behind a huge inkstand and piles of books and papers,
looked at me from out of his huge wig like an owl from out its nest,
and began: "What's your name? Where do you come from? Can you read,
write, and cipher?" And when I assented, he went on, "Well, her
Grace, in consideration of your good manners and extraordinary merit,
appoints you to the vacant post of Receiver of Toll." I hurriedly
passed in mental review the conduct and manners that had hitherto
distinguished me, and was forced to admit that the Bailiff was right.
And so, before I knew it, I was Receiver of Toll. I took possession of
my dwelling, and was soon comfortably established there. The deceased
toll-gate keeper had left behind him for his successor various
articles, which I appropriated, among others a magnificent scarlet
dressing-gown dotted with yellow, a pair of green slippers, a tasseled
nightcap, and several long-stemmed pipes. I had often wished for
these things at home, where I used to see our village pastor thus
comfortably provided. All day long, therefore--I had nothing else to
do--I sat on the bench before my house in dressing-gown and nightcap,
smoking the longest pipe from the late toll-gate keeper's collection,
and looking at the people walking, driving, and riding on the
high-road. I only wished that some of the folks from our village, who
had always said that I never would be worth anything, might happen to
pass by and see me thus. The dressing-gown became my complexion, and
suited me extremely well. So I sat there and pondered many things--the
difficulty of all beginnings, the great advantages of an easier mode
of existence, for example--and privately resolved to give up travel
for the future, save money like other people, and in time do something
really great in the world. Meanwhile, with all my resolves, anxieties,
and occupations, I in no wise forgot the Lady fair.

I dug up and threw out of my little garden all the potatoes and
other vegetables that I found there, and planted it instead with the
choicest flowers, which proceeding caused the Porter from the castle
with the big Roman nose--who since I had been made Receiver often came
to see me, and had become my intimate friend--to eye me askance as a
person crazed by sudden good fortune. But that did not deter me. For
from my little garden I could often hear feminine voices not far off
in the castle garden, and among them I thought I could distinguish
the voice of my Lady fair, although, because of the thick shrubbery,
I could see nobody. And so every day I plucked a nosegay of my finest
flowers, and when it was dark in the evening, I climbed over the wall
and laid it upon a marble table in an arbor near by, and every time
that I brought a fresh nosegay the old one was gone from the table.

One evening all the castle inmates were away hunting; the sun was just
setting, flooding the landscape with flame and color, the Danube wound
toward the horizon like a band of gold and fire, and the vine-dressers
on all the hills throughout the country were glad and gay. I was
sitting with the Porter on the bench before my cottage, enjoying the
mild air and the gradual fading to twilight of the brilliant day.
Suddenly the horns of the returning hunting-party sounded on the
air; the notes were tossed from hill to hill by the echoes. My soul
delighted in it all, and I sprang up and exclaimed, in an intoxication
of joy, "That is what I ought to follow in life, the huntsman's noble
calling!" But the Porter quietly knocked the ashes out of his pipe and
said, "You only think so; I've tried it. You hardly earn the shoes you
wear out, and you're never without a cough or a cold from perpetually
getting your feet wet." I cannot tell how it was, but upon hearing him
speak thus, I was seized with such a fit of foolish rage that I fairly
trembled. On a sudden the entire fellow, with his bedizened coat, his
big feet, his snuff, his big nose, and everything about him, became
odious to me. Quite beside myself, I seized him by the breast of his
coat and said, "Home with you, Porter, on the instant, or I'll send
you there in a way you won't like!" At these words the Porter was
more than ever convinced that I was crazy. He gazed at me with evident
fear, extricated himself from my grasp, and went without a word,
looking reproachfully back at me, and striding toward the castle,
where he reported me as stark, staring mad.

But after all I burst into a hearty laugh, glad in fact to be rid of
the pompous fellow, for it was just the hour when I was wont to carry
my nosegay to the arbor. I clambered over the wall, and was just about
to place the flowers on the marble table, when I heard the sound of a
horse's hoofs at some distance. There was no time for escape; my Lady
fair was riding slowly along the avenue in a green hunting-habit,
apparently lost in thought. All that I had read in an old book of my
father's about the beautiful Magelona came into my head--how she used
to appear among the tall forest-trees, when horns were echoing and
evening shadows were flitting through the glades. I could not
stir from the spot. She started when she perceived me and paused
involuntarily. I was as if intoxicated with intense joy, dread, and
the throbbing of my heart, and when I saw that she actually wore at
her breast the flowers I had left yesterday, I could no longer keep
silent, but said in a rapture, "Fairest Lady fair, accept these
flowers too, and all the flowers in my garden, and everything I have!
Ah, if I could only brave some danger for you!" At first she had
looked at me so gravely, almost angrily, that I shivered, but then
she cast down her eyes, and did not lift them while I was speaking. At
that moment voices and the tramp of horses were heard in the distance.
She snatched the flowers from my hand, and without saying a word,
swiftly vanished at the end of the avenue.

After this evening I had neither rest nor peace. I felt continually,
as I had always felt when spring was at hand, restless and merry, and
as if some great good fortune or something extraordinary were about
to befall me. My wretched accounts in especial never would come right,
and when the sunshine, playing among the chestnut boughs before my
window, cast golden-green gleams upon my figures, illuminating "Bro't
over" and "Total," my addition grew sometimes so confused that I
actually could not count three. The figure "eight" always looked to
me like my stout, tightly-laced lady with the gay head-dress, and
the provoking "seven" like a finger-post pointing the wrong way, or a
gallows. The "nine" was the queerest, suddenly, before I knew what it
was about, standing on its head to look like "six," whilst "two" would
turn into a pert interrogation-point, as if to ask me, "What in the
world is to become of you, you poor zero? Without the others, the
slender 'one' and all the rest, you never can come to anything!"

I had no longer any ease in sitting before my door. I took out a stool
to make myself more comfortable, and put my feet upon it; I patched up
an old parasol, and held it over me like a Chinese pleasure-dome. But
all would not do. As I sat smoking and speculating, my legs seemed
to stretch to twice their size from weariness, and my nose lengthened
visibly as I looked down at it for hours. And when sometimes, before
daybreak, an express drove up, and I went out, half asleep, into the
cool air, and a pretty face, but dimly seen in the dawning except for
its sparkling eyes, looked out at me from the coach window and kindly
bade me good-morning, while from the villages around the cock's clear
crow echoed across the fields of gently-waving grain, and an early
lark, high in the skies among the flushes of morning, soared here and
there, and the Postilion wound his horn and blew, and blew--as the
coach drove off, I would stand looking after it, feeling as if I could
not but start off with it on the instant into the wide, wide world.

I still took my flowers every day, when the sun had set, to the marble
table in the dim arbor. But since that evening all had been over. Not
a soul took any notice of them, and when I went to look after them
early the next morning, there they lay as I had left them, gazing
sadly at me with their heads hanging, and the dew-drops glistening
upon their fading petals as if they were weeping. This distressed me,
and I plucked no more flowers. I let the weeds grow in my garden as
they pleased, and the flowers stayed on their stalks until the wind
blew them away. Within me there were the same desolation and neglect.

In this critical state of affairs it happened once that, as I was
leaning out of my window gazing dully into vacancy, the lady's-maid
from the castle came tripping across the road. When she saw me she
came and stood just outside the window. "His Grace returned from
his travels yesterday," she remarked, hurriedly. "Indeed!" I said,
surprised, for I had taken no interest in anything for several weeks,
and did not even know that his Grace had been traveling. "Then his
lovely daughter will be very glad." The maid looked at me with a
strange expression of face, so that I began to wonder whether I had
said anything especially stupid. "He knows absolutely nothing!" she
said at last, turning up her little nose. "Well," she resumed, "there
is to be a ball and masquerade this evening at the castle in honor of
his Grace. My lady is to be dressed as a flower-girl--understand, as
a flower-girl. And she has noticed that you have particularly pretty
flowers in your garden." "That's strange," I thought to myself; "there
is hardly a flower to be seen there for the weeds!" But she continued:
"And since my lady needs perfectly fresh flowers for her costume, you
are to bring her some this evening, and wait under the big pear-tree
in the castle garden when it is dark until she comes for the flowers
herself."

I was completely dazed with joy at this intelligence, and in my
rapture I leaped out of the window and ran after the maid.

"Ugh, what an ugly dressing-gown!" she exclaimed, when she saw me
with my fluttering robe in the open air. This vexed me, but, not to be
behindhand in gallantry, I capered gaily after her to give her a kiss.
Unluckily, my feet became entangled in my dressing-gown, which was
much too long for me, and I fell flat on the ground. When I had picked
myself up the maid was gone, and I heard her in the distance laughing
fit to kill herself.

Now I had delightful food for my reflections. After all, she still
remembered me and my flowers! I went into my garden and hastily tore
up all the weeds from the beds, throwing them high above my head into
the sunlit air, as if with the roots I were eradicating all melancholy
and annoyance from my life. Once more the roses were like _her_ lips,
the sky-blue convolvulus was like _her_ eyes, the snowy lily with its
pensive, drooping head was _her_ very image. I put them all tenderly
in a little basket; the evening was calm and lovely, not a speck of
a cloud in the sky. Here and there a star appeared; the murmur of
the Danube was heard afar over the meadows; in the tall trees of the
castle garden countless birds were twittering to one another merrily.
Ah, I was so happy!

When at last night came I took my basket on my arm and set out for the
large garden. The flowers in the little basket looked so gay, white,
red, blue, and smelled so sweet, that my very heart laughed when I
peeped in at them.

Filled with joyous thoughts, I walked in the lovely moonlight over the
trim paths strewn with gravel, across the little white bridge, beneath
which the swans were sleeping on the bosom of the water, and past the
pretty arbors and summer-houses. I soon found the big pear-tree; it
was the same under which, while I was gardener's boy, I used to lie on
sultry afternoons.

All around me here was dark and lonely. A tall aspen quivered and kept
whispering with its silver leaves. The music from the castle was
heard at intervals, and now and then there were voices in the garden;
sometimes they passed quite near me, and then all would be still
again.

My heart beat fast. I had a strange uncomfortable sensation as if I
were a robber. I stood for a long time stock-still, leaning against
the tree and listening; but when no one appeared I could bear it no
longer. I hung my basket on my arm and clambered up into the pear-tree
to breathe a purer air.

The music of the dance floated up to me over the tree-tops. I
overlooked the entire garden and gazed directly into the brilliantly
illuminated windows of the castle. Chandeliers glittered there like
galaxies of stars; a multitude of gaily-dressed gentlemen and ladies
wandered and waltzed and whirled about unrecognizable, like the gay
figures of a magic-lantern; at times some of them leaned out of the
windows and looked down into the garden. In front of the castle the
brilliant light gilded the grass, the shrubbery, and the trees, so
that the flowers and the birds seemed to be aroused by it. All around
and below me, however, the garden lay black and still.

"_She_ is dancing there now," I thought to myself up in the tree,"
and has long since forgotten you and your flowers. All are gay; not a
human being cares for you in the least. And thus it is with me, always
and everywhere. Every one has his little nook marked out for him on
this earth, his warm hearth, his cup of coffee, his wife, his glass of
wine in the evening, and is perfectly happy; even the Porter with his
big nose is content. For me there is no place, I seem to be just too
late everywhere; the world has not a bit of need of me."

As I was philosophizing thus, I suddenly heard something rustle on the
grass below me. Two soft voices were speaking together in a low
tone. In a moment the foliage of the shrubbery was parted, and the
lady's-maid's little face appeared among the leaves, peering about
on all sides. The moonlight sparkled in her saucy eyes as they
peeped out. I held my breath and stared down at her. Before long the
flower-girl did actually appear among the trees, just as the maid had
described her to me yesterday. My heart throbbed as if it would burst.
She had on a mask, and seemed to be gazing around in surprise. Somehow
she did not look to me as slender and graceful as she had been.
At last she reached the tree, and took off her mask. It was the
other--the elder lady!

How glad I was, when I had recovered from the first shock, that I was
up here in safety! How in the world did she chance to come here? If
the dear, lovely Lady fair should happen to come at this instant
for her flowers, there would be a fine to-do! I could have cried for
vexation at the whole affair.

Meanwhile the disguised flower-girl beneath me began: "It is so
stifling hot in the ball-room, I had to come out to cool myself in
this lovely open air." Thereupon she fanned herself with her mask
and puffed and blew. In the bright moonlight I could plainly see how
swollen were the cords of her neck; she looked very angry and quite
scarlet in the face. The lady's maid was all the while searching
behind every bush, as if she were looking for a lost pin.

"I do so need more fresh flowers for my character," the flower-girl
continued. "Where can he be?" The maid went on searching, and kept
chuckling to herself. "What did you say, Rosetta?" the flower-girl
asked, shrewishly. "I say what I always have said," the maid replied,
putting on a very serious, honest face; "the Receiver is a lazy
fellow; of course he is lying behind some bush sound asleep."

My blood tingled with longing to jump down and defend my reputation,
when on a sudden a burst of music and loud shouts were heard from the
castle.

The flower-girl could stay no longer. "The people are cheering his
Grace," she said passionately. "Come, we shall be missed!" And she
clapped on her mask in a hurry, and ran in a rage with the maid toward
the castle. The trees and bushes seemed to point after her with long,
derisive fingers, the moonlight danced nimbly up and down over her
stout figure as though over the key-board of a piano, and thus to
the sound of trumpets and kettle-drums she made her exit, like many a
singer whom I have seen upon the stage.

I, seated above in my tree, was downright bewildered, and gazed
fixedly at the castle; a circle of tall torches upon the steps of the
entrance cast a strange glare upon the glittering windows and deep
into the garden; the assembled servants were to serenade their master.
In the midst of them stood the gorgeous Porter, like a minister of
state, before a music-stand, working away busily at a bassoon.

Just as I had settled myself to listen to the beautiful serenade, the
folding-doors leading to the balcony above the entrance parted. A tall
gentleman, very handsome and dignified, in uniform and glittering with
orders, stepped out on the balcony, leading by the hand the lovely
young Lady fair, dressed in white like a lily in the night, or like
the moon in the clear skies.

I could not take my eyes from her, and garden, trees, and fields
disappeared before me, as she stood there tall and slender, so
wondrously illuminated by the torch-light, now speaking with such
grace to the young officer, and now nodding down kindly to the
musicians. The people below were beside themselves with delight,
and at last I too could restrain myself no longer, and joined in the
cheers with all my might.

But when, soon after, she disappeared from the balcony, one after
another the torches below were extinguished and the music-stands
cleared away, and the garden around was once more dark, and the trees
rustled as before--then it all became clear to me; I saw that it was
really only the aunt who had ordered the flowers of me, that the Lady
fair never thought of me and had been married long ago, and that I
myself was a big fool.

All this plunged me into an abyss of reflection. I rolled myself round
like a hedgehog on the prickles of my own thoughts. Snatches of music
still reached me now and then from the ball-room--the clouds floated
lonely away above the dim garden. And there I sat, all through
the night, up in the tree, like a night-owl, amid the ruins of my
happiness.

The cool breeze of morning aroused me at last from my dreamings. I was
startled as I looked about me. The music and dancing had long since
ceased, and everything around the castle and on the lawn, and the
marble steps and columns, all looked quiet, cool, and solemn; the
fountain alone plashed on before the entrance. Here and there in the
boughs near me the birds were awaking, shaking their bright feathers,
and as they stretched their little wings, peering curiously and amazed
at their strange fellow-sleeper. The joyous rays of morning flashed
across my breast and over the garden.

I stood erect in my tree, and for the first time for a long while
looked far abroad over the country, to where the ships glided down
the Danube among the vineyards, and the high-roads, still deserted,
stretched like bridges across the gleaming landscape and far over the
distant hills and valleys.

I cannot tell how it was, but all at once my former love of travel
took possession of me, all the old melancholy, and delight, and ardent
expectation. And at the same moment I thought of the Lady fair over in
the castle sleeping among flowers, beneath silken coverlets, with an
angel surely keeping watch beside her bed in the silence of the dawn.
"No!" I cried aloud. "I must go away from here, far, far away--as far
as the sky stretches its blue arch!"

As I uttered the words I tossed my basket high into the air, so that
it was beautiful to see how the flowers fell among the branches and
lay in gay colors on the green sod below. Then I got down as quickly
as possible, and went through the quiet garden to my dwelling. I
paused many times at spots where I had seen her pass, or where I had
lain in the shade and thought of her.

In and about my cottage all was just as I had left it the day before.
The garden was torn up and laid waste, the big account-book lay
open on the table in my room, my fiddle, which I had almost clean
forgotten, hung dusty on the wall; a ray of morning light glittered
upon the strings. It struck a chord in my heart. "Yes," I said, "come
here, thou faithful instrument! Our kingdom is not of this world!"

So I took the fiddle from the wall, and leaving behind me the
account-book, dressing-gown, slippers, pipes, and parasol, I walked
out of my cottage, as poor as when I entered it, and down along the
gleaming high-road.

I looked back often and often; I felt very strange, sad, and yet
merry, like a bird escaping from his cage. And when I had walked some
distance I took out my fiddle and sang--

  "I wander on, in God confiding,
    For all are His, wood, field, and fell;
  O'er earth and skies He still presiding,
    For me will order all things well."

The castle, the garden, and the spires of Vienna vanished behind me
in the morning mists; far above me countless larks exulted in the air;
thus, past gay villages and hamlets and over green hills, I wandered
on toward Italy.




CHAPTER III


Here was a puzzle! It had never occurred to me that I did not know my
way. Not a human being was to be seen in the quiet early morning
whom I could question, and right before me the road divided into many
roads, which went on far, far over the highest mountains, as though to
the very end of the world--so that I actually grew giddy as I looked
along them.

At last a peasant appeared, going to church I fancy, as it was Sunday,
in an old-fashioned coat with large silver buttons, and swinging a
long malacca cane with a massive silver head, which sparkled from afar
in the sunlight. I immediately asked him very politely, "Can you tell
me which is the road to Italy?" The fellow stood still, stared at me,
thrust out his under lip reflectively, and stared at me again. I began
once more: "To Italy, where oranges grow." "What do I care for your
oranges!" said the peasant, and walked on sturdily. I should have
credited the fellow with more politeness, for he really looked very
fine.

What was to be done? Turn round and go back to my native village? Why,
the folks would have jeered me, and the boys would have run after me
crying, "Oh, indeed! you're welcome back from 'out in the world.'
How does it look 'out in the world?' Haven't you brought us some
ginger-nuts from 'out in the world?'" The Porter with the High Roman
nose, who certainly was familiar with Universal History, used often to
say to me, "Respected Herr Receiver, Italy is a beautiful country; the
dear God takes care of every one there. You can lie on your back in
the sunshine and raisins drop into your mouth; and if a tarantula
bites you, you dance with the greatest ease, although you never
in your life before learned to dance." "Ay, to Italy! to Italy!" I
shouted with delight, and, heedless of any choice of roads, hurried on
along the first that came.

After I had gone a little way I saw on the right a most beautiful
orchard, with the morning sun shimmering on the trunks and through the
tree-tops so brilliantly that it looked as if the ground were spread
with golden rugs. As no one was in sight, I clambered over the low
fence and lay down comfortably on the grass under an apple-tree;
all my limbs were still aching from camping out in the tree on the
previous night. From where I lay I could see far abroad over the
country, and as it was Sunday the sound of the church-bells from
the far distance came to me over the quiet fields, and gaily-dressed
peasants were walking across the meadows and along the lanes to
church. I was glad at heart; the birds sang in the tree overhead;
I thought of my father's mill, and of the garden of the lovely Lady
fair, and of how far, far away it all was--until I fell sound asleep.
I dreamed that the Lady fair came walking, or rather slowly flying,
toward me from the lovely landscape to the music of the church-bells,
in long white robes that waved in the rosy morning. Then again
it seemed that we were not in a strange country, but in my native
village, in the deep shade beside the mill. But everything was still
and deserted, as it is when the people are all gone to church and only
the solemn sounds of the organ wafted down through the trees break the
stillness; I was oppressed with melancholy. But the Lady fair was very
kind and gentle, and put her hand in mine and walked along with me,
and sang, amid this solitude, the beautiful song that she used to
sing to her guitar early in the morning at her open window, and in the
placid mill-pool I saw her image, lovelier even than herself, except
that the eyes were wondrous large and looked at me so strangely that
I was almost afraid. Then suddenly the mill-wheel began to turn, at
first slowly, then faster and more noisily; the pool became dark and
troubled, the Lady fair turned very pale, and her robes grew longer
and longer, and fluttered wildly in long strips like pennons of
mist up toward the skies; the roaring of the mill-wheel sounded ever
louder, and it seemed as though it were the Porter blowing upon his
bassoon, so that I waked up with my heart throbbing violently.

In fact, a breeze had arisen, which was gently stirring the leaves of
the apple-tree above me; but the noise and roaring came neither from
the mill nor from the Porter's bassoon, but from the same peasant who
had before refused to show me the way to Italy. He had taken off
his Sunday coat and put on a white smock-frock. "Oho!" he said, as I
rubbed my sleepy eyes, "do you want to pick your oranges here, that
you trample down all my grass instead of going to church, you lazy
lout, you?" I was vexed that the boor should have waked me, and I
started up and cried, "Hold your tongue! I have been a better gardener
than you will ever be, and a Receiver, and if you had been driving to
town, you would have had to take off your dirty cap to me, sitting at
my door in my yellow-dotted, red dressing-gown--" But the fellow was
nothing daunted, and, putting his arms akimbo, merely asked, "What do
you want here? eh! eh!" I saw that he was a short, stubbed, bow-legged
fellow, with protruding goggle-eyes, and a red, rather crooked nose.
And when he went on saying nothing but "Eh! eh!" and kept advancing
toward me step by step, I was suddenly seized with so curious a
sensation of disgust that I hastily jumped to my feet, leaped over the
fence, and, without looking round, ran across country until my fiddle
in my pocket twanged again.

When at last I stopped to take breath, the orchard and the whole
valley were out of sight and I was in a beautiful forest. But I took
little note of it, for I was downright provoked at the peasant's
impertinence, and I fumed for a long time, to myself. I walked on
quickly, going farther and farther from the high-road and in among the
mountains. The plank-roadway which I had been following ceased, and
before me was only a narrow, unfrequented foot-path. Not a soul was
to be seen anywhere, and no sound was to be heard. But it was very
pleasant walking; the trees rustled and the birds sang sweetly. I
resigned myself to the guidance of heaven, and, taking out my violin,
played all my favorite airs. Very joyous they sounded in the lonely
forest.

I grew tired of playing after a while, for I stumbled every minute
over the tiresome roots of the trees, and I began to grow very hungry,
while the wood seemed endless. Thus I wandered for the entire day,
until the sun's rays came aslant through the trunks of the trees, when
at last I emerged on a little grassy vale shut in by the mountains and
gay with red and yellow flowers, above which myriads of butterflies
were fluttering in the golden light of the setting sun. It was as
secluded here as though the world had been hundreds of miles away. The
crickets chirped, and a shepherd lad lying among the tall grasses blew
so melancholy an air upon his horn that it was enough to break one's
heart. "Yes," thought I to myself, "who has as happy a lot as a lazy
lout! Some of us, though, have to wander about among strangers, and be
always on the go." As a lovely, clear stream separated me from him,
I called to him to ask where the nearest village was. But he did not
disturb himself to reply--only stretched his head a little out of the
grass, pointed with his horn to the opposite wood, and coolly resumed
his piping.

I marched on briskly, for twilight was at hand. The birds, which had
made a great clatter while the sun was disappearing on the horizon,
suddenly fell silent, and I began to feel almost afraid, so solemn
was the perpetual rustling of the lonely forest. At last I heard dogs
barking in the distance. I walked more quickly, the forest grew less
and less dense, and in a little while I saw through the last trees a
beautiful village-green, where a crowd of children were frolicking,
and capering around a huge linden in the centre. Opposite me was an
inn, and at a table before it were seated some peasants playing cards
and smoking. On one side a number of lads and lasses were gathered
in a group, the girls with their arms rolled in their aprons, and all
gossiping together in the cool of the evening.

I took very little time for consideration, but, drawing my fiddle from
my pocket, I played a merry waltz as I came out from the forest. The
girls were surprised, and the old folks laughed so that the woods
reechoed with their merriment. But when I reached the linden, and,
leaning my back against it, went on playing gay waltzes, a whisper
went round among the groups of young people to the right and left; the
lads laid aside their pipes, each put his arm around his lass's waist,
and in the twinkling of an eye the young folk were all waltzing around
me; the dogs barked, skirts and coat-tails fluttered, and the children
stood around me in a circle gazing curiously into my face and at my
briskly-moving fingers.

When the first waltz was ended, it was easy to see how good music
loosens the limbs. The peasant lads, who had before been restlessly
shuffling about on the benches, with their pipes in their mouths and
their legs stretched out stiffly in front of them, were positively
transformed, and, with their gay handkerchiefs hanging from the
button-holes of their coats, capered about with the lasses so that it
was a pleasure to look at them. One of them, who evidently thought
a deal of himself, fumbled in his waistcoat-pocket for a long while,
that the others might see him, and finally brought out a little silver
coin, which he tried to put into my hand. It irritated me, although I
had not a stiver in my pocket. I told him to keep his pennies, I was
playing only for joy, because I was glad to be among people once more.
Soon afterward, however, a pretty girl came up to me with a great
tankard of wine. "Musicians are thirsty folk," she said, with a laugh
that displayed her pearls of teeth gleaming so temptingly between her
red lips that I should have liked to kiss her then and there. She put
the tankard to her charming mouth, and her eyes sparkled at me over
its rim; she then handed it to me; I drained it to the bottom, and
played afresh, till all were spinning merrily about me once more.

By and by the old peasants finished their game, and the young people
grew tired and separated, so that gradually all was quiet and deserted
in front of the inn. The girl who had brought me the wine also walked
toward the village, but she went very slowly, and looked around from
time to time as if she had forgotten something. At last she stopped
and seemed to search for it on the ground, but as she stooped I saw
her glance toward me from under her arm. I had learned polite manners
at the castle, so I sprang toward her and said, "Have you lost
anything, my pretty ma'amselle?" She blushed crimson. "Ah, no," she
said; "it was only a rose; will you have it?" I thanked her, and stuck
the rose in my button-hole. She looked very kindly at me, and said,
"You play beautifully." "Yes," I replied, "it is a gift from God."
"Musicians are very rare in the country about here," she began again,
then stammered, and cast down her eyes. "You might earn a deal of
money here. My father plays the fiddle a little, and likes to hear
about foreign countries--and my father is very rich." Then she
laughed, and said, "If you only would not waggle your head so, when
you play." "My dearest girl," I said, "do not blush so--and as for the
tremoloso motion of the head, we can't help it, great musicians all do
it." "Oh, indeed!" rejoined the girl. She was about to say more, when
a terrible racket arose in the inn; the front door was opened with a
bang, and a tall, lean fellow was shot out of it like a ramrod, after
which it was slammed to behind him.

At the first sound the girl ran off like a deer and vanished in the
darkness. The man picked himself up and began to rave against the
inn with such volubility that it was a wonder to hear him. "What!" he
yelled, "I drunk? I not pay the chalk-marks on your smoky door? Rub
them out! rub them out! Did I not shave you yesterday over a ladle,
and cut you just under the nose so that you bit the ladle in two?
Shaving takes off one mark; ladle, another mark; court-plaster on your
nose, another. How many more of your dirty marks do you want to have
paid? But all right--all right. I'll let the whole village, the whole
world go unshaved. Wear your beards, for all I care, till they are so
long that at the judgment-day the Almighty will not know whether you
are Jews or Christians. Yes, hang yourselves with your beards, shaggy
bears that you are!" Here he burst into tears and, in a maudlin,
falsetto voice, sobbed out, "Am I to drink water like a wretched fish?
Is that loving your neighbor? Am I not a man and a skilled surgeon?
Ah, I am beside myself today; my heart is full of pity, and of love
for my fellow-creatures." And then, finding that all was quiet in the
house, he began to walk away. When he saw me, he came plunging toward
me with outstretched arms. I thought the fellow was about to embrace
me, and sprang aside, letting him stumble on in the darkness, where I
heard him discoursing to himself for some time.

All sorts of fancies filled my brain. The girl who had given me the
rose was young, pretty, and rich. I could make my fortune before one
could turn round. And sheep and pigs, turkeys, and fat geese stuffed
with apples--verily, I seemed to see the Porter strutting up to me:
"Seize your luck, Receiver, seize your luck! 'Marry young, you're
never wrong;' take home your bride, live in the country, and live
well." Plunged in these philosophical reflections, I sat me down on
a stone, for, since I had no money, I did not venture to knock at
the inn. The moon shone brilliantly, the forests on the mountain-side
murmured in the still night; now and then a dog barked in the village
which lay farther down the valley, buried, as it were, beneath foliage
and moonlight. I gazed up at the heavens, where a few clouds were
sailing slowly and now and then a falling star shot down from the
zenith. Thus this same moon, thought I, is shining down upon my
father's mill and upon his Grace's castle. Everything there is quiet
by this time, the Lady fair is asleep, and the fountains and leaves in
the garden are whispering just as they used to whisper, all the same
whether I am there, or here, or dead. And the world seemed to me so
terribly big, and I so utterly alone in it, that I could have wept
from the very depths of my heart.

While I was thus sitting there, suddenly I heard the sound of horses'
hoofs in the forest. I held my breath and listened as the sound
came nearer and nearer, until I could hear the horses snorting. Soon
afterward two horsemen appeared under the trees, but paused at the
edge of the woods, and talked together in low, very eager tones, as
I could see by the moving shadows which were thrown across the
bright village-green, and by their long dark arms pointing in various
directions. How often at home, when my mother, now dead, had told me
of savage forests and fierce robbers, had I privately longed to be a
part of such a story! I was well paid now for my silly, rash longings.
I reached up the linden-tree, beneath which I was sitting, as high
as I could, unobserved, until I clasped the lowest branch, and then I
swung myself up. But just as I had got my body half across the branch,
and was about to drag my legs up after it, one of the horsemen trotted
briskly across the green toward me. I shut my eyes tight amid the
thick foliage, and did not stir. "Who is there?" a voice called
directly under me. "Nobody!" I yelled in terror at being detected,
although I could not but laugh to myself at the thought of how the
rogues would look when they should turn my empty pockets inside out.
"Aha!" said the robber, "whose are these legs, then, hanging down
here?" There was no help for it. "They are," I replied, "only a couple
of legs of a poor, lost musician." And I hastily let myself drop, for
I was ashamed to hang there any longer like a broken fork.

The rider's horse shied when I dropped so suddenly from the tree. He
patted the animal's neck, and said, laughing, "Well, we too are lost,
so we are comrades; perhaps you can help us to find the road to B. You
shall be no loser by it." I assured him that I knew nothing about the
road to B., and said that I would ask in the inn, or would conduct
them to the village. But the man would not listen to reason; he
drew from his girdle a pistol, the barrel of which glittered in the
moonlight. "My dear fellow," he said in a very friendly tone, as he
wiped off the glittering barrel and then ran his eye along it--"my
dear fellow, you will have the kindness to go yourself before us to
B."

Verily, I was in a scrape. If I chanced to hit the right road, I
should certainly get into the midst of the robber band and be beaten
because I had no money; if I did not find the road, I should be beaten
of course. I wasted very little thought upon the matter, but took
the first road at hand, the one past the inn which led away from
the village. The horseman galloped back to his companion, and both
followed me slowly at some distance. Thus we wandered on foolishly
enough at hap-hazard through the moonlit night. The road led through
forests on the side of a mountain. Sometimes we could see, above the
tops of the pines stirring darkly beneath us, far abroad into the
deep, silent valleys; now and then a nightingale burst into song; the
dogs bayed in the distant villages. A brook babbled ceaselessly from
the depths below us, and here and there glistened in the moonlight.
The hush was disturbed by the monotonous tramp of the horses and by
the stir and movement of their riders, who talked together incessantly
in a foreign tongue, and the bright moonlight contrasted sharply with
the long shadows of the trees, which swept across the figures of the
horsemen, making them appear now black, now light, now dwarfish, and
anon gigantic. My thoughts grew strangely confused, as though in a
dream from which I could not waken, but I marched straight ahead. We
certainly must reach the end of the forest and of the night too, I
thought.

At last long, rosy streaks flushed the horizon here and there but
faintly, as when one breathes upon a mirror, and a lark began to sing
high up above the peaceful valley. My heart at once grew perfectly
light at the approach of dawn, and all fear left me. The two horsemen
stretched themselves, looked around, and seemed for the first time
to suspect that we might not have taken the right road. They chatted
much, and I could perceive that they were talking of me; it even
seemed to me that one of them began to mistrust me, as though I were
a rogue trying to lead them astray in the forest. This amused me
mightily, for the lighter it grew the greater grew my courage, until
we emerged upon a fine, spacious opening. Here I looked about me quite
savagely, and whistled once or twice through my fingers, as scoundrels
always do when they wish to signal one another.

"Halt!" exclaimed one of the horsemen, so suddenly that I jumped. When
I looked round I saw that both had alighted and had tied their horses
to a tree. One of them came up to me rapidly, stared me full in the
face, and then burst into a fit of immoderate laughter. I must confess
this senseless merriment irritated me. But he said, "Why, it is
actually the gardener--I should say the Receiver, from the castle!"

I stared at him in turn, but could not remember who he was; indeed, I
should have had enough to do to recognize all the young gentlemen who
came and went at the castle. He kept up an eternal laughter, however,
declaring, "This is magnificent! You're taking a holiday, I see;
we are just in want of a servant; stay with us and you will have a
perpetual holiday." I was dumbfounded, and said at last that I was
just on my way to visit Italy. "Italy?" the stranger rejoined. "That
is just where we wish to go!" "Ah, if that be so!" I exclaimed, and,
taking out my fiddle, I tuned up so that all the birds in the
wood awaked. The young fellow immediately threw his arm around his
companion, and they waltzed about the meadow like mad.

Suddenly they stood still. "By heavens," exclaimed one, "I can see the
church-tower of B.! We shall soon be there." He took out his watch and
made it repeat, then shook his head, and made the watch strike again.
"No," he said, "it will not do; we should arrive too early, and that
might be very bad."

Then they brought out from their saddle-bags cakes, cutlets, and
bottles of wine, spread a gay cloth on the grass, stretched themselves
beside it, and feasted to their hearts' content, sharing all
generously with me, which I greatly enjoyed, seeing that for some days
I had not had over and above enough to eat. "And let me tell you,"
one of them said to me--"but you do not know us yet?" I shook my head.
"Then let me tell you. I am the painter Lionardo, and my friend here
is a painter also, called Guido."

I could see the two painters more clearly in the dawning morning. Herr
Lionardo was tall, brown, and slender, with merry, ardent eyes. The
other was much younger, smaller, and more delicate, dressed in antique
German style, as the Porter called it, with a white collar and bare
throat, about which hung dark brown curls, which he was often obliged
to toss aside from his pretty face. When he had breakfasted, he picked
up my fiddle, which I had laid on the grass beside me, seated himself
upon the fallen trunk of a tree, and strummed the strings. Then he
sang in a voice clear as a wood-robin's, so that it went to my very
heart heart--

  "When the earliest morning ray
  Through the valley finds its way,
  Hill and forest fair awaking,
  All who can their flight are taking.

  "And the lad who's free from care
  Shouts, with cap flung high in air,
  'Song its flight can aye be winging;
  Let me, then, be ever singing.'"

As he sang, the ruddy rays of morning exquisitely illumined his pale
face and dark, love-lit eyes. But I was so tired that the words and
notes of his song mingled and blended strangely in my ears, until at
last I fell sound asleep.

When, by and by, I began gradually to awaken, I heard, as in a dream,
the two painters talking together beside me, and the birds singing
overhead, while the morning sun shining through my closed eyelids
produced the sensation of looking toward the light through red
curtains. "_Com' e bello_!" I heard some one exclaim close to me. I
opened my eyes, and saw the younger painter bending over me in the
clear morning light, so near that I seemed to see only his large black
eyes between his drooping curls.

I sprang up hastily, for it was broad day. Herr Lionardo seemed
cross--he had two angry furrows on his brow--and hastily made ready to
move on. But the other painter shook his curls away from his face and
quietly hummed an air to himself as he was bridling his steed, until
at last Lionardo burst into a sudden fit of laughter, picked up a
bottle standing on the grass, and poured the contents into a couple
of glasses. "To our happy arrival!" he exclaimed, as the two clinked
their glasses melodiously. Whereupon Lionardo tossed the empty bottle
high in the air, and it sparkled brilliantly.

At last they mounted their horses, and I marched on beside them. Just
at our feet lay a valley in measureless extent, into which our road
descended. How clear and fresh and bright and jubilant were all the
sights and sounds around! I was so cool, so happy, that I felt as if I
could have flown from the mountain out into the glorious landscape.




CHAPTER IV


Farewell, mill, and castle, and Porter! We went at such a pace that
the wind nearly blew my hat off. Right and left, villages, towns, and
vineyards flew past in a twinkling; behind me the two painters were
seated in the carriage, before me were four horses and a gorgeous
postilion, while I, seated high up on the box, bounced into the air
from time to time.

It had happened thus: Arrived at B., while we were as yet in the
outskirts a tall, thin, crusty gentleman in a green plush coat came to
meet us, and, with many obeisances to the two painters, conducted
us into the village, where, beneath the tall linden beside the
post-station, stood a fine carriage with four post-horses. Herr
Lionardo meanwhile insisted that I had outgrown my clothes, and in a
trice he produced another suit from his portmanteau, and I had to put
on a beautiful new dress-coat and vest; very fine to see, but they
were too long and too wide for me, and absolutely fluttered about me.
And I also had a brand-new hat, which shone in the sunlight as if it
had been smeared with fresh butter. Then the crusty stranger gentleman
took the bridles of the two horses which the painters had been riding,
the painters themselves got into the carriage, I mounted upon the
box, and we started, just as the postmaster poked his head out of the
window, in his nightcap. The postilion blew his horn merrily, and we
were off for Italy.

I led a magnificent existence up there, like a bird in the air, except
that I did not need to fly. I had absolutely nothing to do but to sit
on the box day and night, and bring out food and drink to the carriage
from the inns, for the painters never alighted, and in the daytime
they shut the carriage windows close, as if the sun would have killed
them; only now and then Herr Guido put his pretty head out of the
carriage window and chatted kindly with me, laughing the while at Herr
Lionardo, who always seemed to dislike these talks. Once or twice I
nearly fell into disgrace with my master--the first time because on a
clear starry night I began to play the fiddle up there on my box, and
then because of my sleeping. It _was_ strange! I longed to see all
that I could of Italy, and opened my eyes wide every fifteen minutes.
And yet, after I had gazed steadily about me for a while, the sixteen
trotting feet before me would grow indistinct and dreamy, my eyes
would gradually close, and at last I would fall into a slumber so
profound and invincible that it was impossible to rouse me. Then day
or night, rain or sunshine, Tyrol or Italy, it was all the same;
I swayed first to the right, then to the left, then backward--nay,
sometimes my head nodded down so low that my hat dropped off, and Herr
Guido screamed aloud.

Thus we had passed, I hardly know how, half through the part of
Italy that they call Lombardy, when on a fine evening we stopped at
a country inn. The post-horses were to be ready for us at the
neighboring station in a couple of hours, so the painters left the
carriage, and were shown into a special apartment, to rest a little,
and to write some letters. I was greatly pleased, and betook myself
to the common room to eat and drink in comfort. Here everything looked
rather disreputable: the maids were going about with their hair in
disorder and their neckerchiefs awry, exposing their sallow skin;
the men-servants were at their supper in blue smock-frocks, around a
circular table, whence they glowered at me from time to time. They all
wore their hair tied behind in a short, thick queue which looked quite
dandified. "Here you are," I said to myself, as I ate my supper, "here
you are in the country from which such queer people used to come to
the Herr Pastor's with mouse-traps, and barometers, and pictures. How
much a man learns who makes up his mind not to stick close to his own
hearth-stone all his life!"

As I was thus eating my supper and meditating, a little man, who had
been sitting in a dim corner of the room over a glass of wine, darted
out of his nook at me like a spider. He was quite short and crooked,
and he had a big ugly head, with a long hooked nose and sparse red
whiskers, while his powdered hair stood on end all over his head as
if a hurricane had swept over it. He wore an old-fashioned, threadbare
dress-coat, short, plush breeches, and faded silk stockings. He had
once been in Germany, and prided himself upon his knowledge of German.
He sat down by me and asked a hundred questions, perpetually taking
snuff the while--Was I the _servitore_? When did we arrive? Had we
gone to Roma? All this I myself did not know, and really I could not
understand his gibberish. "_Parlez-vous francais_?" I asked him at
last in my distress. He shook his big head, and I was very glad, for
neither did I speak French. But it was of no use, he had taken me in
hand, and went on asking question after question; the more we parleyed
the less we understood each other, until at last we both grew angry,
and I actually thought the Signor would have liked to peck me with his
hooked beak, until the maids, who had been listening to our confusion
of tongues, laughed heartily at us. I put down my knife and fork and
went out of doors; for in this strange land I, with my German tongue,
seemed to have sunk down fathoms deep into the sea, where all sorts
of unfamiliar, crawling creatures were gliding about me, peopling the
solitude and glaring and snapping at me.

Outside, the summer night was warm and inviting. From the distant
vineyards a laborer's song now and then fell on the ear; there was
lightning low on the horizon, and the landscape seemed to tremble and
whisper in the moonlight. Sometimes I thought I perceived a tall,
dim figure gliding behind the hazel hedge in front of the house and
peeping through the twigs, and then all would be motionless. Suddenly
Herr Guido appeared on the balcony above me. He did not see me, and
began to play with great skill on a zither which he must have found in
the house, singing to it like a nightingale:

  "When the yearning heart is stilled
    As in dreams, the forest sighing,
    To the listening earth replying,
  Tells the thoughts with which 'twas filled:
    Days long vanished, soothing sorrow--
    From the Past a light they borrow,
  And the heart is gently thrilled."

I do not know whether he sang any more, for I had stretched myself on
a bench outside the door, and I fell asleep in the warm air from sheer
exhaustion.

A couple of hours must have passed, when I was roused by the winding
of a post-horn, which sounded merrily in my dreams for a while before
I fully recovered consciousness. At last I sprang up; day was
already dawning on the mountains, and I felt through all my limbs the
freshness of the morning. Then it occurred to me that by this time we
ought to be far on our way. "Aha!" I thought, "now it is my turn to
laugh. How Herr Guido will shake his sleepy, curly head when he hears
me outside!" So I went close beneath the window in the little garden
at the back of the house, stretched my limbs well in the morning air,
and sang merrily--

  "If the cricket's chirp we hear,
  Then be sure the day is near;
  When the sun is rising--then
  'Tis good to go to asleep again."

The window of the room where my masters were stood open, but all
within was quiet; the breeze alone rustled the leaves of the vine that
clambered into the window itself. "What does this mean?" I exclaimed
in surprise, and ran into the house, and through the silent corridors,
to the room. But when I opened the door my heart stood still with
dismay; the room was perfectly empty; not a coat, not a hat, not a
boot, anywhere. Only the zither upon which Herr Guido had played was
hanging on the wall, and on the table in the centre of the room lay
a purse full of money, with a card attached to it. I took it to
the window, and could scarcely trust my eyes when I read, in large
letters, "For the Herr Receiver!"

But what good could it all do me if I could not find my dear, merry
masters again? I thrust the purse into my deep coat-pocket, where it
plumped down as into a well and almost pulled me over backward. Then I
rushed out, and made a great noise, and waked up all the maids and men
in the house. They could not imagine what was the matter, and thought
I must have gone crazy. But they were not a little amazed when they
saw the empty nest. No one knew anything of my masters. One maid
only had observed--so far as I could make out from her signs and
gesticulations--that Herr Guido, when he was singing on the balcony on
the previous evening, had suddenly screamed aloud, and had then rushed
back into the room to the other gentleman. And once, when she waked
in the night afterward, she had heard the tramp of a horse. She peeped
out of the little window of her room, and saw the crooked Signor, who
had talked so much to me, on a white horse, galloping so furiously
across the field in the moonlight that he bounced high up from his
saddle; and the maid crossed herself, for he looked like a ghost
riding upon a three-legged horse. I did not know what in the world to
do.

Meanwhile, however, our carriage was standing before the door ready to
start, and the impatient postilion blew his horn fit to burst, for he
had to be at the next station at a certain hour, because everything
had been ordered with great exactitude in the way of changing horses.
I ran once more through all the house, calling the painters, but no
one made answer; the inn-people stared at me, the postilion cursed,
the horses neighed, and, at last, completely dazed, I sprang into the
carriage, the hostler shut the door behind me, the postilion cracked
his whip, and away I went into the wide world.




CHAPTER V


We drove on now over hill and dale, day and night. I had no time for
reflection, for wherever we arrived the horses were standing ready
harnessed. I could not talk with the people, a