VOLUME V
FRIEDRICH SCHLEIERMACHER
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
FRIEDRICH WILHELM JOSEPH VON SCHELLING
LUDWIG ACHIM VON ARNIM
CLEMENS BRENTANO
JACOB GRIMM
WILHELM GRIMM
ERNST MORITZ ARNDT
THEODOR KORNER
MAXIMILIAN GOTTFRIED VON SCHENKENDORF
LUDWIG UHLAND
JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF
ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO
ERNST THEODOR AMADEUS HOFFMANN
FRIEDRICH BARON DE LA MOTTE-FOUQUfi
WILHELM HAUFF
FRIEDRICH RUCKERT
AUGUST VON PLATEN-HALLERMUND
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Masterpieces of German Literature
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH
Editor-in-Chief *
KUNO FRANCKE, Ph.D., LL.D., Litt.D.
Professor of the History of German Culture and
Curator of the Germanic Museum,
Harvard University
Assistant Editor-in-Chief
WILLIAM GUILD HOWARD, A.M.
Assistant Professor of German, Harvard University
iitt S^m^ntg HalumpB 3IUuatrat?d
THE GERMAN PUBLICATION SOCIETY
NEW YORK
Copyright 1913
by
The German Publication Society
CONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS
VOLiniE V
Special Writers
Feank Thilly, Ph.D., LL.D., Professor of Philosophy, Cornell University:
The Romantic Philosophers — Fichte, Schelling, and Schleiermaeher.
Geoege H. Danton, Ph.D., Professor of German, Butler College:
Later German Romanticism.
Translators
Peecy 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.
Maegaeete Munsterbebg:
Selections from The Boy's Magic Horn; Union Song; The Mother
Tongue; Spring Greeting to the Fatherland; Freedom; Charlemagne's
Voyage ; Chidher ; etc.
Heeman Montagu Don nee:
Liitzow's Wild Band ; Cavalryman's Morning Song.
Loms H. Gbay, Ph.D.:
Addresses to the German Nation.
Feedeeic H. Hedge:
The Destiny of Man; The Wonderful History of Peter Schlemihl; The
Golden Pot.
Geoege Ripley:
On the Social Element in Religion.
J. Elliot Cabot:
On the Relation of the Plastic Arts to Nature.
Mes. a. L. W. Wisteb:
From the Life of a Good-for-nothing.
Maegaeet Hunt:
The Frog King, or Iron Henry; The Wolf and the Seven Little Kids;
Rapunzel; Haensel and Grethel; The Fisherman and His Wife.
vi CONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS — Continued.
F. E. BtTNNETT:
Selections from Undine.
H. W. DULCKEN:
Song of the Fatherland; The White Hart; Evening Song; Before the
Doors.
C. T. Beooks:
Men and Knaves; Prayer During Battle; Song of the Mountain Boy;
The Chapel; etc.
W. W. Skeat:
The Shepherd's Song on the Lord's Day; The Hostess' Daughter; The
Good Comrade.
W. H. FXJENESS:
The Lost Church; The Minstrel's Curse.
Henry W. Longfeuxow:
The Luck of Edenhall; Remorse; -The Castle by the Sea.
Kate Freiligrath-Kkoekeb :
On the Death of a Child.
C. G. Leland:
The Broken Ring.
Alfred Baskervelle:
Morning Prayer; The Castle of Boncourt; Woman's Love and Life; The
Spring of Love; etc.
Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor Kiliani:
The W.omen of Weinsberg; Barbarossa; The Grave of Alaric.
John Oxenfoed:
The Sentinel.
Lord Lindsay:
The Pilgrim Before St. Just's.
Bayaed Taylor:
He Came to Meet Me.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME V
PAGE
The Romantic Philosophers — Fichte, Schellinig, and Schleiennacher.
By Frank Thilly 1
Friedrich Schleiermacher
On the Social Element in Religion. Translated by George Ripley 19
Johcinn Gottlieb Fichte
The Destiny of Man. Translated by Frederic H. Hedge 31
Addresses to the German Nation. Translated by Louis H. Gray 69
Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling
On the Relation of the Plastic Arts to Nature. Translated by J. Elliot
Cabot 106
Later German Romanticism. By George H. Danton 137^
Ludwig Achim von Amim and Clemens Brentano
The Boy's Magic Horn. Selections translated by Margarete Miinsterberg.
Were I a Little Bird 163
The Mountaineer 163
As Many as Sand-grains in the Sea 165
The Swiss Deserter 166
The Tailor in Hell 167
The Reaper 168
Jacob cind Wilhelm Grimm
Fairy Tales. Translated by Margaret Hunt.
The Frog King, or Iron Henry 170
The Wolf and the Seven Little Kids 174
Rapunzel .'.... 176
Haensel and Grethel 180
The Fisherman and His Wife 188
Ernst Moritz Amdt
Song of the Fatherland. Translated by H. W. Dulcken 197
Union Song. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 198
Theodor Kbmer
Men and Knaves. Translated by C. T. Brooks 201
Liitzow's Wild Band. Translated by Herman Montagu Donner 202
Prayer During Battle. Translated by C. T. Brooks 204
viii CONTENTS — Continued.
Maximilian Gottfried von Schenkendoi^
The Mother Tongue. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 205
Spring Greeting to the Fatherland. Translated by Margarete Munsterberg. 206
Freedom. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 208
Ludwig Uhland
The Chapel. Translated by C. T. Brooks 210
The Shepherd's Song on the Lord's Day. Translated by W. W. Skeat. . . 210
The Castle by the Sea. Translated by Henry W. Longfellow 211
Song of the Mountain Boy. Translated by C. T. Brooks 212
Departure. Translated by Percy MacKaye 213
Farewell. Translated by Alfred Baskerville 214
The Hostess' Daughter. Translated by W. W. Skeat 215
The Good Comrade. Translated by W. W. Skeat 216
The White Hart. Translated by H. W. Dulcken 216
The Lost Church. Translated by W. H. Furness 217
Charlemagne's Voyage. Translated by Margarete Munsterberg 219
Free Art. Translated by Margarete Munsterberg 221
Taillefer. Translated by A. I. du P. Coleman 222
Suabian Legend. Translated by Margarete Munsterberg 225
The Blind King. Translated by C. T. Brooks 227
The Minstrel's Curse. Translated by W. H. Furness 229
The Luck of Edenhall. Translated by Henry W. Longfellow 233
On the Death of a Child. Translated by Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker 235
Joseph von Eichendorff
The Broken Ring. Translated by C. G. Leland 236
Morning Prayer. Translated by Alfred Baskerville 237
From the Life of a Good-for-nothing. Translated by Mrs. A. L. W. Wister. 238
Adalbert von Chamisso
The Castle of Boncourt. Translated by Alfred Baskerville 324
The Lion's Bride. Translated by A. I. du P. Coleman 325
Woman's Love and Life. Translated by Alfred Baskerville 327
The Women of Weinsberg. Translated by Bayard Taylor and Lilian
Bayard Taylor Kiliani 331
The Crucifix. Translated by A. I. du P. Coleman 333
The Old Singer. Translated by A. I. du P. Coleman 339
The Old WasherAvoman. From the Foreign Quarterly 341
The Wonderful History of Peter Sehlemihl. Translated by Frederic H.
Hedge 343
CONTENTS — Continued. ix
Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann
The Golden Pot. Translated by Frederic H. Hedge 401
Friedrich Baron de la Motte-Fouque
Selections from Undine. Translated by F. E. Bunnett 461
Wilhelm Hauff
Cavalryman's Morning Song. Translated by Herman Montagu Donner.. 484
The Sentinel. Translated by John Oxenford 484
Friedrich Riickert
Barbarossa. Translated by Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor
Kiliani 486
From My Childhood Days. Translated by A. I. du P. Coleman 487
The Spring of Love. Translated by Alfred Baskerville 488
He Came to Meet Me. Translated by Bayard Taylor 490
The Invitation. Translated by A. I. du P. Coleman 491
Murmur Not. Translated by A, I. du P. Coleman : 491
A Parable. Translated by A. I. du P. Coleman 492
Evening Song. Translated by H. W. Dulcken 494
Chidher. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 496
At Forty Years. Translated by A. I. du P. Coleman 497
Before the Doors. Translated by H. W. Dulcken 498
August von Platen-Hallermund
The Pilgrim Before St. Just's. Translated by Lord Lindsay 499
The Grave of Alaric. Translated by Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard
Taylor Kiliani 499
Remorse. Translated by Henry W. Longfellow 500
Would I were Free as are My Dreams. Translated by Percy MacKaye.. 501
Sonnet. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 502
ILLUSTRATIONS — VOLUME V
PAGE
The Fountain of Life. By Moritz von Schwind Frontispiece
Friedrich Schleiermacher. By E. Hader 20
The Three Hermits. By Moritz von Schwind 28
Johann Gottlieb Fichte. By Bury 32
Volunteers of 1813 before King Friedrich Wilhelm III in Brealau. By
F. W. Scholtz 86
Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling. By Carl Begas 106
The Jungf rau. By Moritz von Schwind 120
The Magic Horn. By Moritz von Schwind 162
Ludwig Achim von Arnim. By Strohling . '. 164
Clemens Brentano. By E. Linder 164
The Reaper. By Walter Crane 168
Wilhelm Grimm. By E. Hader 170
Jacob Grimm. By E. Hader 170
Hansel and Gretel. By Ludwig Richter 180
Ernst Moritz Arndt. By Julius Roting 198
Theodor Korner. By E. Hader 202
Maximilian Gottfried von Schenkendorf 206
Ludwig Uhland. By C. Jager 210
The Villa by the Sea. By Arnold Bocklin 212
Leaving at Dawn. By Moritz von Schwind 214
Joseph von Eichendorff. By Franz Kugler 236
Adalbert von Chamisso. By C. Jager 324
The Wedding Journey. By Moritz von Schwind 328
Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann. By Hensel 402
Friedrich Baron de la Motte-Fouque 462
Wilhelm Hauff. By E. Hader 484
The Sentinel. By Robert Haug 484
Friedrich Ruckert. By C. Jager 486
Memories of Youth, By Ludwig Richter 488
August Graf von Platen-Hallermund 498
The Morning Hour. By Moritz von Schwind 500
/
THE ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS — FICHTE.
SCHELLING. AND SCHLEIERMACHER
By Frank Thilly, Ph.D., LL.D.
Professor of Philosophy, Cornell University
(i^grman J HE Enlightenment of the eighteenth century
had implicit faith in the powers of hu-
man reason to reach the truth. With
its logical-mathematical method it en-
deavored to illuminate every nook and
corner of knowledge, to remove all obscur-
ity, 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; what-
ever 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. Enlighten-
ment 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 exist-
ence 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 immor-
tality, 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
Vol. V — 1 [1]
2 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 Hmne. If we can know only onr
impressions, then rational theology, cosmology, and psy-
chology 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 cer-
tainty through other functions of the human soul — in feel-
ing, 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 w*as found by substituting the organic conception
of reality for the logical-mathematical view of the Auf-
kldrimg; 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 evolu-
tion (Lessing, Herder, Winckelmann, Goethe). Man, him-
self, moreover, is not mere intellect, but a being in whom
feelings, impulses, yearnings, will, are elements to be reck-
oned with. And reality is not as transparent as the Enlight-
enment 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 Aufhldrer
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 pre-
tentiousness of dogmatic metaphysics as to the pusil-
lanimity of scepticism and the Schwdrmerei of mysticism.
He repudiated the shallow proofs of the existence of God,
THE ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS 3
freedom, and immortality no less emphatically than he
rejected materialism with its atheism, fatalism, and hedon-
ism. 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 dis-
cursive 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 har-
mony possible between the mechanical theory of science
and the teleological conception of philosophy. The scien-
tific 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 sac-
rifice it to the demands of a rationalistic science or meta-
4 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
physics. 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 attract-
ive doctrine of an inner intuition; according to them we
can somehow grasp the supersensible in an inner experience
which Fichte called intellectual, Schelling artistic, Schleier-
macher 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 litera-
ture, Lessing, Herder, and Goethe, had already opposed to
the unhistorical Aufkldrung, and which came to play such
a prominent part in the great system of Hegel.
Johann Gottlieb Fichte was bom in Ramenau, Ober-
lausitz. 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 univer-
sities 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
THE ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS 5
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 anon-
ymous 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 elo-
quent 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 Specidative Philosophy) . The appearance of an article
Concerning the Ground of our Belief in a Divine World-
Order, 1798, in which Fiohte 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, he 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 earnest-
ness 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 Specula-
tive Philosophy) ; The Nature of the Scholar, 1806 (trans.
by Smith) ; Characteristics of the Present Age, 1806 (trans.
6 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 Konigsberg
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 Jan-
uary 27, 1814. Among them we mention: General Out-
line 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 particu-
lar 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, with-
out 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 ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS 7
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 uni-
versal 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, there-
fore, 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 mech-
anism, who is not free, will never be able to conceive him-
self 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 indi-
vidual self with all its idiosyncrasies, but the universal ego,
8 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 sub-
jective idealism, although it was so misinterpreted, but
objective idealism; nature is not the creation of the par-
ticular 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 influ-
ence 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 cooperate in the realization of
the eternal purpose which is working itself out in the his-
tory of humanity, to sacrifice himself for the ideal of free-
dom. 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 develop-
ment 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 person-
ality, nationality, humanity, civilization, and progress; in
this regard it expresses the spirit of all modern philosophy.
It goes beyond the Aufkldrung in emphasizing the living,
THE ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS 9
moving, developing nature of reality; for it, life and con-
sciousness constitute the essence of things, and universal
life reveals itself in a progressive history of mankind.
Moreover, the dynamic spiritual process cannot be compre-
hended 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 cul-
ture. 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 con-
ceives as universal reason becomes for them the subjective
empirical self, the unique personality, in which the uncon-
scious, 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 indi-
vidual consciousness, intended as a necessary obstacle for
the free will. Without opposition the self cannot act ; with-
out 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
10 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
of causality. This cheerless conception of nature — which,
liowever, was not Fichte's last word on the subject, since
he afterward came to conceive it as the revelation of uni-
versal life, or the expression of a pantheistic God — did not
attract Romanticism. It was Schelling, the erstwhile fol-
lower 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 Leon-
berg, Wiirtemberg, January 27, 1775, the son of a learned
clerg3anan and writer on theology. He was a precocious
child and made rapid progress in his studies, entering the
Theological Seminary at Tiibingen 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 com-
panion 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 philo-
sophical articles. In 1798 he received a call to a professor-
ship at Jena, where Fichte, Schiller, Wilhelm Sohlegel, and
Hegel became his colleagues, and where he entered into
friendly relations with the Romantic circle of which Caro-
line 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 writ-
ings. In 1803 he accepted a professorship at Wurzburg,
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 pro-
fessor of philosophy at the newly-established University
and as General Curator of the Scientific Collections of the
THE ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS 11
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 phi-
losophy 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 the-
osophy (Jacob Bohme) 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. Transla-
tions 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 inter-
prets 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 external-
ized obstacle for the ego, nor a dead static spatial mechani-
12 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
cal 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 alwaj^s 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 prob-
lem of the Philosophy of Nature; and, How does Con-
sciousness 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 identi-
cal 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 uni-
' versal 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 intelli-
gence, 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
THE ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS 13
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 compre-
hended only by freedom, activity only by activity. ' ' Schel-
ling, 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 philos-
ophy. 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 prof oundest 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 in-
terpenetrate. In creative art the artist imitates the cre-
ative 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
Aufkldrung ; 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 par-
ticular, as the poet's and thinker's highest gift. He called
it an apergu, ' ' a revelation springing up in the inner man
that gives him a hint of his likeness to God." It is this
14 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
gift which Faust craves and Mephisto sneers at as die Jiohe
Intuition.
Dass ich erkenne was die Welt
Im innersten zusammenhalt,
Schau alle Wirkungskraft und Samen
Und tu' nicht mehr in Worten kramen.
There was much that was fantastic in the Naturphiloso-
phie 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, Einheitstrieh, which has re-
mained a marked characteristic of German science from
Alexander von Humboldt down to Robert Mayer, Helm-
holtz, 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 N aturphilosophie, and
Schleiermacher's the philosophy of religion. All these
thinkers took account of the prevailing tendencies of the
times — Aufkldrung, 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, particu-
larly 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.
THE ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS 15
Friedrich Daniel Ernst Schleiermaclier, 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, phi-
losopher, 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 ; trans-
lations 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 tlie 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
16 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
to his fate. He rejected the shallow proofs of the Auf-
kldrung, 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. Schleier-
macher 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 time-
less. 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 endoAvment or gifts, its
individuality, and its freedom consists in the unfolding of
its peculiar capacities. With Goethe, Schiller, and Roman-
ticism, our philosopher rejects the rigoristic Kantian-
Fichtean view of duty which, in his opinion, would suppress
THE ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS 17
individuality and reduce all persons to a homogeneous mass ;
like them he regards the development of unique person-
alities as the highest moral task. ' ' Every man should ex-
press 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 sym-
pathy." 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 oa\ti 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 su-
preme condition of one's own perfection." Hence the
ethical life is a life in society — a society of unique indi-
viduals who respect humanity in its uniqueness, in them-
selves 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 approxi-
VoL. V — 2
18 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
mates the universe, the more he communicates himself to
others, the more perfect unity will they all fonu; 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)^'
TEANSLATED BY GEORGE RIPLEY
QTlasisics
HOSE 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 con-
nection is permitted between many patients of this char-
acter. In the former case it is possible by a judicious treat-
ment, as it were by an antiphlogistic 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 sijch 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 aggra-
vates 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 pro-
* From Addresses on Religion (Discourse IV),
[19]
20 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ductions of whole ages and nations are involved in irre-
mediable 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 un-
favorable impressions of all social organization for its pro-
motion. A slavish immolation of all that is free and
peculiar, a system of lifeless mechanism and barren cere-
monies — these, they imagine, are the inseparable conse-
quences of every such institution and are the ingenious
and elaborate work of men, who, with almost incredible suc-
cess, 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 under-
take to give you the correct point of view with regard to it.
I need not here repeat how many of the perverted en-
deavors and melancholy fortunes of humanity you charge
upon religious associations ; this is clear as light, in a thou-
sand 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,
Permission E. Linde &• Co., Berlin
FRIEDRICH SCHLEIERMACHER
£. Hadeb
SCHLEIERMACHER : ADDRESS ON RELIGION 21
but still more in the nature of religion. You will acknowl-
edge 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 im-
pulse, 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 expe-
rience is not beyond the sphere of humanity.
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 communi-
cation 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, con-
cerning whose origin there can be no doubt, he allows
to rest in his own mind, and still more easilv he deter-
mines 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 opera-
22 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
tions 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 pene-
trates 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 imme-
diately reach he wishes to perceive, as far as he can, from
the representations of others who have experienced it them-
selves, 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 emo-
tions of the heart, which cannot be embraced in the insuffi-
SCHLEIERMACHER: ADDEESS ON RELIGION 23
cient 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 com-
plete 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 con-
versation. 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 sub-
jects 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 maintain-
ing that this circumstance, at least, does not indicate con-
tempt or indifference toward religion, but a happy and
very correct instinct. In the presence of joy and merri-
ment, 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 strik-
ing flashes of thought, gaily and rapidly alternating with
24 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
one another ; a more elevated style is demanded for the com-
munication 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 mag-
nificence 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 over-
flowing 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 mani-
fold effects.
Would that I could present before you an image of the
rich and luxurious life in this city of God, when its inhab-
itants come together each in the fulness of his own inspira-
tion, 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 sympathiz-
ing contemplation, the deepest feelings of his soul while
SCHLEIERMACHER: ADDRESS ON RELIGION 25
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 pro-
phetic 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 conscious-
ness 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 ex-
pressive utterance of the inward man. The Muse of Har-
mony, 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 con-
tain; 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
26 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
the influence of religions 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 alter-
nately 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 differ-
ences 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
SCHLEIERMACHER : ADDRESS ON RELIGION 27
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 sepa-
rate in contemplation all flows together in life. They, to be
sure, who on one of these points bear the greatest resem-
blance 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 imper-
ceptibly diminish and increase, and in the midst of so many
transitions there is no absolute repulsion, no total separa-
tion, 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 prop-
erties 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 sym-
pathy 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
28 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
individual wlio is more inclined to cherish a religious con-
nection 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 w^ith
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 natu-
rally, its fairest and ripest fruit, you perceive that it can-
not 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 sepa-
ration, 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 sys-
tematic view of the Universe, and they who behold it only
in its elements or only in obscure chaos — all, notwithstand-
ing, should be only one, for one band surrounds them all and
they can be totally separated only by a violent and arbi-
trary 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
Per. Velhagen & Klasing, Mobitz von Schwind
Bielefeld and Leipzig
THE THREE HERMITS
i
SCHLEIERMACHER : ADDRESS ON RELIGION 29
to a separate and peculiar form of religion, and that hor-
rible 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 voca-
tion to change the sentiments of those who now acknowl-
edge 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?
And to what end should it desire to cultivate those who
are yet strangers to religion? Its own especial character-
istic — the Infinite Whole — of course it cannot impart to
them; and the communication of any specific element can-
not 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 meas-
ure 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
so THE GERMAN CLASSICS
essential principle of religions 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 accom-
plished 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 reli-
gious communion, where the mutual existence and life in
God afford him the most elevated enjojTnent 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 com-
pass of his Being. If the contemplation of the Holy and
the Godlike awakens a kindred emotion in them, how joy-
fully 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 liim 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 ( 1 800)
ADAPTED FROM THE TRANSLATION BY FREDERIC H. HEDGE
Book III: Faith
[OT merely to know, but to act according to thy
knowledge, is thy destination. ' ' So says the
voice which cries to me aloud from my inner-
,;-v , most soul, so soon as I collect and give heed
^ to myself for a moment. "■ Not idly to in-
spect 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
udth 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 ! * 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 presup-
poses a higher as its foundation, and this upward process
has no end. It is Faith, that voluntary reposing in the
* This refers to the second book, which takes the form of a dialogue between
the inquirer and a Spirit.
[31]
32 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 knowl-
edge 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 in-
fluence 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 inces-
santly 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. Other-
wise, 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 at-
tended 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
*hem. 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.
I
That voice in my interior, which I believe, and for the
sake of which I believe all else that I believe, commands
Permission Berlin Photographic Co., New York
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
EURY
FICHTE : DESTINY OF MAN 33
me not merely to act in the abstract. That is impossible. All
these general propositions are formed only by my volun-
tary 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 exist-
ence. 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 specula-
tion has taught me or will teach me that these supposed
rational beings, without me, are only products of my own
Vol. V — 3
34 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 defi-
nite perceptions. But the voice of my conscience cries
to me : * ' Whatever these beings may be in and for them-
selves, 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 them-
selves, 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 repre-
sented 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 con-
ception and its necessary modes of action. But I compre-
hend these same things also through need and craving and
enjoyment. It is not the conception — no, it is hunger and
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 35
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. Accord-
ingly, 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 ascer-
tain them; and empty speculation vanishes like mist when
the warming sun appears.
In short, there is for me, in general, no pure, naked exist-
ence, with which I have no concern, and which I contem-
plate 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 destina-
tion 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
36 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 requi-
sition 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 con-
scious life can renounce these claims to be respected as
rational and self-subsisting. And with these claims at least
there is connected in his soid a seriousness, an abandonment
of doubt, a belief in a reality, if not with the acknowledg-
ment of a moral law in his innermost being. Do but assail
FICHTE: DESTINY OP MAN 37
him who denies his own moral destination and your exist-
ence 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 founda-
tion of all consciousness of a reality without us, a con-
sciousness 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 be-
ing 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 con-
sciousness 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
38 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 noth-
ing, 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 pas-
sions. It cries to me irresistibly from my innermost soul :
'' Thus it cannot possibly be destined always to remain.
It must, 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, yawn-
ing 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
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 39
behind them beings like themselves, who shall do the same
that I have done ? To what purpose this circle which per-
petually returns into itself ; this game forever re-commenc-
ing, 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 pro-
duce 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 com-
pelled 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 momen.t what he had been slowly and carefully
preparing for years, and delivers up the industrious pains-
taking 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 min-
gle 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 pesti-
lence still stalks through blooming states, leaves the
40 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 desolat-
ing 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 develop-
ment 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 miti-
gate the sluggish, hostile atmosphere of the eternal forests.
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 41
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 ani-
mating beams into that atmosphere which is breathed by
a healthy, industrious, and ingenious people. Science,
awakened, at first, by the pressure of necessity, shall here-
after penetrate deliberately and calmly into the unchange-
able 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 foun-
dation of further knowledge, for the common understand-
ing 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 de-
grees, 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.
'ff ^R* 'A' ^ T\" ^f^ *^ <^ ^ff ^^ ^^
It is the destination of our race to unite in one body,
thoroughly acquainted with itself in all its parts, and uni-
formly 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 cer-
tainty 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, com-
42 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
prehensive, 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.
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 43
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 oppor-
tunity 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 com-
pensate 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 rela-
tions between States, as such, that could engender war-
fare. 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 re-
dressed, 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 un-
44 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
doubtedly 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 gen-
eral, and even the possibility of deliberately determin-
ing upon an evil act, will be cut off, and man be per-
suaded 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 disad-
vantages ; and the aberration of self-love into acts of injus-
tice 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
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 45
lost — but it reacts upon the author, and he himself inev-
itably 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,
46 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
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 neigh-
bor. 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 rest-
less 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. it is attainable in
life and by means of life ; for Reason commands me to live.
It is attainable, for I am.
ni
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
FICHTE : DESTINY OF MAN 47
can do notliing 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 intel-
ligible, 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
Eeason : ' ' 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 exist-
ence 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 accom-
plished? 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 con-
sents to do evil that good may come. It would seem that
the highest good of the world grows and thrives quite inde-
pendently 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,
48 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
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 con-
cern, 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 un-
suited 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 sup-
press it as a perverse and mad enthusiasm.
* * * * * * * * * ' *
If the whole design of our existence were to bring about
a purelV 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
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 49
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 determina-
tion 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 ivill, 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 incom-
prehensible, 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 con-
nection 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
Vol. V — 4
50 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 en-
joined 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 w^orld, and it is the part of wisdom not to under-
take 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.
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 51
These two systems, the purely spiritual and the sensu-
ous — 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 Eeason ; 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 exist-
ence 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 excel-
lence, 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 renuncia-
tion 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
52 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 with-
out 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 abso-
lutely 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 con-
sider 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
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 53
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 free-
dom, 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 fool-
ish fable ; and by finding, in those purely spiritual indica-
tions, 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 reforma-
tion 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 refor-
mation of the heart alone conducts to true wisdom. So
then, let my whole life be directed unrestrainedly toward
this one end !
TV
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 incom-
prehensible, 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 excep-
tion valid, according to which the dutiful will must have
consequences. Just as in the earthly world which environs
54 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
me, I assume a law according to whicli 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 indefi-
nitely. As in this case, with the mere direction and move-
ment of my hand, I know and comprehend all the direc-
tions and movements which shall follow it, as certainlv 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 propo-
sition, 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.
^ TT * * H^ -ff ^ ^ ^ ^
Agreeably to what has now been advanced, the law of
the supersensuous world should be a Will.
A Will wdiich acts purely and simply as will, by its own
agency, entirely without any instrument or sensuous
medium of its efiicacy; which is absolutely, in itself, at
once action and result; which wills and it is done, which
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 55
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 deter-
mines 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 law-
ful 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 conse-
quence 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 mor-
tals — thus I flow in upon that Will ; and the voice of con-
science 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.
56 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 re-
vealed 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 em-
braces 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 phenom-
enon, and vanishes and returns again, with new seeming.
This AVill 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 inde-
pendent 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 stuif of all the
life which we live.
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 57
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 any-
thing 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 suffi-
ciently 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
58 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
existence are solved, and the most perfect harmony arises
in my mind.
Thou art best apprehended by childlike simplicity, de-
voted 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 under-
standing, 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 con-
nections 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 con-
I
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 59
sciousness of my own being. Thou workest in me the knowl-
edge 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 con-
sciousness, applies only to me but not to thee, the Infinite.
Thou wiliest, because thou wiliest, 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 wiliest, and workest, omnipresent to
finite Reason. But thou art not such as through all eter-
nity 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 joy-
ful, 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, 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 mechan-
60 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ism 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. Noth-
ing 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 indi-
vidual, 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 cooperate 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 de-
stroyed 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 reve-
lation of that Will to us, is always a requirement to per-
form some particular duty. Hence, even that which we
call evil in the world, the consequence of the abuse of free-
dom, 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
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 61
education and the education of our whole race that pre-
cisely 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 pos-
sible — 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, Infinite, thy providence alone, is this
higher Nature ! This too is best understood by artless sim-
plicity, which regards this life as a place of discipline and
education, as a school for eternity; which, in all the for-
tunes 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.
truly have I spent the former days of my life in dark-
ness ! 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 ! * 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 per-
tains 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,
•An allusion to the second book.
62 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 tran-
scendental Idealists.
Others who, in addition to the sensuous activity which is
native to us all, have, by their thought, confirmed them-
selves in the sensuous, become implicated, and, as it were,
grown together with it; they can raise themselves perma-
nently 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 phi-
losophy, 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.
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 63
I know what I can know, and I am without anxiety concern-
ing 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 por-
tion 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 knowl-
edge 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 w^hole 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
64 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
know nothing, and I know that I know nothing ; and I root
myself fast in this my ignorance, and forbear to conjec-
ture, 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, accord-
ingly 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 / 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 instru-
ments 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 ac-
count of personal merits; for my entire personality has
long since vanished and been swallowed up in the con-
templation 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
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 65
trouble me. They affect only the Nature with which I am,
in some strange way, connected ; not myself, the being which
is elevated above >^11 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 con-
nection 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 van-
ished; and, instead thereof, flows, and waves, and rushes
the eternal stream of life, and power, and deed — of the
original life, of thy life, Infinite ! For all life is thy life,
and only the religious eye pierces to the kingdom of ver-
itable 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 immeas-
urable 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 form-
ing 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
Vol. V — 5
66 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 (with-
out, 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 under-
stands, 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 con-
strained, 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 ex-
FICHTE: DESTINY OF MAN 67
pression 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 perfec-
tion, 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 shin-
ing 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 her-
self — 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
68 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 repre-
senting 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 — transcend-
ing 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 con-
nections, 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 uncon-
sciousness, 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 bom 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.
i
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
[HE last four addresses have answered the ques-
tion, What is the German as contrasted with
other nations of Teutonic origin ? The argu-
ment 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, AVhat 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, re-
ligion 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
[69]
70 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
the least trace behind it and will not produce the slightest
results, and even with the belief that the divine may actu-
ally 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 un-
alterably 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
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 71
comfort of tlie 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 con-
solation 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 imperish-
able in the temporal itself — not merely in an unconceiv-
able 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 per-
versity 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 be-
queath 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 cre-
ations; 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 indi-
72 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
vidual, 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 w^ish
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 them-
selves 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 eter-
nity 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, how^ever, 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 de-
scended, 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. Never-
theless, it is equally true that this something more, imme-
diately 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
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 73
also appear and be formed within it. Yet, through the fact
that the man existed and so labored, this law itself is fur-
ther determined, and his activity has become a permanent
component of it; everything subsequent mil likewise be
compelled to adapt itself accordingly and to conform to the
law in question. And thus he is made certain that the cul-
ture 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 gen-
eral 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 alto-
gether 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 con-
tinually 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 phe-
nomenon, 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
74 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 con-
tinuance 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 per-
petuity. 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 pos-
sessed 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.
FICHTE: ADDEESS TO GERMAN NATION 75
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 gen-
erality 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 monu-
ments, 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 con-
tinuance 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 per-
fectly clear within themselves, it never deceived them.
76 . THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 concep-
tion which demands sure justice and internal peace, and
requires that every one through his efforts obtain his sup-
port and the prolongation of his sentient existence so long
as God will grant it to him. All this is only a means, a con-
dition, 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 legis-
lation which keeps this later aim in view mil 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
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 77
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 inten-
tion, the state assembles an armed force. When the prob-
lem 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
78 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
in view, whicli 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 prob-
lem 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 with-
out 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 recal-
citrant 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 re-
gards 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 sacri-
fice 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.
Wliatever 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
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 79
Tinder him provided tie 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 exist-
ence 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 salva-
tion? 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
80 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 mis-
took 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 ci\T.lization, the Teutons whom the Romans called
Germans, l^oldly 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, judg-
ment-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 descend-
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 81
ents 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 any-
thing 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 con-
tinued 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 de-
velopment and transmitted this independence to their pos-
terity; 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 Ger-
man 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 inde-
pendent 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,
Vol. V — 6
82 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 neces-
sity prevails over him who is not inspired. It is not the
might of arms nor the fitness of weapons that wins vic-
tories, 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 haz-
ards 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 representa-
tives and leaders, of keeping firmly before its vision inde-
pendence, the face from the spirit world, and of being in-
spired 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 fijied 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 distin-
guished French poet — who had once become firmly con-
vinced 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,
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 83
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 voca-
tion, 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 govern-
ance 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 develop-
ment 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
84 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 wel-
come 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 him-
self 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 indi-
vidual 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 re-
mained 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
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 85
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 un-
derstood in reference to the main point that I have pre-
sented to you today; I hope that in the course of my re-
marks 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
86 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
that sentiment has lain obscurely at the basis of the
opposition continually manifested against a merely me-
chanical 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 popu-
lace 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
■Jl ■'*'*s«^^-
' :simsm>}-t
,;;uaaL a. uiyiuly me
ui. the 8iafce. And iio\ -
I ■•'•fi raodem foreign
■'^> or lawgiver
i..i<3tio- thought
>n'>n as being
temporal
of tLem
onlitical
•m tl'
appiness
--■ --'': ^^^^P^^^MiHt^ to li? lik.>wise D(>
■jod no higher demands upon life, and —
. posing those ^ ent sentiments toward
'Sence of all selfi ^ and of all desire to h •
they be ; 'iy have mado admirabl ^:
aat they alont,
U for whicl'
fi eradicate, i
■a' liij
ould eVv'!:
J.I is treateii
■;ieath its rr '
■■-'■'''■ thepopu
re thee ori
. .[' any man
also." A Tic''
X
f
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 87
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 educa-
tion may be, and in what way it may be achieved, we shall
see in the following addresses.
Address Fourteen"
Conclusion of the Whole
The addresses which I here conclude have, indeed,
been directed primarily to you,* 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 suc-
* The audience gathered in the building of the Royal Academy at Berlin.-
Ed.
88 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ceeded 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 gener-
ation 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 uncer-
tainty 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 Ger-
mans. 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 prodigj^, 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 ever}i;hing alone.
FICHTE; ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 89
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 slum-
ber, a little folding of the hands to sleep," until, per-
chance, 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 cer-
tainly 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 reso-
lution 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 resolu-
tions, 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 dis-
solved 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
90 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
our generation and repeated under every guise, that tliis
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 cap-
able 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 inten-
tion 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
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 91
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 for-
ward.'* 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
92 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 gener-
ation 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 — succeed-
ing 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?
FICHTE : ADDEESS TO GERMAN NATION 93
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 imme-
diate 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 intelli-
gence 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 your-
selves, 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 abso-
lutely no power outside them — give to each epoch its par-
ticular 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
94 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 sub-
jected. 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 ex-
pressed my conviction in these addresses — that you are yet
more capable of every thought transcending the common-
place, 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 funda-
mental 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
FICHTE; ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 95
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 gen-
eration 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 char-
acter 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 ex-
cluding the exceptions, and regarding only the majority)
the greatest uselessness and selfishness are found in ad-
vanced years in all branches, in science as well as in prac-
96 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
tical 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 sur-
roundings ; 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 pre-
viously 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 increas-
ing 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
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 97
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! Con-
firm, strengthen, counsel in this matter the younger genera-
tion, 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 mat-
ters 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 regard-
ing 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
Vol. V — 7
98 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 for-
mation 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
kno^ving this. Yet between the concept and the intro-
duction 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, thought-
FICHTE: ADDKESS TO GERMAN NATION 99
lessness, and superficiality, over selr-conceit and inexhaust-
ible babble, over the contempt for seriousness and pro-
fundity 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 genera-
tions 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 un-
connectedly, 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 occupa-
tion ; they adjure you that, from this hour, you make your-
100 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
selves 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 re-
garding 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 your-
selves 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
FICHTE : ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 101
to be faithful to you, to cling to you witli 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 hid-
den 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 assist-
ance 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 some-
thing must be radical and final, and tliat the time for half-
measures and procrastination is past — this conviction these
addresses would fain produce, if they could, in you per-
sonally, as they still cherish the utmost confidence in your
integrity.
These addresses adjure you, Germans as a whole, what-
ever 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 govern-
ance, 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 resist-
102 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ance 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 ances-
tors, 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 free-
FICHTE: ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 103
dom 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 con-
nect 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 imme-
diately 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 cus-
toms 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 under-
stand 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
104 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
and culture. The former adjure us by tlie soil of our com-
mon 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 ttie 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 pre-
sented in these addresses, then, among all modem peoples,
it is you in whom the germ of the perfecting of humanity
most decidedly lies, and on whom progress in the develop-
ment 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,
FICHTE : ADDRESS TO GERMAN NATION 105
counting on mere repetition of events that have already
happened, that once more, after the fall of the old civiliza-
tion, 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 cul-
ture, 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 abo-
rigines 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
DeKvered before the Public Assembly of the Royal Academy of Sciences
of Munich
TRANSLATED BY J. ELLIOT CABOT
LASTIC ART, according to the most ancient
expression, is silent Poetry. The inventor
of this definition no doubt meant thereby
X that the former, like the latter, is to ex-
i -i^^^OT- ,^„:™-t„„l i-\ \,i-r, i-l 1
press 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
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FRIEDRICH WILIIELM JOSEPH von SCHELLING
Carl Beoas
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 107
of it ; but, above all, to set forth the coherence of the whole
structure of Art in the light of a higher necessity.
But has not Science always recognized this relation? Has
not indeed every theory of modem times taken its depart-
ure 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:* '' 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,
* J. G. Hamann, Eellenistische Briefe I, 189.
108 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
fetched idols out of her; whilst, to the susceptive Greeks,
who every^'here felt the presence of a vitally efficient prin-
ciple, genuine gods arose out of Nature.
But is, then, the disciple of Nature to copy everjiihing
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 unbeau-
tiful. 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 appro-
priate 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 of tener, and even more affection-
ately, 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, there-
fore,' 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 rela-
tion 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 estab-
lished by John Winckelmann. He indeed restored to the
soul its full efficiency in Art, and raised it from its un-
worthy 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,
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 109
of Nature elevated above tlie 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 awak-
ened by it. Thus these ideal forms also could be ani-
mated 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 them-
selves 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, sinfce 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 dis-
severed 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
no THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 Unlim-
ited, 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 adver-
tisement, 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, con-
tribute 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 —
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 111
from the force that works in the crystal to the force which,
comparable to a gentle magnetic current, gives to the par-
ticles 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, how-
ever, 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 un-
knowingly 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 innumer-
able 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 Understand-
ing; but by what means does this idea pass into actuality
and embodiment? Only through the creative ^cience that
112 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
is as necessarily connected with tlie Infinite Understanding,
as in the artist the principle that seizes the idea of unsensu-
ous 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 wdthdraw 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 larvce, but no works of Art. He must there-
fore 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
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 113
core of tilings, and speaking through form and shape as by-
symbols only, the artist must certainly follow with emula-
tion ; 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 them-
selves, would still be destitute of all beauty, since that,
through which the work on the whole is truly beautiful, can-
not 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 any-
thing to be actual except the True ; and what is Beauty, if
not full, complete Being?
What higher aim, therefore, could Art have, than to rep-
resent that which in Nature actually isl 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 muta-
tion of matter and the universal lot of final dissolution
teach us the unessential character of this union, and that
Vol. V — 8
114 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
it is no intimate fusion? Art, accordingly, in the merely
superficial animation of its works, but represents Nothing-
ness 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 feel-
ing 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, neces-
sarily 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.
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 115
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 crea-
tive 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 intoler-
able 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 ap-
pears 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 [Entausserung], so
the artist must first deny himself and descend into the Par-
ticular, without shunning isolation, nor the pain, the
anguish of Form.
Nature, from her first works, is throughout character-
istic ; the energy of fire, the splendor of light, she shuts up
116 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 narrow^er 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 cour-
ageous conflict.
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 117
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 in-
anity, before he can venture to aim, by ever higher com-
bination 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
118 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 pro-
ductions up to the period of works overflowing with sensu-
ous 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 enhance-
ment 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 con-
tinue 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 indis-
tinguishable, within; as in the crystal, although trans-
parent, the texture nevertheless remains; each character-
istic element has its weight, however slight, and helps to
bring about the sublime equipoise of Beauty.
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 119
The outer side or basis of all Beauty is beauty of form.
But as Form camiot 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,* to whom the gods have given
sway over Nature as well as Art, compares the Character-
istic in its relation to Beauty, with the skeleton in its rela-
tion 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 rtroduction 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 con-
trast 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
* Goethe. Werke (1840) xxx., 352. Mr. Ward's translation of Goethe's
Essays on Art," p. 76.
120 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
pure in the few, manifests itself in legislation, government,
and the establishment of Religion. So that wherever Art
works w^ith 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, dis-
dains to give Space outwardly to the object, but bears it
within itself. This, however, narrows its field ; it is com-
pelled, 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 Ther-
sites ; 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
• -it,
me kir ' inai wiieievtv Art
01 Natui-e, it may and
iUii.-?; est measure of Beautj^
. ' . as it wem, in distinct
y' to the obj^^' v.... ..c. :j
• "beanty ... .... '-^e almost
■r^^-iWffMhr^ aiL. ,. aately at
in complexity only separately and
!:' aU conflicting ol-^mont:?^ P.v
inal in human natui „ .
in forn-i ns too, harmomo\is and even
beautiful, ^hiutI t hv the beauty of numerous
^f^ni: . yea^ it can, parodviug
': 7 ;< M X, 1 ure, reverse its ov. al,
ince of the Silonic figures,
appear fre< an frotu
compelled strictly to isolate the
self-consistent and a world in
!i of Art there is no hi; mity,
particulars should b( ed
very extent of its spbeT e,
Fmm the, P<tmHntj }/y Moritz v&tujSohwiMiv'eT^ef and create with
room even for a Th<:r-
•e in the great epic of
mg by itseil:
oi tij-
b:(.t.i_c-."tLL", AND LEIPZIG
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC AETS 121
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 pre-
ferred to the whole, where, as in every case in which the
whole is formed by multiplicity, the detail must be subor-
dinate to it.
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 concen-
trically 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 undis-
turbed, 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 moder-
122 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ated 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 re-
moval 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 rhoderation 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 actuali-
zation, or exhibition of itself in the Particular. Thus in
each the utmost severity is manifested at the commence-
ment; 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, de-
tachment, and opposition. In the beginning, therefore, the
creative spirit shows itself entirely lost in the Form, inac-
cessibly 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 cheer-
ful and begins to move in gentle lines. This is the period
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 123
of its fairest maturity and blossom, in which the pure ves-
sel 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 sen-
suous nor spiritual, but which cannot be grasped, diffuses
itself over the form, and intwines itself with every outline,
everv vibration of the frame.
This essence, not to be seized, as we have already re-
marked, 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 indi-
124 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
viduality, 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 any-
thing 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 objec-
tive 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
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 125
alone, but the intelligent Spirit itself breaks down all bar-
riers — 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 rebel-
lion 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 w^atch over and protect
sacred beauty? Or, if even the soul participate in the strug-
gle, 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.
126 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 127
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 good-
ness 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 grad-
ations 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 JEschylus,
the presence of that lofty morality which is predominant in
the works of Sophocles f 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 com-
plete 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 ho:w Art
must tend from all points toward it as its centre. This
Beauty, which results from the perfect inter-penetration
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
128 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 be-
fore 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 blossom-
ing 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, represent-
ing 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 Winckel-
mann 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.
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 129
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 arfd motion, as Matter
is that of rest and inaction), the law that regulates Expres-
sion 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 pas-
sions, 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 resig-
VoL. V — 9
130 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
nation and endurance, making it apparent that Man be-
comes 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 reve-
lations) ; but this also is evident — that it is not enough to
strive after the Plastic in form and manner of representa-
tion, 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 arbi-
trarily imposed limitation. For while Sculpture, like
gravitation, acts toward one point, it is permitted to Paint-
ing, 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 might-
iest 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,
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 131
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 represen-
tations, 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 sen-
suous 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,
132 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
even the perishable flesh, the character of which the Italian
language designates by the term morhidezza, 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 pro-
duced 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, repre-
sented; yea. Deity itself would look dowm 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
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 133
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 succes-
sively, 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 consum-
mate 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 imme-
diately 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 limi-
tation, 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.
134 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 six-
teenth 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 appro-
bation 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 begin-
nings 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 indi-
vidual that accomplish-es this, but the Spirit alone, that dif-
fuses 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
SCHELLING: THE PLASTIC ARTS 135
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 eleva-
tion 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 form-
ing itself, as it exists in part already outwardly, in part
inwardly and in the hearts of men, can no longer be meas-
ured by any standard of previous opinion, and since every-
thing, 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 them-
selves 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 cen-
turies, will never return ; for Nature never repeats herself.
Such a Raphael will never be again, but another, who shall
136 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 imper-
fection, are necessary and eternal. * * *
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM
By George H. Danton, Ph.D.
Professor of German, Butler College
[HE group of later Romanticists is distinguished
from the earlier pioneers by less emphasis
on speculative philosophy, by greater spon-
taneity, 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 Eomanticism 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 experi-
ence 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
[137]
138 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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
Cams 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, ex-
press 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 Roman-
ticists 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 produc-
tions. It is significant, too, that though ' ' castle Roman-
ticism " 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."
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 139
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 Bren-
tano '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 Roman-
ticists was to work without collaboration ; but the very pros-
pectus of Arnim 's Journal for Hermits is signed by a com-
pany 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, Gorres re-
marked 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 impor-
tant of them flourished, 1808. In this, Germany's darkest
period, Kleist's Phoehus, so cordially hated by many, and
Arnim 's Journal for Hermits had their brief but influential
career.
140 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Such a journal as the Athencenm, with its over-emphasis
on the esthetic, with its fighting spirit, its excoriating, inex-
orable 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 think-
ing in Fragments, as practised by Friedrich Schlegel and
Novalis, was foreign to the new school. They had no illu-
sions 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 Gorres later (1814) in his Rheinischer
MerJcur, 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 dis-
semination was not without its success.
The external link connecting the two schools as well as
the Romantic groups in general and th§ 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 j^oung
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 des-
tined for a business career but was a failure in it, and then
studied at various universities but with no great appli-
cation or success. From 1797-1800 he was at Jena, where
he succeeded in naaking himself hated by the Schlegels in
spite of his defense of them in his satirical play, Gustav
Wasa (1800). This iplay, 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
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 141
gagged officer (to take the place of the critic Bottger), 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 build-
ing, the working day and the musical instruments in the
orchestra are dramatized in turn. The dialogue of the lat-
ter 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, pas-
sionate 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 tend-
ency toward that point of view. The" plot of Godwi runs
wild, but the satire and the interspersed lyrics make it in-
teresting 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 unpleas-
antly superhuman, and if, at times, he mixes sex and re-
ligion 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 super-
natural, 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
142 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 pas-
sionately 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 abhor-
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 143
rent^ 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 character-
ized 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 him-
self 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 amalga-
mation of the story of Cardenio and Celinde used by
Grjrphius and Immermann, with the story of the Wander-
ing 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 indi-
vidual note. This novel is one of the best products of Ger-
man Romanticism. The Guardians are a mysterious secret
144 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 disap-
pointment when he actually saw it. But as Arnim por-
trays 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 centmy 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 natural-
ism, 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
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 145
(1806-8). This is the achievement upon which their great-
est 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-for-
gotten 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 rereading."
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 pos-
sible 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,
Vol, V — 10
146 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
the songs of The Boy's Magic Horn are folk-songs. They
are both narrative and dramatic as well as pure lyric in
fonn, 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, lulla-
bies, 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 cheer-
fulness, 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 Miiller 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 cos-
mopolitan 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
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 147
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 repre-
sent three phases of the German character. Ernst Moritz
Arndt (1769-1860), the eldest of the group, is the pam-
phleteer, 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 Korner (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. Korner was aroused from his poetic dil-
etantism by the alarms of war. He enlisted in the famous
Liitzow 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 can-
non and the beat of drum. The trace of Schiller's rhetoric
in Korner 's poems adds to their effectiveness, spurring to
action and firing young minds to patriotic emulation of
high ideals. Like Arndt 's lyrics, Korner '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 Ian-
148 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
guage, 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 fanci-
ful 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 declin-
ing 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 beauti-
ful 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 atmos-
phere, 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.
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 149
Eichendorff's poetry began with Tieckian notes; it was
influenced by Brentano, and, unfortunately, was colored by
the productions of Count Otto von Loben (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 Ger-
man 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 be-
tween 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 '' Oval-
leys 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 pas-
sionate 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 de-
scription, 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's 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. * * * jje is always new as the voices of
150 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
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 Priedrich Schlegel's doctrine of divine laziness — a de-
lightful story, abounding in those elements which peren-
nially 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 1
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 distinc-
tions; 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 Roman-
ticists 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 rehabili-
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 151
tations. Fouque was too productive, too facile, too exter-
nal, 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 Eichen-
dorff's novel, has become international, not only in its
original form but in the opera by Lortzing (first perform-
ance, 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 uncon-
sciously attempted to satisfy Friedrich Schlegel's demand
for a new 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 cos-
mopolitanism. Political life as manifested in him was, first
of all, Suabian — for Uhland was a Suabian and most inti-
mately 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
152 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
states in the struggle against Napoleon, and it was only
when Wiirtemberg 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-exalta-
tion, 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 cer-
tain 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
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 153
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 Ihycus and none the power of revealing the hid-
den 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
154 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 Wiir-
temberg against the Suabian League and gives us a Roman-
tic 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 QueMtin
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 Riickert (1788-1866) was prevented from tak-
ing 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
Korner, not only because of their literary form, but be-
cause, 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 Korner 's Spirit , show how deeply Riickert
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, Riickert has
resolved the discord between every-day life and poetry with
the simplest poetic apparatus. Riickert 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. Riickert was one
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 155
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 Riickert 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. Riickert, 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 Riickert 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 Ger-
man scholarship and letters. It is remarkable that Cha-
misso 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,
156 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 Weinsherg, where his nar-
rative 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 Ger-
many. The best of these, Salas y Gomez, has the addi-
tional advantage of real experience, for the material obser-
vation 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 lead-
ing 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 popular-
ity, 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
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 157
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 Hoff-
mann, his moods are not the dissolving views which leave
the reader in doubt as to whether the whole is a phantas-
magoria 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 posses-
sions 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
158 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
modern philological science and is the founder of philo-
logical 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 Marjic
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 con-
sciously 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 pri-
marily 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 sen-
sual 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 at-
tempted an explanation, though without adding to their
LATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM 159
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 suc-
ceeded 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 power-
ful 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 Roman-
tic person. Like his f ellow-Konigsberger, 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 un-
160 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
reality. 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 litera-
tures 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 ridicu-
lous 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
LATER GEEMAN ROMANTICISM 161
unreal, Poe's metempsycliosis 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 em-
bodiment of the Puritan New England conscience. In Hoff-
mann there is no such elevation of the moral world to the
rank of an atmosphere.
In Hoffmann there is no o\it-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 Wiirzburg
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 Ger-
man poet's dreams. Platen never felt himself at home, and
the pictures of him from his Italian life are of a tragic.
Vol. V— U
162 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
lonesome figure. The discord between body and soul, that
homelessness in one's own physical body which character-
ized 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 his-
tory. Finally, in the esthetic world. Platen seems largely
un-Grerman. His esthetics were of the Classical and Renais-
sance 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 Ger-
man tentative period and the later or foreign period, the
poems of which were mostly written in Italy and in imita-
tion 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 cold-
ness. " 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 indig-
enous, in part, the feeling for mere beauty in verse.
German poets have too often gone the road of mere form-
lessness. Platen cultivated style, polished and re^dsed 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 feel-
ing 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.
Copyright Plwtographische Gesellschaft
Permission Berlin Photo. Co., New York
MORITZ V. SCHWIND
THE MAGIC HORN
LUDWIG ACHIM VON ARNIM AND CLEMENS
BRENTANO
THE BOY'S MAGIC HORN* (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.
Selections translated by Margarete Miinsterberg.
[163]
164 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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, yon 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."
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THE BOY'S MAGIC HORN 165
''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!
166 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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.
God, they caught me in the stream — what more ?
Now all is o'er.
Tomorrow mom 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 '11 never see me here again;
The shepherd boy, I say, began it all,
And I accuse the Alpine bugle-call
Of this my fall.
1 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!
Lord of heaven, on high!
Take my poor erring soul
Unto its heavenly goal;
There let it stay forever —
Forget me never!
THE BOY'S MAGIC HORN 167
THE TAILOR IN HELL
A TAILOR 'gan to wander
One Monday morning fair,
And then lie met the devil.
Whose feet and legs were bare:
Hallo, thou tailor-feUow,
ERRATUM
For lines 6 and 7 "Tailor in Hell" read
Come now with me to hell — oh,
And measure clothes for us to wear,
J. lie ueviis' 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.
166 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 straightwav ^'
God, they cai-""^ "
Now a^^
Tomori
The reg -oj
They'll 1 .v; co beg for grace.
I'll have .J just reward, I know.
It must be so.
Ye brothers, all ye men.
Ye '11 never see me here again;
The shepherd boy, I say, began it all,
And I accuse the Alpine bugle-call
Of this my fall.
1 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!
Lord of heaven, on high !
Take my poor erring soul
Unto its heavenly goal ;
There let it stay forever —
Forget me never!
THE BOY'S MAGIC HORN 167
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,
Go thou away from hell — oh.
We needn't measure clothes 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.
168 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Hallo, tliou tailor-fellow,
Now hie 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 hie 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 !
THE REAPER
Theke is a reaper, Death his name ;
His might from God the highest came.
Today his knife he'll whet,
'T will cut far better yet;
Soon he will come and mow,
And we must bear the woe —
Beware, fair flower !
THE BOY'S MAGIC HORN 169
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
FAIRYTALES* (1812)
TRANSLATED AND EDITED BY MARGARET HUNT
THE FEOG-KING, OR IRON HENRY
[N old times, when wishing still helped one, there
lived a king whose daughters were all beau-
tiful, 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.
>>
Permission George Bell & Son, London.
[170]
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 171
' ' Be quiet, and do not weep, ' ' answered the frog ; * * I can
help thee ; but what wilt thou give me if I bring thy play-
thing 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, *' Prin-
cess, 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 beat-
172 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ing 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 w^as 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
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 173
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, car-
ried 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 com-
panion 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 har-
nessed 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 break-
ing ; but it was only the l)ands which were springing from
the heart of faithful Henry because his master was set free
and was happy.
174 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
THE WOLF AND THE SEVEN LITTLE KIDS
There was once on a time an old goat who had seven lit-
tle 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 spft,
pleasant voice, but thy voice is rough ; thou art the wolf ! ' '
Then the wolf went away to a shopkeeper and bought him-
self 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.
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 175
So now the wretch went for the third time to the house
door, knocked at it, and said, " Open the door for me, chil-
dren; 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
176 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 177
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 stand-
ing 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 hand-
ful of rampion, and took it to his wife. She at once made
herself a salad of it and ate it with much relish. She, how-
ever, 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 him-
self down again ; but when he had clambered down the wall
he was terribly afraid, for he saw the enchantress standing
before him. * * How canst thou dare, ' ' said she with angry
look, ** to descend into my garden and steal my rampion
like a thief ? Thou shalt suffer f or 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
Vol. V — 12
178 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 —
" 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 ;
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 179
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 even-
ing, for the old woman came by day. The enchantress
remarked nothing of this, imtil 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 Rapun-
zel 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
180 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
which she had cut off to the hook of the window, and when
the King's son came and cried —
" Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
f 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 enchant-
ress, 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,
LUDWIQ RiCHTER
HANSEL AND G'RETEL
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 181
he groaned and said to his wife, ' ' What is to become of us I
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 morn-
ing 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." "0, 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.
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 Haen-
sel, ' ' 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. ^\Tien 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
182 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 sit-
ting 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
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 183
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
184 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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,
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 185
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-bom 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 pushfed 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
186 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
her neigliborliood, she laughed maliciously, and said mock-
ingly, ' ' 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 BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 187
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 hor-
ribly, 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."
188 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 ; whoso-
ever 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
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 189
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. Gro 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 cot-
tage." "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 bed-
room and a kitchen and pantry, with the best of furniture,
and fitted up with the most beautiful tilings made of tin
and brass, whatsoever was wanted. And behind the cot-
tage there was a small yard, with hens and ducks, and a
190 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
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 con-
tented. " ' * 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
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 191
were all briglit witli 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 every-
thing 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 day-
break, 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 elboAv, 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."
192 THE OERMAN CLASSICS
" 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 dia-
monds, mth 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 msh to be Emperor? " " Hus-
band, ' ' said she, * * go to the Flounder. I will be Emperor. ' '
"Alas, wife," said the man, " he cannot make you Em-
peror; 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."
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 193
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, he said,
' * Ah, wife, be content, now that you are Emperor. " ' ' Hus-
band," said she, *' why are you standing there? Now, I
am Emperor, but I will be Pope too ; go to the Flounder. ' '
Vol. V — 13
194 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
**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 hus-
band ; will you go at once 1
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 1 ' ' 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, how-
ever, everything was lighted up with thousands and thou-
sands 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
THE BROTHERS GRIMM: FAIRY TALES 195
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? " " Hus-
band," 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
196 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 gof " Then he
put on his trousers and ran away like a madman. But out-
side 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 f ' ' 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* (1813)
OD, who gave iron, purposed ne'er
That man should be a slave;
Therefore the sabre, sword, and spear
J 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
Wlio fighteth for sin and shame,
And not inherit the German land
With men of the German name.
Germany ! bright Fatherland !
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.
•Translator: H. W. Dulcken.
Permission Ward, Lock & Company, Ltd., London.
[197]
198 THE GEKMAN CLASSICS
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,
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!
UNION SONG* (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,
Translator: Margarete Miinsterberg.
Permission Berlin Photographic Co., New York
ERNST MORITZ ARNDT
JULIDS RoTINQ
SONGS FROM WARS OF LIBERATION 199
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 1
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.
>
200 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 I
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 K'ORNER
MEN AND KNAVES* (1813)
HE 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 Ehine-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.
• Translator : €. T. Brooka.
[201]
202 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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.
CJionis.
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.
Clioms.
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!
LUTZOW'S WILD BAND* (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 Liitzow's wild and untamed band.
What passes swift through the darksome glade,
And roves o'er the mountains all?
* Translator : Herman Montagu Donner.
Permission B. Linde & Co., Berltn
THEODOR KORNER
E. Hadbr
SONGS FROM WARS OF LIBERATION 203
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 Liitzow'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 Liitzow'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 Liitzow'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 Liitzow'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 Liitzow's wild and unconquered band!
204 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
PRAYER DURING BATTLE* (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 :
Father, lead thou me !
Father, lead thou me ;
To victory, to death, dread Commander, 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.
Father, bless thou me !
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, 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.
•Translator: C. T. Brooks.
MAXIMILIAN GOTTFRIED VON SCHEN-
KENDORF
THE MOTHER TONGUE* (1814)
OTHER 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.
* Translator : Margarete Miinsterberg.
[205]
206 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Yet when I give thanks, am praying,
A beloved heart would seek,
When my highest thoughts I'm sajdng-
Then my mother tongue I speak.
SPRING GREETING TO THE FATHERLAND*
(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.
* Translator : Margarete Miinsterberg.
MAXIMILIAN GOTTFRIED von SCHENKENDORF
i
SONOS FROM WARS OF LIBERATION 207
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 !
208 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
FREEDOM* (1815)
Feeedom 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 evers^where,
Wlien 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 ;
Translator : Margarete MUnsterberg.
SONGS FROM WARS OF LIBERATION 209
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 jfiame
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 I
Freedom sweet and fair.
Trusting, void of fear,
German nature e'er
Was to thee most dear.
Vol. V— 14
LUDWIG UHLAND
THE CHAPEL* (1805)
ONDER chapel, on the mountain,
Looks upon a vale of joy;
There, below, by moss and fountain,
J- 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 t
(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 ;
deep amazement, strangely felt!
As though, unseen, vast numbers knelt
And prayed with me to God !
* Translator:
t Translator :
C. T. Brooks.
W. W. Skeat.
[210]
AND
An)
! fountain,
bor.
' f descending,
; funeral bell ;
'-^^^^ yMlfAMDeuding,
V
' "■ Traced the peaceful v '
u. 1,. ...man, gaily si aging!
sJivL^'^ DAYt
PERMISSIDN F_ BHUCKMArsiN A_- G_-, MLIN iLH
UHLAND : POEMS 211
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 da3^ is here!
THE CASTLE BY THE SEA* (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?
* Translator : Henry W. Longfellow.
From Representative German Poems, Henry Holt & Co., New York.
212 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Led they not forth, in rapture,
A beauteous maiden there,
Eesplendent 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* (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 Ue,
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!
♦Translator: C. T. Brooks.
1
' :oe —
THT? BY THE SEA
an.
:m.'d is iiere,
forco,
From the I Arnold Bochlin
UHLAND: POEMS 213
But when I hear the alarm-bell sound,
When watch-j&res 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 !
DEPARTURE* (1806)
What jingles and carols along the street I
Fling open your casements, damsels sweet I
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 I ' '
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. I
'Neath his hand his heart is beating.
* Translator : Percy MacKaye.
214 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
* * 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 I
And the maiden listens and barkens 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* (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.
• Translator : Alfred Baskerville.
Permission Velhagen & Ktasing, Moritz von Schwind
Bielefeld and Leipaig
LEAVING AT DAWN
UHLAND: POEMS 215
THE HOSTESS' DAUGHTER* (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 ? ' '
' ' Mj 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 ! 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! "
Translator: W. W. Skeat.
From Representative German Poems, Henry Holt &, Co., New York.
216 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
THE GOOD COMRADE* (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 —
' ' 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 t ( 1 8 1 1 )
Thkee 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 FmsT Huntsman
I dreamt I arose and beat on the bush.
When forth came rushing the stag — hush, hush I
•Translator: W. W. Skeat.
From Representative Oerman Poems, Henry Holt & Co., New York,
t Translator: H. W. Dulcken.
Permission Ward, Lock & Company, Ltd., London.
UHLAND: POEMS 217
The Second
As with baying of hound he came rushing along,
I fired my gun at his hide — bing, bang !
The Thhid
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 * (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.
* Translator : W. H. Furness.
218 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 I
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,
Wliere sainted men and women strive
And act again their godlike story.
UHLAND; POEMS 219
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,
let him to the music list.
That in the forest soundeth clearly !
CHARLEMAGNE'S VOYAGE* (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 Eoland, 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 I "
Translator : Margarete Miinsterberg.
220 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Sir Oliver was not too glad ;
Upon bis 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.
come, our Savior, be our guide,
And lead us o'er the sea! "
Then spake Sir Richard Fearless stem
' ' Ye demons there in hell,
1 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. ' '
UHLAND: POEMS 221
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* (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 !
"Translator: Margarete Munsterberg.
222 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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* (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."
* Translator: A. I. du P. Coleman.
UHLAND: POEMS 223
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 barkening,
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! "
224 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
And now on Hastings field arrayed, the host for fight
prepare ;
Before the Duke reins np 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
•^oe!"
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.
UHLAND: POEMS 225
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 Taillef er, 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 I ' '
SUABIAN LEGEND * (1814)
When Emperor Eedbeard 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;
* Translator : Margarete Miinsterberg.
Vol. V — 15
226 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
His steed lie 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.
UHLAND: POEMS 227
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* (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 cavemed 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;
AVhy suffered they the wrong?
Is there none will be her champion
Of all that mighty throng? "
* Translator : C. T. Brooks.
228 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
Yet from that host there comes no sound;
They stand unmoved as stone;
The blind king seems to gaze around ;
''Am I aU, 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."
** 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;
UHLAND: POEMS 229
** 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* (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.
Translator: W. H. Furness.
230 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
There came unto this castle
A gentle minstrel pair —
The one with locks, bright, golden;
The other gray of hair ;
With harp in hand, the elder
A noble courser rode,
While beautiful, beside him
His young companion strode.
Said the elder to the younger,
*' Now be prepared, my son!
Oh, let the lay be lofty.
And stirring be the tone;
Put forth thy grandest power;
Of joy and sorrow sing.
To touch the stony bosom
Of this remorseless king."
And now within the castle
These gentle minstrels stand.
On his throne the king is seated.
With the queen at his right hand ;
The king in fearful splendor.
Like the Northern Lights' red glare;
The queen, so sweet and gentle.
Like a moonbeam resting there.
The old man struck the harp-strings,
Most wonderful to hear,
As richer, ever richer,
Swell 'd the music on the ear.
Then rose with heavenly clearness
The stripling's voice of fire;
And then they sang together.
Like a distant angel-choir.
They sing of love and springtime,
Of happy, golden days ;
UHLAND: POEMS 231
Of manly worth and freedom
They sing the glorious praise;
They sing of all the beauty
The heart of man that thrills;
They sing of all the greatness
The soul of man that fills.
The courtly circle round them
Forget for once to sneer;
And bow those iron warriors,
As though a god were near.
The queen, in softness melting,
Forgets her sparkling crown.
And the rose from out her bosom
To the minstrels she throws down.
** Ye have seduced my people;
What, traitors, do ye mean? "
The king, he shriek 'd in frenzy,
* * Seduce ye now my queen ? ' '
His sword, that gleamed like lightning,
At the stripling's heart he flings;
And thence, instead of golden songs,
The gushing life-blood springs.
The rapture of the listeners
Dies down as at a blast ;
Upon his master's bosom
The youth has breathed his last.
The old man wraps his mantle
Around the bloody corse,
And then he firmly binds it
Erect upon his horse.
Yet, when he reach 'd the gateway,
Then paused the minstrel old.
And took his harp so wondrous,
And broke its strings of gold.
232 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 I
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 ;
UHLAND : POEMS 233
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* (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, Luck of Edenhall ! ' '
* Translator: Henry W. Longfellow.
From Representative Oerman Poems, Henry Holt & Co., New York.
234 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
<<
'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! '»
h
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.
UHLAND: POEMS 235
" 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 Edenhalll "
ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD* (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.
•Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker.
Permission William Heinemann, London.
JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF
THE BROKEN RING* (1810)
[DOWN in yon cool valley
I hear a mill-wheel go :
Alas ! my love has left me,
' [''"'ei^S^ 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.
* Translator: C. G. Leland.
From Representative German Poems, Henry Holt & Co., New York.
[236]
Permission Berlin Photographic Co., New York
JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF
Fhanz Kdqleb
EICHENDORFF: POEMS 237
MORNING PRAYER * ( 1 833)
SILENCE, wondrous and profound 1
O'er earth doth solitude still roign;
The woods alone incline their heads,
As if the Lord walked o'er the plain.
1 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.
Translator: Alfred Baskerville.
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING
(1826)
By Joseph von Eichendobff
translated by mrs. a. l. w. wisteb
Chapter I
HE 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 your-
self, 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
[238]
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 239
yesterday and the day before, and so on, whilst I was roam-
ing 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-bom 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 mel-
ody 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 pret-
tier." ''And where are you going so early in the morn-
ing? " 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
240 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 241
the top, and an extraordinarily large Roman nose; lie
strutted up to me, swelling like a ruffled-up turkey-cock,
and asked me wliat 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 pos-
sessed 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 dis-
tress, 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, appear-
ing 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 mone}^ 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 de-
lighted me, if I could only have sauntered about and talked
pleasantly like the gentlemen and ladies who came there
Vol. V— 16
242 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 j^oung 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 antici-
pation 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
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 243
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 dis-
poses : thus did I meditate the next day, sitting in the gar-
den 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 foun- ,
tains, the rose-bushes, the whole place, glittered in the morn-
ing 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 win-
dows, 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
244 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 be-
cause 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
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 245
familiarity with tlie 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 any-
thing 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 —
" 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.
246 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
" 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 eariy morning waking,
I toil with ready smile.
And though my heart be breaking,
I'U 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 w^hispers 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 un-
derstood 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,
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 247
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 1 Where do you come from I 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 com-
fortably 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
248 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 in-
stead 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 nose-
gay 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 bril-
liant 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 call-
ing ! ' ' 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 with-
out 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
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 249
fairly trembled. On a sudden tlie entire fellow, with his
bedizened coat, his big feet, his snuff, his big nose, and
everj^thing 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 in-
voluntarily. 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, '^ Fair-
est 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 oast 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.
250 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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, plajdng among the chestnut boughs be-
fore 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 provok-
ing ' ' 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? AVithout 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, sin 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 mndow 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.
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 251
to the marble table in the dim arbor. But since that even-
ing 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 dis-
tressed 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 yester-
day," she remarked, hurriedly. ** Indeed!" I said, sur-
prised, 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 re-
sumed, ' ' 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.
252 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
<<
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 Iter eyes, the
snowy lily with its pensive, drooping head was her very
image. I put them all tenderly in a little basket ; the even-
ing 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 an-
other 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 moon-
light 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.
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 253
My heart beat fast. I had a strange uncomfortable sen-
sation 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. Chande-
liers 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 flow-
ers. 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 some-
thing 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
254 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
throbbed as if it would burst. Sbe 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, Eosetta? " 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
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 255
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 nod-
ding 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
256 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 foun-
tain alone plashed on before the entrance. Here and there
in the boughs near me the birds were aw^aking, 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 keep-
ing 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
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 257
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 para-
sol, 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
Vol. V — 17
258 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 Eoman 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, al-
though you never in your life before learned to dance."
''Ay, to Italy! to Italy! " I shouted with delight, and, heed-
less 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
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 259
rather slowly flying, toward me from the lovely landscape
to the music of the church-bells, in lon^ 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 win-
dow, 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 roar-
ing came neither from the mill nor from the Porter's bas-
soon, 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 driv-
ing to town, you would have had to take off your dirty
cap to me, sitting at my door in my yellow-dotted, red
260 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
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 moun-
tains. The plank-roadway which I had been follo^ving
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 set-
ting 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 melan-
choly an air upon his horn that it was enough to break one's
heart. '' Yes," thought I to myself, " who has as happy
FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 261
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 dis-
turb 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 chil-
dren 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
262 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
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 evi-
dently 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 play-
ing 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 w^alked toward the vil-
lage, but she went ve 
