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SUustrateU
CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS
ESSAYS
COLLECTED AND REPUBLLSHED
(First Time, 1839; Final, 1869)
BY
THOMAS CARLYLE
Vol. I.
CHICAGO
THE AMERICAN BOOKMART
106 Wabash Avenue
m
URL
CONTENTS. r^c:^i.o.. >
v./
Paqe
Jean Paul Friedeich Richteu 3
State of German Literature 26
Life and Writings of Werner 84^
Goethe's Helena • 14;2
Goethe . 194
Burns 256
The Life of Heynb 315
German Playwrights 351
Voltaire 390
Signs of the Tijies 462
CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS
ESSAYS
COLLECTED AND REPUBLISHED.
(FIRST TIME, 1839; FINAL, 1869.)
CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS
ESSAYS.
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER.^
[1827.]
Dr. John-sox, it is said, when he first heard of Boswell's
intention to write a life of him, announced, with decision
enough, that if he thought Boswell really meant to write his
life, he would prevent it by taking BoswelVs ! That great
authors should actually employ this preventive against bad
biographers is a thing we would by no means recommend : but
the truth is, that, rich as we are in Biography, a well-written
Life is almost as rare as a well-spent one ; and there are cer-
tainly many more men whose history deserves to be recorded,
than persons willing and able to record it. But great men,
like the old Egyptian kings, must all be tried after death, be-
fore they can be embalmed : and what, in truth, are these
" Sketches," " Anas," " Conversations," " Voices," and the like,
but the votes and pleadings of so many ill-informed advocates,
jurors and judges ; from whose conflict, however, we shall
in the end have a true verdict ? The worst of it is at the
first; for weak eyes are precisely the fondest of glittering
objects. Accordingly, no sooner does a great man depart, and
^ Edinburgh Review, No. 91. — Jean Paul Friedrick Richttr's Lehen,
nehst Characleristilc seiner Werke ; von Heinrich DSrinq. (Jcaa Paul Fricdricli
Richter's Life, with a Skotch of his Works; by Heiurich During. ) Gotha ;
Heiinings, 182G. 12mo, pp. 20S.
4 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
leave his character as public property, than a crowd of little
men rushes towards it. There they are gathered together,
blinking up to it with such vision as tliey have, scanning it
from afar, hovering round it this way and that, each cunningly
endeavoring, by all arts, to catch some reflex of it in the little
mirror of Himself ; though, many times, this mirror is so
twisted with convexities and concavities, and, indeed, so ex-
tremely small in size, that to expect any true image, or any ^
image Avhatever from it, is out of the question.
Hichter was much better-natured than Johnson ; and took
many provoking things with the spirit of a humorist and phi-
losopher ; nor can we think that so good a man, had he even
foreseen this "Work of Doring's, would have gone the length of
assassinating him for it. Doring is a person we have known
for several years, as a compiler, and translator, and ballad-
monger; whose grand enterprise, however, is his Gallery of
'IVcimar Authors; a series of strange little Biographies, be-
ginning with Schiller, and already extending over Wieland
and Herder ; — now comprehending, probably by conquest,
I^lopstock also ; and lastly, by a sort of droit (Tauhaine, Jean
Paul Friedrich Richter ; neither of whom belonged to Weimar.
Authors, it must be admitted, are happier than the old painter
with his cocks : for they write, naturally and without fear of
ridicule, the name of their work on the title-page ; and thence-
forth the purport and tendency of each volume remains
indisputable. Doring is sometimes lucky in this privilege ;
otherwise his manner of composition, being so peculiar,
miglit occasion difficulty now and then. Biographies, accord-
ing to Doring's method, are a simple business. You first as-
certain, from the Leipsic Conversatlonslexicon, or Jcirdens's
Pocticul Lexicon, or Flogcl, or Koch, or other such Compendium
or Handbook, the date and place of the proposed individual's
birth, his parentage, trade, appointments, and the titles of his
works ; the date of his death you already know from the news-
papers : this serves as a foundation for the edifice. You then
go through his writings, and all other writings where he or his
pursuits are treated of, and wherever you find a passage with
hiij name ia it, you cut it out, and carry it away. In this
JEAN PAUL PRIEDRICH RICHTER. 5'
manner a mass of materials is collected, and the building now
proceeds apace. Stone is laid on the top of stone, just as it
comes to hand ; a trowel or two of biographic mortar, if per-
fectly convenient, being spread in here and there, by way of
cement ; and so the strangest pile suddenly arises ; amorphous,
pointing every way but to the zenith, here a block of granite,
there a mass of pipe-clay ; till the whole finishes, when the
materials are finished; — and you leave it standing to pos-
terity, like some miniature Stonehenge, a perfect architectural
enigma.
To speak without figure, this mode of life-writing has its
disadvantages. For one thing, the composition cannot well
be what the critics call harmonious : and, indeed, Herr Do-
ring's transitions are often abrupt enough. The hero changes
his object and occupation from page to page, often from sen-
tence to sentence, in the most unaccountable way ; a pleasure-
journey, and a sickness of fifteen years, are despatched with
equal brevity; in a moment you find him married, and the
father of three fine children. He dies no less suddenly ; — he
is studying as usual, writing poetry, receiving visits, full of
life and business, when instantly some paragraph opens iinder
him, like one of the trap-doors in the Vision of Mirza, and he
drops, without note of preparation, into the shades below.
Perhaps, indeed, not forever ; we have instances of his rising
after the funeral, and winding up his affairs. The time has
been that, when the brains were out, the man would die;
but Dciring orders these things differently.
After all, however, we have no pique against poor Doring :
on the contrary, we regularly purchase his ware ; and it gives
us true pleasure to see his spirits so much improved since we
first met him. In the Life of Schiller his state did seem rather
unprosperous : he wore a timorous, submissive and downcast
aspect, as if, like Sterne's Ass, he were saying, "Don't thrash
me; — but if you will, you may!" Now, however, comforted
by considerable sale, and praise from this and the other Littera-
furblatt, which has commended his diligence, his fidelity, and,
strange to say, his method, he advances with erect countenance
and firm hoof, and even recalcitrates contemptuously against
6 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
such as do him offence. Gliick auf dem Weg ! is the worst we
wish him.
Of his Life of Richter these preliminary observations may
be our excuse for saying but little. He brags much, in his
Preface, that it is all true and genuine ; for Eichter's widow,
it seems, had, by public advertisement, cautioned the world
against it; another biography, partly by the illustrious de-
ceased himself, partly by Otto, his oldest friend and the
appointed Editor of his Works, being actually in preparation.
This rouses the indignant spirit of Doring, and he stoutly
asseverates that, his documents being altogether authentic,
this biography is no pseudo-biography. With still greater
truth he might have asseverated that it was no biography at
all. Well are he and Hennings of Gotha aware that this
thing of shreds and patches has been vamped together for sale
only. Except a few letters to Kunz, the Bamberg Bookseller,
which turn mainly on the purchase of spectacles, and the jour-
neyings and freightage of two boxes that used to pass and
repass between Richter and Kunz's circulating library ; with
tliree or four notes of similar importance, and chiefly to other
booksellers, there are no biographical documents here, which
were not open to all Europe as well as to Ileinrich Doring.
Indeed, very nearly one half of the Life is occupied with a
description of the funeral and its appendages, — how the
"sixty torches, with a number of lanterns and pitchpans,"
were arranged ; how this Patrician or Professor followed that,
through Fried rich Street, Chancery Street, and other streets
of Bayreuth ; and how at last the torches all went out, as
Dr. Gabler and Dr. Spatzier were perorating (decidedly in bom-
bast) over the grave. Then, it seems, there were meetings
held in various parts of Germany, to solemnize the memory of
Richter ; among the rest, one in the Museum of Frankfort-on-
Mayn ; where a Doctor Borne speaks another long speech, if
possible in still more decided bombast. Next come threnodies
from all the four winds, mostly on very splay-footed metre.
The whole of which is here snatched from the kind oblivion
of the newspapers, and "lives in Settle's numbers one day
more."
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER. 7
We have too much reverence for the name of Richter to
think of laughing over these unhappy threnodists and pane-
gyrists ; some of whom far exceed anything we English can
exhibit in the epicedial style. They rather testify, however
maladroitly, that the Germans have felt their loss, — which,
indeed, is one to Europe at large ; they even affect us with a
certain melancholy feeling, when we consider how a heavenly
voice must become mute, and nothing be heard in its stead but
the whoop of quite earthly voices, lamenting, or pretending to
lament. Far from us be all remembi-ance of Doring and Com-
pany, while we speak of Richter ! But his own Works give us
some glimpses into his singular and noble nature ; and to our
readers a few words on this man, certainly one of the most re-
markable of his age, will not seem thrown away.
Except by name, Jean Paul Friedrich Richter is little known
out of Germany. The only thing connected with him, we
think, that has reached this country, is his saying, imported
by Madame de Stael, and thankfully pocketed by most news-
paper critics : — " Providence has given to the French the em-
pire of the land, to the English that of the sea, to the Germans
that of — the air!" Of this last element, indeed, his own
genius might easily seem to have been a denizen ; so fantastic,
many-colored, far-grasping, every way perplexed and extraordi-
nary is his mode of writing. To translate him properly is
next to impossible ; nay, a dictionary of his works has actually
been in part published for the use of German readers ! These
things have restricted his sphere of action, and may long re-
strict it, to his own country : but there, in return, he is a
favorite of the first class ; studied through all his intricacies
with trustful admiration, and a love which tolerates much.
During the last forty years, he has been continually before
the public, in various capacities, and growing generally in es-
teem with all ranks of critics ; till, at length, his gainsayers
have either been silenced or convinced ; and Jean Paul, at first
reckoned half-mad, has long ago vindicated his singularities
to nearly universal satisfaction, and now combines po]iularity
with real depth of endowment, in perhaps a greater degree
8 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
than any other writer ; being second in the latter point to
scarcely more than one of his contemporaries, and in the
former second to none.
The biography of so distinguished a person could scarcely
fail to be interesting, especially his autobiography; which,
accordingly, we wait for, and may in time submit to our read-
ers, if it seem worthy : meanwhile, the history of his life, so
far as outward events characterize it, may be stated in a few
words. He was born at Wunsiedel in Bayreuth, in March,
1763. His father was a subaltern teacher in the Gymnasium
of the place, and was afterwards promoted to be clergyman at
Schwarzbach on the Saale. Eichter's early education was of
the scantiest sort ; but his fine faculties and unwearied dili-
gence supplied every defect. Unable to purchase books, he
borrowed what he could come at, and transcribed from them,
often great part of their contents, — a habit of excerpting
which continued with him through life, and influenced, in
more than one way, his mode of writing and study. To the
last, he was an insatiable and universal reader : so that his
extracts accumulated on his hands, "till they filled whole
chests." In 1780, he went to the University of Leipsic ; with
the highest character, in spite of the impediments which he
had struggled with, for talent and acquirement. Like his
father, he was destined for Theology ; from which, however,
his vagrant genius soon diverged into Poetry and Philosophy,
to the neglect, and, ere long, to the final abandonment of his
appointed profession. Not well knowing what to do, he now
accepted a tutorship in some family of rank; then he had
pupils in his own house, — which, however, like his way of
life, he often changed ; for by this time he had become an
author, and, in his wanderings over Germany, was putting
forth, now here, now there, the strangest books, with the
strangest titles. For instance, — Greenland Lawsuits ; — Bto-
graphical Recreations under the Cranium of a Giantess ; —
Selection from the Papers of the Devil ; — and the like ! In
these indescribable performances, the splendid faculties of the
writer, luxuriating as they seem in utter riot, could not be
disputed; nor, with all its extravagance, the fundamental
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRIGH RICHTER. 9'
strength, honesty and tenderness- of his nature. Genius -will
reconcile men to much. By degrees, Jean Paul began to be
considered not a strange crack-brained mixture of enthusiast
and buffoon, but a man of infinite humor, sensibility, force and
penetration. His writings procured him friends and fame ;
and at length a wife and a settled provision. With Caroline
Mayer, his good spouse, and a pension (in 1802) from the King
of Bavaria, he settled in Bayreuth, the capital of his native
province ; where he lived thenceforth, diligent and celebrated
in many new departments of Literature ; and died on the
14th of November, 1825, loved as well as admired by all his
countrymen, and most by those who had known him most'
intimately.
A huge, irregular man, both in mind and person (for his
Portrait is quite a jjhysiognomical study), full of fire, strength
and impetuosity, Richter seems, at the same time, to have
been, in the highest degree, mild, simple-hearted, humane.
He was fond of conversation, and might well shine in it : he
talked, as he wrote, in a style of his own, full of wild strength
and charms, to which his natural Bayreuth accent often gave
additional effect. Yet he loved retirement, the country and
all natural things ; from his youth upwards, he himself tells
us, he may almost be said to have lived in the open air ; it
Avas among groves and meadows that he studied, — often that
he wrote. Even in the streets of Bayreuth, we have heard, he
was seldom seen without a flower in his breast. A man of
quiet tastes, and warm compassionate affections ! His friends
he must have loved as few do. Of his poor and humble mother
he often speaks by allusion, and never without reverence and
overflowing tenderness. " Unhappy is the man," says he,
"for whom his own mother has not made all other mothers
venerable ! " And elsewhere : " 0 thou who hast still a father
and a mother, thank God for it in the day when thy soul is
full of joyful tears, and needs a bosom wherein to shed them ! "
— We quote the following sentences from Doring, almost the
only memorable thing he has written in this Volume : —
" Eichter's studying or sitting apartment offered, about this
time (1793), a true and beautiful emblem of his simple and
10 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
noble way of thought, which comprehended at once the high
and the low. Whilst his mother, who then lived with him,
busily pursued her household work, occupying herself about
stove and dresser, Jean Paul was sitting in a corner of the
same room, at a simple writing-desk, with few or no books
about him, but merely with one or two drawers containing ex-
cerpts and manuscripts. The jingle of the household operations
seemed not at all to disturb him, any more than did the cooing
of the pigeons, which fluttered to and fro in the chamber, — a
place, indeed, of considerable size." ^
Our venerable Hooker, we remember, also enjoyed "the
jingle of household operations," and the more questionable
jingle of shrewd tongues to boot, while he wrote ; but the
good thrifty mother, and the cooing pigeons, were wanting.
Richter came afterwards to live in finer mansions, and had
the great and learned for associates ; but the gentle feelings
of those days abode with him : through life he was the same
substantial, determinate, yet meek and tolerating man. It is
seldom that so much rugged energy can be so blandly attem-
pered ; that so much vehemence and so much softness will go
together.
The expected Edition of Eichter's Works is to be in sixty
volumes; and they are no less multifarious than extensive;
embracing subjects of all sorts, from the highest problems of
Transcendental Philosophy, and the most passionate poetical
delineations, to Golden-Rules for the Weather-Prop het, and in-
structions in the Art of Falling Asleep. His chief productions
are Novels : the Unsichtbare Loge (Invisible Lodge) ; Flegcl-
jahre (Wild-Oats); Life of Fixlein ; the Jiibelsenior (Vavsou in
Jubilee) ; Schmelzle's Journey to Flatz ; Katzenberger's Journey
to the Bath ; Life of Fibel ; with many lighter pieces ; and two
works of a higher order, Hesperus and Titan, the largest and
the best of his Novels. It was the former that first (in 1795)
introduced him into decisive and universal estimation with his
countrymen : the latter he himself, with the most judicious of
his critics, regarded as his masterpiece. But the name Novelist,
as we in England must understand it, would ill describe so vast
1 Page 8.
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RTCHTER. 11
and discursive a genius : for, with all his grotesque, tumul-
tuous pleasantry, Kichter is a man of a truly earnest, nay high
and solemn character ; and seldom writes without a meaning
far beyond the sphere of common romancers. Hesperus and
Titan themselves, though in form nothing more than " novels
of real life," as the Minerva Press would say, have solid metal
enough in them to furnish whole circulating libraries, were it
beaten into the usual filigree ; and much which, attenuate it as
we might, no quarterly subscriber could well carry with him.
Amusement is often, in part almost always, a mean with Eich-
ter ; rarely or never his highest end. His thoughts, his feel-
ings, the creations of his spirit, walk before us embodied under
wondrous shapes, in motley and ever-fluctuating groups ; but
his essential character, however he disguise it, is that of a
Philosopher and moral Poet, whose study has been human
nature, whose delight and best endeavor are with all that is
beautiful, and tender, and mysteriously sublime, in the fate or
history of man. This is the purport of his writings, whether
their form be that of fiction or of truth ; the spirit that per-
vades and ennobles his delineations of common life, his wild
wayward dreams, allegories, and shadowy imaginings, no less
than his disquisitions of a nature directly scientific.
But in this latter province also Eichter has accomplished
much. His Vorschule der Aesthetik (Introduction to Esthet-
ics ') is a work on Poetic Art, based on principles of no ordi-
nary depth and compass, abounding in noble views, and,
notwithstanding its fi'olicsome exuberance, in sound and subtle
criticism ; esteemed even in Germany, where criticism has long
been treated of as a science, and by such persons as Winkel-
mann, Kant, Herder, and the Schlegels. Of this work we
could speak long, did our limits allow. We fear it might as-
tonish many an honest brother of our craft, were he to read
it ; and altogether perplex and dash his maturest counsels, if
he chanced to understand it. — Eichter has also written on
1 From alffedvofiai, to feel. A word invented by Banmgarten (some eighty-
years ago), to express generally the Science of the Fine Arts; and now iu uni-
versal use among the Germans. Perhaps we also might as well adopt it ; at
lea«t if any such science should ever arise among \im.
12 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Education, a work entitled Levana ; distinguished by keen
practical sagacity, as well as generous sentiment, and a certain"
sober magnificence of speculation ; the whole presented in that
singular style which characterizes the man. Germany is rich
in works on Education ; richer at present than any other coun-
try : it is there only that some echo of the Lockes and Miltons,
speaking of this high matter, may still be heard ; and speaking
of it in the language of our own time, with insight into the
actual wants, advantages, perils and prospects of this age.
Among the writers on this subject Richter holds a high place ;
if we look chiefly at his tendency and aims, perhaps the
highest. — The Clavis Flchtiana is a ludicrous performance,
known to us only by report ; but Eichter is said to possess the
merit, while he laughs at Fichte, of understanding him ; a merit
among Eichte's critics which seems to be one of the rarest.-
Beport also, we regret to say, is all that we know of the Cam-
paner Thai, a Discourse on the Immortality of the Soul ; one
of Richter's beloved topics, or rather the life of his whole phi-
losophy, glimpses of Avhich look forth on us from almost every
one cf his writings. He died while engaged, under recent and
almost total blindness, in enlarging and remodelling this Cam-
paner Thai ; the unfinished manuscript was borne upon his
cofiin to the burial vault : and Klopstock's hymn, " Auferstehen
tolrst du, Thou shalt arise, my soul," can seldom have been
sung with more appropriate application than over the grave
of Jean Paul.
We defy the most careless or prejudiced reader to peruse
these works Avithout an impression of something splendid,
wonderful and daring. But they require to be studied as well
as read, and this with no ordinary patience, if the reader,
especially the foreign reader, wishes to comprehend rightly
either their truth or their want of truth. Tried by many an
accepted standard, Eichter would be speedily enough disposed
of; pronounced a mystic, a German dreamer, a rash and pre-
sumptouf} innovator ; and so consigned, with equanimity, per-
haps with a certain jubilee, to the Limbo appointed for all such
wind-bags and deceiDtions. Originality is a thing we constantly
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTEK. 13
clamor for, and constantly quarrel with ; as if, observes our
Author himself, any originality but our own could be expected
to content us ! In fact, all strange things are apt, without fault
of theirs, to estrange us at first view ; unhappily scarcely any-
thing is perfectly plain, but what is also perfectly common.
The current coin of the realm passes into all hands ; and be it
gold, silver, or copper, is acceptable and of known value : but
with new ingots, with foreign bars, and medals of Corinthian
brass, the case is widely different.
There are few writers with whom deliberation and careful
distrust of first impressions are more necessary than with
Kichter. He is a phenomenon from the very surface ; he
presents himself with a professed and determined singularity :
his language itself is a stone of stumbling to the critic ; to
critics of the grammarian species, an unpardonable, often an
insuperable, rock of offence. Not that he is ignorant of gram-
mar, or disdains the sciences of spelling and parsing ; but he
exercises both in a certain latitudinarian spirit ; deals with
astonishing liberality in parentheses, dashes, and subsidiary
clauses ; invents hundreds of new words, alters old ones, or by
hyphen chains and pairs and packs them together into most
jarring combinatiori ; in short, produces sentences of the most
heterogeneous, lumbering, interminable kind. Figures with-
out limit ; indeed the whole is one tissue of metaphors, and
similes, and allusions to all the provinces of Earth, Sea and
Air; interlaced with epigrammatic breaks, vehement bursts,
or sardonic turns, interjections, quips, puns, and even oaths !
A perfect Indian jungle it seems ; a boundless, unparalleled
imbroglio ; nothing on all sides but darkness, dissonance, con-
fusion worse confounded ! Then the style of the whole cor-
responds, in perplexity and extravagance, with that of the
parts. Every work, be it fiction or serious treatise, is embaled
in some fantastic wrappage, some mad narrative accov;nting
for its appearance, and connecting it with the author, who
generally becomes a person in the drama himself, before all is
over. He has a whole imaginary geography of Euroj^e in his
novels ; the cities of Flachsenfingen, Ilaarhaar, Scheerau, and
so forth, with their princes, and privy -councillors; and serene
14 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
highnesses ; most of whom, odd enough fellows every way, are
Richter's private acquaintances, talk with him of state matters
(in the purest Tory dialect), and often incite him to get on
with his writing. No story proceeds without the most erratic
digressions, and voluminous tagrags rolling after it in many
a snaky twine. Ever and anon there occurs some "Extra-
leaf," with its satirical petition, program, or other wonderful
intercalation, no mortal can foresee on what. It is, indeed,
a mighty maze ; and often the panting reader toils after him
in vain ; or, baffled and spent, inaignantly stops short, and
retires, perhaps forever.
All this, we must admit, is true of Richter ; but much more
. is true also. Let us not turn from him after the first cursory
glance, and imagine we have settled his account by the words
Rhapsody and Affectation. They are cheap words, and of
sovereign potency ; we should see, therefore, that they be not
rashly applied. Many things in Richter accord ill with such
a theory. There are rays of the keenest truth, nay steady
pillars of scientific light rising through this chaos : Is it in
fact a chaos ; or may it be that our eyes are of finite, not of
infinite vision, and have only missed the plan ? Few " rhap-
sodists " are men of science, of solid learning, of rigorous
study, and accurate, extensive, nay universal knowledge ; as
he is. With regard to affectation also, there is much to be
said. The essence of affectation is that it be assumed: the
character is, as it were, forcibly crushed into some foreign
mould, in the hope of being thereby reshaped and beautified ;
the unhappy man persuades himself that he has in truth
become a new creature, of the wonderfulest symmetry ; and
so he moves about with a conscious air, though every move-
ment betrays not symmetry but dislocation. This it is to be
affected, to walk in a vain show. But the strangeness alone
is no proof of the vanity. Many men that move smoothly
in the old-established railways of custom will be found to
have their affectation ; and perhaps here and there some
divergent genius be accused of it unjustly. The show, though
common, may not cease to be vain; nor become so for being
uncommon. Before we censure a man for seeming what he
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH EICHTER. 15
is not, we should be sure that we know what he is. As to
Richter in particular, we cannot but observe, that, strange and
tumultuous as he is, there is a certain benign composure visible
in his writings ; a mercy, a gladness, a reverence, united in such
harmony as bespeaks not a false, but a genuine state of mind ;
not a feverish and morbid, but a healthy and robust state.
The secret of the matter is, that Richter requires more
study than most readers care to give him. As we approach
more closely, many things grow clearer. In the man's own
sphere there is consistency ; the farther we advance into it,
we see confusion more and more unfold itself into order, till
at last, viewed from its proper centre, his intellectual uni-
verse, no longer a distorted incoherent series of air-landscapes,
coalesces into compact expansion ; a vast, magnificent and
variegated scene ; full of wondrous products ; rude, it may be,
and irregular; but gorgeous, benignant, great; gay with the
richest verdure and foliage, glittering in the brightest and
kindest sun.
Richter has been called an intellectual Colossus ; and in
truth it is somewhat in this light that we view him. His
faculties are all of gigantic mould ; cumbrous, awkward in
their movements ; large and splendid, rather than harmonious
or beautiful ; yet joined in living union ; and of force and
compass altogether extraordinary. He has an intellect vehe-
ment, rugged, irresistible ; crushing in pieces the hardest
problems ; piercing into the most hidden combinations of
things, and grasping the most distant : an imagination vague,
sombre, splendid, or appalling ; brooding over the abysses of
Being; wandering through Infinitude, and summoning before
us, in its dim religious light, shapes of brilliancy, solemnity,
or terror : a fancy of exuberance literally unexampled ; for it
pours its treasures with a lavishness which knows no limit,
hanging, like the sun, a jewel on every grass-blade, and sow-
ing the earth at large with orient pearl. But deeper than all
these lies Humor, the ruling quality with Richter ; as it were
the central fire that pervades and vivifies his whole being.
He is a humorist from his inmost soul ; he thinks as a humor-
ist, he feels, imagines, acts as a humorist: Sport is the ele-
16 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
ment in wliich his nature lives and works. A tumilltuous
element for such a nature, and wild work he makes in it !
A Titan in his sport as in his earnestness, he oversteps all
bound, and riots without law or measure. He heaps Pelion
upon Ossa, and hurls the universe together and asunder like a
case of playthings. The Moon "bombards" the Earth, being
a rebellious satellite; Mars "preaches" to the other planets,
very singular doctrine ; nay, we have Time and Space them-
selves playing fantastic tricks : it is an infinite masquerade ;
all Xature is gone forth mumming in the strangest guises.
Yet the anarchy is not without its purpose : these vizards
are not mere hollow masks ; there are living faces under
them, and this mumming has its significance. Richter is a
man of mirth, but he seldom or never condescends to be a
merry-andrew. Nay, in spite of its extravagance, we should
say that his humor is of all his gifts intrinsically the finest
and most genuine. It has such witching turns ; there is some-
thing in it so capricious, so quaint, so heartfelt. From his
Cyclopean workshop, and its fuliginous limbecs, and huge un-
wieldy machinery, the little shrivelled twisted Figure comes
forth at last, so perfect and so living, to be forever laughed
at and forever loved ! Wayward as he seems, he works not
without forethought : like Rubens, by a single stroke he can
change a laughing face into a sad one. But in his smile itself
a touching pathos may lie hidden, a pity too deep for tears.
He is a man of feeling, in the noblest sense of that word ; for
he loves all living with the heart of a brother ; his soul rushes
forth, in sympathy with gladness and sorrow, with goodness
or grandeur, over all Creation. Every gentle and generous
affection, every thrill of mercy, every glow of nobleness,
awakens in his bosom a response ; nay strikes his spirit into
harmony ; a wild music as of wind-harps, floating round us in
fitful swells, but soft sometimes, and pure and soul-entrancing,
as the song of angels ! Aversion itself with him is not hatred ;
he despises much, but justly, with tolerance also, with placid-
ity, and even a sort of love. Love, in fact, is the atmosphere
lie breathes in, the medium through which he looks. His is
the spirit which gives life and beauty to whatever it embraces.
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER. 17
Inanimate Nature itself is no longer an insensible assemblage
of colors and perfumes, but a mysterious Presence, with which
he communes in unutterable sympathies. We might call him,
as he once called Herder, "a Priest of Nature, a mild Bra-
min," wandering amid spicy groves, and under benignant
skies. The infinite Night with her solemn aspects, Day, and
the sweet approach of Even and Morn, are full of meaning
for him. He loves the green Earth with her streams and
forests, her flowery leas and eternal skies ; loves her with a
sort of passion, in all her vicissitudes of light and shade ; his
spirit revels in her grandeur and charms ; expands like the
breeze over wood and lawn, over glade and dingle, stealing
and giving odors.
It has sometimes been made a wonder that things so dis-
cordant should go together ; that men of humor are often
likewise men of sensibility. But the wonder should rather
be to see them divided ; to find true genial humor dwelling in
a mind that was coarse or callous. The essence of humor is
sensibility ; warm, tender fellow-feeling with all forms of ex-
istence. Nay, we may say that unless seasoned and purified
by humor, sensibility is apt to run wild ; will readily corrupt
into disease, falsehood, or, in one word, sentimentality. Wit-
ness Rousseau, Zimmermann, in some points also St. Pierre :
to say nothing of living instances ; or of the Kotzebues, and
other pale hosts of woe-begone mourners, whose wailings, like
the howl of an Irish wake, have from time to time cleft the
general ear. " The last perfection of our faculties," says
Schiller with a truth far deeper than it seems, " is that their
activity, without ceasing to be sure and earnest, become sport."
True humor is sensibility, in the most catholic and deepest
sense ; but it is this sport of sensibility ; wholesome aud per-
fect therefore ; as it were, the playful teasing fondness of a
mother to her child.
That faculty of irony, of caricature, which often passes by
the name of humor, but consists chiefly in a certain superficial
distortion or reversal of objects, and ends at best in laughter,
bears no resemblance to the humor of Eiehter. A shallow
endowment this ; and often more a habit than an endowment.
18 CRITICAL i-NP MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
It is but a poor fraction of humor ; or rather, it is the body
to which the soul is wanting ; any life it has being false, arti-
ficial and irrational. True humor springs not more from the
head than from the heart; it is not contempt, its essence is
love ; it issues not in laughter, but in still smiles, which lie
far deeper. It is a sort of inverse sublimity; exalting, as
it were, into our affections what is below us, while sublimity
draws down into our affections what is above us. The former
is scarcely less precious or heart-affecting than the latter;
perhaps it is still rarer, and, as a test of genius, still more
decisive. It is, in fact, the bloom and perfume, the purest
effluence of a deep, fine and loving nature ; a nature in har-
mony with itself, reconciled to the world and its stintedness
and contradiction, nay finding in this very contradiction new
elements of beauty as well as goodness. Among our own
writers, Shakspeare, in this as in all other provinces, must
have his place : yet not the first ; his humor is heartfelt,
exuberant, warm, but seldom the tenderest or most subtle.
Swift inclines more to simple irony: yet he had genuine
humor too, and of no unloving sort, though cased, like Ben
Jonson's, in a most bitter and caustic rind. Sterne follows
next ; our last specimen of humor, and, with all his faults,
our best ; our finest, if not our strongest ; for Yorick and
Corporal Trim and Uncle Toby have yet no brother but in
Don Quixote, far as he lies above them. Cervantes is indeed
the purest of all humorists ; so gentle and genial, so full yet
80 ethereal is his humor, and in such accordance with itself and
his whole noble nature. The Italian mind is said to abound
in humor ; yet their classics seem to give us no right emblem
of it : except perhaps in Ariosto, there appears little in their
current poetry that reaches the region of true humor. In
France, since the days of Montaigne, it seems to be nearly
extinct. Voltaire, much as he dealt in ridicule, never rises
into humor ; even with Moliere, it is far more an affair of the
understanding than of the character.
That, in this point, Richter excels all German authors, is
saying much for him, and may be said truly. Lessing has
humor, — of a sharp, rigid, substantial, and, on the whole,
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER. 19
genial sort ; yet the rviling bias of his mind is to logic. So
likewise has Wieland, though much diluted by the general
loquucity of his nature, and impoverished still farther hj the
influences of a cold, meagre, French scepticism. Among the
Ramlers, Gellerts, Hagedorns, of Frederick the Second's time,
we find abundance, and delicate in kind too, of that light mat-
ter which the French call pleasantry ; but little or nothing
that deserves the name of humor. In the present age, how-
ever, there is Goethe, with a rich true vein ; and this subli-
mated, as it were, to an essence, and blended in still union
with his whole mind. Tieck also, among his many fine sus-
ceptibilities, is not without a warm keen sense for the ridicu-
lous ; and a humor rising, though by short fits, and from a
much lower atmosphere, to be poetic. But of all these men,
there is none that, in depth, copiousness and intensity of
humor, can be compared with Jean Paul. He alone exists in
humor ; lives, moves and has his being in it. With him it is
not so much united to his other qualities, of intellect, fancy,
imagination, moral feeling, as these are united to it ; or rather
unite themselves to it, and grow under its warmth, as in their
proper temperature and climate. Not as if we meant to assert
that his humor is in all cases perfectly natural and pure ; nay,
that it is not often extravagant, untrue, or even absurd : but
still, on the whole, the core and life of it are genuine, subtle,
spiritual. Not without reason have his panegyrists named
him " Jean Paul der Einzige, Jean Paul the Unique : " in one
sense or the other, either as praise or censure, his critics
also must adopt this epithet ; for surely, in the whole circle
of Literature, we look in vain for his parallel. Unite the
sportfulness of Eabelais, and the best sensibility of Sterne,
with the earnestness, and, even in slight portions, the sublim-
ity of Milton ; and let the mosaic brain of old Burton give forth
the workings of this strange union, with the pen of Jeremy
Bentham !
To say how, with so peculiar a natural endowment, Richter
should have shaped his mind by culture, is much harder than
to say that he has shaped it wrong. Of affectation we will
neither altogether clear him, nor very loudly pronounce him
20 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
guilty. That his manner of writing is singular, nay in fact a
wild complicated Arabesque, no one can deny. But the true
question is, How nearly does this manner of writing represent
his real manner of thinking and existing ? With what degree
of freedom does it allow this particular form of being to mani-
fest itself ; or what fetters and perversions does it lay on such
manifestation ? For the great law of culture is : Let each be-
come all that he was created capable of being ; expand, if pos-
sible, to his full growth ; resisting all impediments, casting off
all foreign, especially all noxious adhesions ; and show himself
at length in his own shape and stature, be these what they may.
There is no uniform of excellence, either in physical or spiritual
Nature : all genuine things are what they ought to be. The
reindeer is good and beautiful, so Jikewise is the elephant. In
Literature it is the same : " every man," says Lessing, " has
his own style, like his own nose." True, there are noses of
wonderful dimensions ; but no nose can justly be amputated
by the public, — not even the nose of Slawkenbergius himself;
so it be a real nose, and no wooden one put on for deception's
sake and mere show !
To speak in grave language, Lessing means, and we agree
with him, that the outward style is to be judged of by the in-
ward qualities of the spirit which it is employed to body forth ;
that, without prejudice to critical propriety well understood,
the former may vary into many shapes as the latter varies ;
that, in short, the grand point for a writer is not to be of this
or that external make and fashion, but, in every fashion, to
be genuine, vigorous, alive, — alive with his whole being, con-
sciously, and for beneficent results.
Tried by this test, we imagine Richter's wild manner will
be found less imperfect than many a very tame one. To the
man it may not be unsuitable. In that singular form, there
is a fire, a splendor, a benign energy, which persuades us into
tolerance, nay into love, of much that might otherwise offend.
Above all, this man, alloyed with imperfections as he may
be, is consistent and coherent : he is at one with himself ; he
knows his aims, and pursues them in sincerity of heart, joy-
fully and with undivided will. A harmonious development
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICETER, 21
of being, the first and last object of all true culture, has been
obtained ; if not completely, at least more completely than in
one of a thousand ordinary men. Nor let us forget that, in
such a nature, it was not of easy attainment ; that where much
Avas to be developed, some imperfection should be forgiven.
It is true, the beaten paths of Literature lead the safeliest to
the goal ; and the talent pleases us most, which submits to
shine with new gracefulness through old forms. Nor is the
noblest and most peculiar mind too noble or peculiar for work-
ing by prescribed laws : Sophocles, Shakspeare, Cervantes, and
in Richter's own age, Goethe, how little did they innovate on
the given forms of composition, how much in the spirit they
breathed into them ! All this is true ; and Richter must lose
of our esteem in proportion. Much, however, will remain ;
and why should we quarrel with the high, because it is not the
highest ? Eichter's worst faults are nearly allied to his best
merits ; being chiefly exuberance of good, irregular squander-
ing of wealth, a dazzling with excess of true light. These
things may be pardoned the more readily, as they are little
likely to be imitated.
On the whole, Genius has privileges of its own ; it selects
an orbit for itself; and be this never so eccentric, if it is
indeed a celestial orbit, we mere star-gazers must at last com-
pose ourselves ; must cease to cavil at it, and begin to observe
it, and calculate its laws. That Eichter is a new Planet in
the intellectual heavens, we dare not affirm ; an atmospheric
Meteor he is not wholly ; perhaps a Comet, that, though with
long aberrations, and shrouded in a nebulous veil, has yet its
place in the empyrean.
Of Eichter's individual Works, of his opinions, his general
philosophy of life, we have no room left us to speak. Ee-
garding his Novels, we may say, that, except in some few
instances, and those chiefly of the shorter class, they are not
what, in strict language, we can term unities : witli much
eallida junctura of parts, it is rare that any of them leaves
on us the impression of a perfect, homogeneous, indivisible
whole. A true work of art requires to be fused in tlie mind
22 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
of its creator, and, as it were, poured forth (from his imagi-
nation, though not from his pen) at one simultaneous gush.
Eichter's works do not always bear sufficient marks of having
been in fusion ; yet neither are they merely riveted together ;
to say the least, they have been welded. A similar remark
applies to many of his characters ; indeed, more or less to all
of them, except such as are entirely humorous, or have a large:^
dash of humor. In this latter province he is at home ; a true
poet, a maker ; his Siebenkds, his Schmehle, even his Fibel and
Fixlein are living figures. But in heroic personages, passion-
ate, massive, overpowering as he is, we have scarcely ever a
complete ideal ; art has not attained to the concealment of
itself. With his heroines again he is more successful ; they
are often true heroines, though perhaps with too little variety
of character ; bustling, buxom mothers and housewives, with
all the caprices, perversities, and warm generous helpfulness
of women ; or white, half-angelic creatures, meek, still, long-
suffering, high-minded, of tenderest affections, and hearts
crushed yet uncomplaining. Supernatural figures he has not
attempted; and wisely, for he cannot write without belief.
Yet many times he exhibits an imagination of a singularity,
nay on the whole, of a truth and grandeur, unexampled else-
where. In his Dreams there is a mystic complexity, a gloom,
and amid the dim gigantic half-ghastly shadows, gleam ings
of a wizard splendor, which almost recall to us the visions
of Ezekiel. By readers who have studied the Dream in the
New-year's Eve we shall not be mistaken.
Eichter's Philosophy, a matter of no ordinary interest both
as it agrees with the common philosophy of Germany and
disagrees with it, must not be touched on for the present.
One only observation we shall make : it is not mechanical,
or sceptical ; it springs not from the forum or the laboratory,
but from the depths of the human spirit ; and yields as its
fairest product a noble system of Morality, and the firmest
conviction of Religion. In this latter point we reckon him
peculiai-ly worthy of study. To a careless reader he might
seem the wildest of infidels ; for nothing can exceed the free-
dom with which he bandies to and fro the dogmas of religion,
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH KICHTER. 23
nay, sometimes, the highest objects of Christian reverence.
There ai'e passages of this sort, which will occur to every
reader of Richter ; but which, not to fall into the error we
have already blamed in Madame de Stael, we shall refrain
from quoting. More light is in the following : " Or," inquires
he, in his usual abrupt way, " Or are all your Mosques, Epis-
copal Churches, Pagodas, Chapels of Ease, Tabernacles, and
Pantheons, anything else but the Ethnic Forecourt of the
Invisible Temple and its Holy of Holies ? " ^ Yet, indepen-
dently of all dogmas, nay perhaps in spite of many, Eichter
is, in the highest sense of the word, religious. A reverence,
not a self-interested fear, but a noble reverence for the spirit
of all goodness, forms the crown and glory of his culture.
The fiery elements of his nature have been purified under
holy influences, and chastened by a principle of mercy and
humility into peace and well-doing. An intense and continual
faith in man's immortality and native grandeur accompanies
him ; from amid the vortices of life he looks up to a heavenly
loadstar ; the solution of what is visible and transient, he finds
in what is invisible and eternal. He has doubted, he denies,
yet he believes. "When, in your last hour," says he,* "when,
in your last hour (think of this), all faculty in the broken
spirit shall fade away and die into inanity, — imagination,
thought, effort, enjoyment, — then at last will the night-flower
of Belief alone continue blooming, and refresh with its per-
fumes in the last darkness."
To reconcile these seeming contradictions, to explain the
grounds, the manner, the congruity of Richter's belief, cannot
be attempted here. We recommend him to the study, the
tolerance, and even the praise, of all men who have inquired
into this highest of questions with a right spirit ; inquired
with the martyr fearlessness, but also with the martyr rever-
ence, of men that love Truth, and will not accept a lie. A
frank, fearless, honest, yet truly spiritual faith is of all things
the rarest in our time.
Of writings which, though with many reservations, we have
praised so much, our hesitating readers may demand some
^ Note to Schmelzles Journey. * Levana, p. 251.
24 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
specimen. To unbelievers, unhappily, we have none of a
convincing sort to give. Ask us not to represent the Peru-
vian forests by three twigs plucked from them ; or the cata-
racts of the Nile by a handful of its water ! To those, mean-
while, who will look on twigs as mere dissevered twigs, and
a handful of water as only so many drops, we present the fol-
lowing. It is a summer Sunday night ; Jean Paul is taking
leave of the Hukelum Parson and his Wife ; like him we have
long laughed at them or wept for them ; like him, also, we
are sad to part from them : —
" We were all of us too deeply moved. We at last tore our-
selves asunder from repeated embraces ; my friend retired
with the soul whom he loves. I remained alone behind with
the Night.
"And I walked without aim through woods, through val-
leys, and over brooks, and through sleeping villages, to enjoy
the great Night, like a Day. I walked, and still looked, like
the magnet, to the region of midnight, to strengthen my heart
at the gleaming twilight, at this upstretching aurora of a
morning beneath our feet. White night-butterflies flitted,
white blossoms fluttered, white stars fell, and the white
snow-powder hung silvery in the high Shadow of the Earth,
which reaches beyond the Moon, and which is our Night.
Then began the ^olian Harp of the Creation to tremble and
to sound, blown on from above ; and my immortal Soul was
a string in that Harp. — The heart of a brother, everlasting
^lan, swelled under the everlasting heaven, as the seas swell
under the sun and under the moon. — The distant village-
clocks struck midnight, mingling, as it were, with the ever-
pealing tone of ancient Eternity. — The limbs of my buried
ones touched cold on my soul, and drove away its blots, as
dead hands heal eruptions of the skin. — I walked silently
tlirough little hamlets, and close by their outer churchyards,
where crumbled upcast coffin-boards were glimmering, while
the once-bright eyes that had lain in them were mouldered
into gray ashes. Cold thought ! clutch not like a cold spectre
at my heart : I look up to the starry sky, and an everlasting
chain stretches thither, and over, and below; and all is Life,
ana Warmth, and Light, and all is Godlike or God. . . .
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER 25
" Towards morning I descried thy late lights, little city of
my dwelling, wliicli I belong to on this side the grave ; I
returned to the Earth ; and in thy steeples, behind the by-
advauced great midnight, it struck half-past two : about this
hour, in 1794, Mars went down in the west, and the Moon
rose in the east ; and my soul desired, in grief for the noble
warlike blood which is still streaming on the blossoms of
Spring: 'Ah, retire, bloody War, like red Mars; and thou,
still Peace, come forth like the mild divided Moon.' " ^
Such, seen through no uncolored medium, but in dim remote-
ness, and sketched in hurried transitory outline, are some fea-
tures of Jean Paul Friedrich Richter and his Works. Germany
has long loved him ; to England also he must one day become
known ; for a man of this magnitude belongs not to one people,
but to the world. What our countrymen may decide of him,
still more what may be his fortune with posterity, we will
not try to foretell. Time has a strange contracting influence
on many a wide-spread fame ; yet of Richter we will say, that
he may survive much. There is in him that which does not
die ; that Beauty and Earnestness of soul, that spirit of Hu-
manity, of Love and mild Wisdom, over which the vicissitudes
of mode have no sway. This is that excellence of the inmost
nature which alone confers immortality on writings ; that
charm which still, under every defacement, binds us to the
pages of our own Hookers, and Taylors, and Brownes, when
their way of thought has long ceased to be ours, and the most
valued of their merely intellectual opinions have passed away,
as ours too must do, with the circumstances and events in
which they took their shape or rise. To men of a right mind
there may long be in Richter much that has attraction and
value. In the moral desert of vulgar Literature, with its
sandy wastes, and parched, bitter and too often poisonous
shrubs, the Writings of this man will rise in their irregular
luxuriance, like a cluster of date-trees, with its greensward
and well of water, to refresh the pilgrim, in the sultry soli-
tude, with nourishment and shade.
1 End of Quintus Fixlein.
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE.^
[1827.]
These two Books, notwithstanding their diversity of title,
are properly parts of one and the same ; the Outlines, though
of prior date in regard to publication, having now assumed
the character of sequel and conclusion to the larger Work, —
of fourth volume to the other three. It is designed, of course,
for the home market ; yet the foreign student also will find
in it a safe and valuable help, and, in spite of its imper-
fections, should receive it with thankfulness and good-will.
Doubtless we might have wished for a keener discriminative
and descriptive talent, and perhaps for a somewhat more cath-
olic spirit, in the writer of such a history ; but in their absence
we have still much to praise. Horn's literary creed would, on
the whole, we believe, be acknowledged by his countrymen as
the true one ; and this, though it is chiefly from one immova-
ble station that he can survey his subject, he seems heartily
anxious to apply with candor and tolerance. Another improve-
ment might have been, a deeper principle of arrangement, a
firmer grouping into periods and schools ; for, as it stands, the
work is more a critical sketch of German Poets, than a history
of German Poetry.
Let us not quarrel, however, with our author ; his merits as
a literary historian are plain, and by no means inconsiderable.
1 Edinbergii Review, No. 92. — 1. Die Popsie und Beredsamkeit der
Dentschev, von Lutliers Zeit his zur Gerjenwart. Dargestdlt vo7i Franz Horn.
(The Poetry and Oratory of the Germans, from Luther's Time to the Present.
Exhibited by Franz Horn.) Berlin, 1822, '23, '24. 3 vols. 8vo.
2. Umrlsse zur Geschichte. und Krilik der schSnen LittercUur Deutschlands wuhrcnd
der Jahre 1790-1818. (Outlines for the History and Criticism of Polite Litera-
ture in Germany, during the Years 1790-1818.) By Franz Horn. Berlin,
1819. 8vo.
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 27
Without rivalling the almost frightful laboriousness of Bouter-
wek or Eiclihorn, he gives creditable proofs of research and
general information, and possesses a lightness in composition,
to which neither of these erudite persons can well pretend.
Undoubtedly he has a flowing pen, and is at home in this
province ; not only a speaker of the word, indeed, but a doer
of the work ; having written, besides his great variety of tracts
and treatises, biographical, philosophical and critical, several
very deserving works of a poetic sort. He is not, it must be
owned, a very strong man, but he is nimble and orderly, and
goes through his work with a certain gayety of heart ; nay,
at times, with a frolicsome alacrity, which might even require
to be pardoned. His character seems full of susceptibility ;
perhaps too much so for its natural vigor. His novels, accord-
ingly, to judge from the few we have read of them, verge
towards the sentimental. In the present Work, in like man-
ner, he has adopted nearly all the best ideas of his contempo-
raries, but with something of an undue vehemence ; and he
advocates the cause of religion, integrity and true poetic taste
with great heartiness and vivacity, were it not that too often
his zeal outruns his prudence and insight. Thus, for instance,
he declares repeatedly, in so many words, that no mortal can
be a poet unless he is a Christian. The meaning here is very
good ; but why this phraseology ? Is it not inviting the
simple-minded (not to speak of scoffers, whom Horn very
justly sniffs at) to ask, When Homer subscribed the Thirty-
nine Articles ; or Whether Sadi and Hafiz were really of the
Bishop of Peterborough's opinion ? Again, he talks too often
of " representing the Infinite in the Finite," of expressing the
unspeakable, and such high matters. In fact, Horn's style,
though extremely readable, has one great fault ; it is, to speak
it in a single word, an affected style. His stream of meaning,
uniformly clear and wholesome in itself, will not flow quietly
along its channel ; but is ever and anon spurting itself up into
epigrams and antithetic jets. Playful he is, and kindly, and,
we do believe, honest-hearted ; but there is a certain snappish-
ness in him, a frisking abruptness ; and then his sport is
more a perpetual giggle, than any dignified smile, or even any
28 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
sufficient laugh with gravity succeeding it. This sentence is
among the best we recollect of him, and will partly illustrate
what we mean. We submit it, for the sake of its import like-
wise, to all superfine speculators on the Reformation, in their
future contrasts of Luther and Erasmus. " Erasmus," says
Horn, " belongs to that species of writers who have all the
desire in the world to build God Almighty a magnificent
church, — at the same time, however, not giving the Devil
any offence ; to whom, accordingly, they set up a neat little
chapel close by, where you can offer him some touch of sacri-
fice at a time, and practise a quiet household devotion for him
without disturbance." In this style of " witty and conceited
mirth," considerable part of the book is written.
But our chief business at present is not with Franz Horn,
or his book; of whom, accordingly, recommending his labors
to all inquisitive students of German, and himself to good
estimation with all good men, we must here take leave. We
have a word or two to say on that strange Literature itself ;
concerning which our readers probably feel more curious to
learn what it is, than with what skill it has been judged of.
Above a century ago, the Pere Bouhours propounded to
himself the pregnant question : Si un Allemand peat avoir de
V esprit? Had the Pere Bouhours bethought him of what
country Kepler and Leibnitz were, or who it was that gave to
mankind the three great elements of modern civilization, Gun-
powder, Printing and the Protestant Eeligion, it might have
thrown light on his inquiry. Had he known the Nihelungen
Lied, and where Reinecke Fuchs, and Fuust, and the Ship of
Fools, and four-fifths of all the popular mythology, humor and
romance to be found in Europe in the sixteenth and seven-
teenth centuries, took its rise ; had he read a page or two of
Ulrich Hutten, Opitz, Paul Flemming, Logau, or even Lohen-
stein and Hoifmannswaldau, all of whom had already lived
and written in his day ; had the Pere Bouhours taken this
trouble, — who knows but he might have found, with whatever
amazement, tliat a German could actually have a little esprit,
or perhaps even something better? No such trouble was
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 29
requisite for the Pere Bouhours. Motion in vacuo is well
known to be speedier and surer than through a resisting
medium, especially to imponderous bodies ; and so the light
Jesuit, unimpeded by facts or principles of any kind, failed
not to reach his conclusion; and, in a comfortable frame of
mind, to decide, negatively, that a German could not have any
literary talent.
Thus did the Pere Bouhours evince that he had a pleasant
wit ; but in the end he has paid dear for it. The French,
themselves, have long since begun to know something of the
Germans, and something also of their own critical Daniel;
and now it is by this one wwtimely joke that the hapless Jesuit
is doomed to live ; for the blessing of full oblivion is denied
him, and so he hangs, suspended in his own noose, over the
dusky pool, which he struggles toward, but for a great while
will not reach. Might his fate but serve as a warning to kin-
dred men of wit, in regard to this and so many other subjects !
For surely the pleasure of despising, at all times and in itself
a dangerous luxury, is much safer after the toil of examining
than before it.
We altogether differ from the Pere Bouhours in this matter,
and must endeavor to discuss it differently. There is, in fact,
much in the present aspect of German Literature, not only
deserving notice but deep consideration from all thinking
men, and far too complex for being handled in the way of
epigram. It is always advantageous to think justly of our
neighbors ; nay, in mere common honesty, it is a duty ; and,
like every other duty, brings its own reward. Perhaps at the
present era this duty is more essential than ever ; an era of
such promise and such threatening, when so many elements
of good and evil are everywhere in conflict, and human society
is, as it were, struggling to body itself forth anew, and so many
colored rays are springing up in this quarter and in that, which
only by their union can produce pure I'ujht. Happily, too,
though still a difficult, it is no longer an impossible duty ; for
the commerce in material things has paved roads for commerce
in things spiritual, and a true thought, or a noble creation,
passes lightly to us from the remotest countries, provided only
30 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
our minds be open to receive it. This, indeed, is a rigorous
proviso, and a great obstacle lies in it ; one which to many
must be insurmountable, yet which it is the chief glory of
social culture to surmount. For, if a man who mistakes his
own contracted individuality for the type of human nature,
and deals with whatever contradicts him as if it contradicted
this, is but a pedant, and without true wisdom, be he furnished
with partial equipments as he may, — what better shall we
think of a nation that, in like manner, isolates itself from
foreign influence, regards its own modes as so many laws
of nature, and rejects all that is different as unworthy even
of examination ?
Of this narrow and perverted condition, the French, down
almost to our own times, have afforded a remarkable and in-
structive example ; as indeed of late they have been often
enough upbraidingly reminded, and are now themselves, in
a manlier spirit, beginning to admit. That our countrymen
have at any time erred much in this point, cannot, we think,
truly be alleged against them. Neither shall we say, with
some passionate admirers of Germany, that to the Germans
in particular they have been unjust. It is true, the literature
and character of that country, which, within the last half-cen-
tury, have been more worthy perhaps than any other of our
study and regard, are still very generally unknown to us, or,
what is worse, misknown ; but for this there are not wanting
less offensive reasons. That the false and tawdry ware, which
was in all hands, should reach us before the chaste and truly
excellent, which it required some excellence to recognize ; that
Kotzebue's insanity should have spread faster, by some fifty
years, than Lessing's wisdom ; that Kant's Philosophy should
stand in the background as a dreary and abortive dream, and
Gall's Craniology be held out to us from every booth as a
reality ; — all this lay in the nature of the case. That many
readers should draw conclusions from imperfect premises, and
by the imports judge too hastily of the stock imported from,
was likewise natural. No unfair bias, no unwise indisposition,
that we are aware of, has ever been at work in the matter ;
perhaps, at worst, a degree of indolence, a blamable incuriosity
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATUKE. 81
to all products of foreign genius : for what more do we know
of recent Spanish or Italian literature, than of German ; of
Grossi and Manzoni, of Campomanes or Jovellanos, than of
Tieck and Eichter ? Wherever German art, in those forms
of it which need no interpreter, has addressed us immediately,
our recognition of it has been prompt and hearty ; from Diirer
to Meugs, from Handel to Weber and Beethoven, we have wel-
comed the painters and musicians of Germany, not only to our
praise, but to our affections and beneficence. Nor, if in their
literature we have been more backward, is the literature itself
without blame. Two centuries ago, translations from the
German were comparatively frequent in England: Luther's
Tahle-Talk is still a venerable classic in our language ; nay,
Jacob Bohme has found a place among us, and this not as a
dead letter, but as a living apostle to a still living sect of our
religionists. In the next century, indeed, translation ceased;
but then it was, in a great measure, because there was little
worth translating. The horrors of the Thirty-Years War, fol-
lowed by the conquests and conflagrations of Louis the Four-
teenth, had desolated the country ; French influence, extending
from the courts of princes to the closets of the learned, lay like
a baleful incubus over the far nobler mind of Germany ; and
all true nationality vanished from its literature, or was heard
only in faint tones, which lived in the hearts of the people, but
could not reach with any effect to the ears of foreigners.^ And
' Not that the Germans were idle ; or altogether engaged, as we too loosely
suppose, iu the work of commentary and lexicograpliy. On the contrary, tliey
rliymed and romanced with due vigor as to quantity ; only the quality was bad.
Two facts on this head may deserve mention . In the year 1749 tliere were
found in the library of one virtuoso no fewer than 300 volumes of devotional
poetry, containing, says Horn, " a treasure of 33,712 German hymns ; " and,
much about the same period, one of Gottsched's scholars had amassed as many
as 1,500 German novels, all of the seventeenth century. The hymns we under-
stand to be much better than the novels, or rather, perhaps, the novels to be
much worse than the hymns. Neither was critical study neglected, nor indeed
honest endeavor on all hands to attain improvement • witness the strange books
from time to time put forth, and the still stranger institutions establi.'^hed for
this purpose. Among the former we have the " Poetical Funnel " {Poctisrhe
Trichtfir), manufactured at Niirnberir in 1C50, and professing, within six hours,
to pour in the whole essence of this difficult art into the most unfurnished
32 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
now that the genius of the country has awakened in its old
strength, our attention to it has certainly awakened also ; and
if we yet know little or nothing of the Germans, it is not
because we wilfully do them wrong, but, in good part, because
they are somewhat difficult to know.
In fact, prepossessions of all sorts naturally enough find
their place here. A country which has no national literature,
or a literature too insignificant to force its way abroad, must
always be, to its neighbors, at least in every important spir-
itual respect, an unknown and misestimated country. Its
towns may figure on our maps ; its revenues, population, manu-
factures, political connections, may be recorded in statistical
books : but the character of the people has no symbol and no
voice; we cannot know them by speech and discourse, but
only by mere sight and outward observation of their manners
and procedure. Now, if both sight and speech, if both trav-
ellers and native literature, are found but ineffectual in this
respect, how incalculably more so the former alone ! To seize
a character, even that of one man, in its life and secret mech-
anism, requires a philosopher ; to delineate it with truth and
head. Nurnberg also was the chief seat of the famous M' istersanger and their
Sdngerziinfte, or Singer-guilds, in which poetry was taught and practised like
any other handicraft, and this by sober and well-meaning men, chiefly artisans,
who could not understand why labor, which manufactured so many tilings,
should not also manufacture another. Of these tuneful guild-brethren, Hans
Sachs, by trade a shoemaker, is greatly the most noted and most notable. His
father was a tailor ; he himself learned the mystery of song under one Nunne-
beck, a weaver. He was an adherent of his great contem|iorary Luther, who
has even deigned to acknowledge his services in the cause of the Reformation.
How diligent a laborer Sachs must have been, will appear from the fact, that,
in his 74th year (1568), on examining his stock for publication, he found that
he had written 6,048 poetical pieces, among which were 208 tragedies and
comedies; and this besides having all along kept hou.se, like an honest Xiirn-
berg burgher, by assiduous and sufficient shoemaking ! Hans is not witliout
genius, and a shrewd irony ; and, above all, the most gay, childlike, yet devout
and .solid character. A man neither to be despised nor patronized; but left
standing on his own basis, as a singular product, and a still legible symbol and
clear mirror of the time and country where he lived. His best piece known
to us, and many are well worth perusing, is the Fastnachtsspiel ( Shrovetide
Farce) of the Narrenschneideyi, where the Doctor cures a bloated and lethargic
patient by cutting out half a dozen Fools from his interior!
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. S3
impressiveness, is work for a poet. How shall one or two
sleek clerical tutors, with here and there a tedium-stricken
'squire, or speculative half-pay captain, give us views on such
a subject ? How shall a man, to whom all characters of indi-
vidual men are like sealed books, of which he sees only the
title and the covers, decipher, from his four-wheeled vehicle,
and depict to us, the character of a nation ? He courageously
depicts his own optical delusions ; notes this to be incompre-
hensible, that other to be insignificant ; much to be good, much
to be bad, and most of all indifferent ; and so, with a few flow-
ing strokes, completes a picture which, though it may not even
resemble any possible object, his countrymen are to take for
a national portrait. Nor is the fraud so readily detected : for
tlie character of a people has such complexity of aspect, that
even the honest observer knows not always, not perhaps after
long inspection, what to determine regarding it. From his,
only accidental, point of view, the figure stands before him
like the tracings on veined marble, — a mass of mere random
lines, and tints, and entangled strokes, out of which a lively
fancy may shape almost any image. But the image he brings
along Avith him is always the readiest ; this is tried, it answers
as well as another ; and a second voucher now testifies its cor-
rectness. Thus each, in confident tones, though it may be with
a secret misgiving, repeats his precursor ; the hundred times
repeated comes in the end to be believed ; the foreign nation
is now once for all understood, decided on, and registered
accordingly ; and dunce the thousandth writes of it like dunce
the first.
With the aid of literary and intellectual intercourse, much
of this falsehood may, no doubt, be corrected : yet even here,
sound judgment is far from easy ; and most national charac-
ters are still, as Hume long ago complained, the product rather
of popular prejudice than of philosophic insight. That the
Germans, in particular, have by no means escaped such mis-
representation, nay perhaps have had more than the common
sliare of it, cannot, in their circumstances, surprise us. From
the time of Opitz and Flemming, to those of Klopstock and
Lessing, — that is, from tlie early part of the seventeenth to
vol.. XIII. 3
34 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
the middle of the eighteenth century, — they had scarcely any
literature known abroad, or deserving to be known: their
political condition, during this same period, was oppressive
and every way unfortunate externally ; and at home, the nation,
split into so many factions and petty states, had lost all feel-
ing of itself as of a nation ; and its energies in arts as in arms
were manifested only in detail, too often in collision, and
always under foreign influence. The French, at once their
plunderers and their scoffers, described them to the rest of
Europe as a semi-barbarous people ; which comfortable fact
the rest of Europe was willing enough to take on their word.
During the greater part of the last century, the Germans, in
our intellectual survey of the world, were quietly omitted ; a
vague contemptuous ignorance prevailed respecting them ; it
was a Cimmerian land, where, if a few sparks did glimmer,
it was but so as to testify their own existence, too feebly to
enlighten us."^ The Germans passed for apprentices in all
j.rovinces of art ; and many foreign craftsmen scarcely allowed
them so much,
Madame de Staijl's book has done away with this : all Europe
is now aAvare that the Germans are something ; something
independent and apart from others ; nay something deep, im-
posing and, if not admirable, wonderful. What that some-
thing is, indeed, is still undecided ; for this gifted lady's Jlle-
inar/ne, in doing much to excite curiosity, has still done little
to satisfy or even direct it. We can no longer make ignorance
a boast, but we are yet far from having acquired right knowl-
edge ; and cavillers, excluded from contemptuous negation, have
^ So late .as the year 1811, we find, from Pinherton's Geofp-nph/, the sole
rr^presentative of German literature to he Gottslied (with his name wrong
ppelt), "who first introduced a more refined style." — Gottsched has been
dead the gre.ater part of a century ; and, for the last fifty years, ranks among
the Germans somenliat as Prynne or Alexander Koss does among ourselves.
A man of a cold, rigid, perseverant cliaracter, who mistook himself for a poet
and the perfection of critics, and had skill to pass current during the greater
jjart of his literary life for such. On tlie strength of liis Boiicuu and Battcnr,
lie long reigned supreme ; but it was like Night, in rayless majesty, and over
a slumbering people. They awoke before his death, and hurled liim, perhajw
too iiivlignantly, into his native Abyss.
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 35
found a resource in almost as contemptuous assertion. Trans-
lators are the same faithless and stolid race that they have ever
been : the particle of gold they bring us over is hidden from
all but the most patient eye, among ship-loads of yellow sand
and sulphur. Gentle Dulness too, in this as in all other things,
still loves her joke. The Germans, though much more at-
tended to, are perhaps not less mistaken than before.
Doubtless, however, there is in this increased attention a
progress towards the truth ; which it is only investigation and
discussion that can help us to find. The study of German
literature has already taken such firm root among us, and is
spreading so visibly, that by and by, as we believe, the true
character of it must and will become known. A result, which
is to bring us into closer and friendlier union with forty mil-
lions of civilized men, cannot surely be other than desirable.
If they have precious truth to impart, we shall receive it as
the highest of all gifts ; if error, we shall not only reject it,
but explain it and trace out its origin, and so help our breth-
ren also to reject it. In either point of view, and for all
profitable purposes of national intercourse, correct knowledge
is tlie first and indispensable preliminary.
Meanwhile, errors of all sorts prevail on this siibject : even
among men of sense and liberality we have found so much
hallucination, so many groundless or half-grounded objections
to German Literature, that the tone in which a multitude
of other men speak of it cannot appear extraordinary. To
mucli of this, even a slight knowledge of the Germans would
furnish a sufficient answer. We have thought it might be
useful were tlie chief of these objections marshalled in distinct
order, and examined Avith what degree of light and fairness is
at our disposal. In attempting this, we are vain enough, for
reasons already stated, to fancy ourselves discharging what is
in some sort a national duty. It is unworthy of one great
people to think falsely of another; it is unjust, and therefore
unworthy. Of the injury it does to ourselves we do not speak,
for that is an inferior consideration : yet surely if the grand
principle of free intercourse is so profitable in material com-
merce, much move must it be in the commerce of the mind, the
86 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
products of which are thereby not so much transported out of
one country into another, as multiplied over all, for the benefit
of all, and without loss to any. If that man is a benefactor
to the world who causes two ears of corn to grow where only
one grew before, much more is he a benefactor who causes
two truths to grow up together in harmony and mutual confir-
mation, where before only one stood solitary, and, on that sidc»
at least, intolerant and hostile.
In dealing with the host of objections which front us on
this subject, we think it may be convenient to range them
under two principal heads. The first, as respects chiefly un-
soundness or imperfection of sentiment ; an error which may
in general be denominated Bad Taste. The second, as respects
chiefly a wrong condition of intellect ; an error which may be
designated by the general title of Mijsticism. Both of these,
no doubt, are partly connected ; and each, in some degree,
springs from and returns into the other : yet, for present pur-
poses, the divisions may be precise enough.
First, then, of the first: It is objected that the Germans
have a radically bad taste. This is a deei>rooted objection,
which assumes many forms, and extends through many rami-
fications. Among men of less acquaintance with the subject
of German taste, or of taste in general, the spirit of the accu-
sation seems to be somewhat as follows : That the Germans,
with much natural susceptibility, are still in a rather coarse
and uncultivated state of mind; displaying, with the energy
and other virtues of a rude people, many of their vices also ;
in particular, a certain wild and headlong temper, which seizes
on all things too hastily and impetuously ; weeps, storms,
loves, hates, too fiercely and vociferously ; delighting in coarse
excitements, such as flaring contrasts, vulgar horrors, and all
sorts of showy exaggeration. Their literature, in j)artieular,
is thought to dwell with peculiar complacency among wizards
and ruined towers, with mailed knights, secret tribunals,
monks, spectres and banditti : on the other hand, there is an
undue love of moonlight, and mossy fountains, and the moral
sublime : then Ave have descriptions of things which should
not be described ; a general want of tact ; nay often a liollow-
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 87
ness and want of sense. In short, the German Muse comports
herself, it is said, like a passionate and rather fascinating, hut
tumultuous, uninstructed and but half-civilized Muse. A Idle
sauvage at best, we can only love her with a sort of super-
cilious tolerance ; often she tears a passion to rags ; and, in
her tumid vehemence, struts without meaning, and to the
offence of all literary decorum.
Now, in all this there is not wanting a certain degree of
truth. If any man will insist on taking Heinse's Ardinghello
and Miller's Slegwart, and the works of Veit Weber the
Younger, and, above all, the everlasting Kotzebue, as his
specimens of German literature, he may establish many things.
Black Forests, and the glories of Lubberland ; sensuality and
horror, the spectre nun, and the charmed moonshine, shall not
be wanting. Boisterous outlaws also, with huge whiskers and
the most cat-o'-mountain aspect ; tear-stained sentimentalists,
the grimmest man-haters, ghosts and the like suspicious char-
acters, will be found in abundance. We are little read in this
bowl-and-dagger department ; but we do understand it to have
been at one time rather diligently cultivated ; though at present
it seems to be mostly relinquished as unproductive. Other
forms of Unreason have taken its place ; Avhich in their turn
must yield to still other forms; for it is the nature of this
goddess to descend in frequent avatars among men. Perhaps
not less than five hundred volumes of such stuff could still be
collected from the bookstalls of Germany. By which truly we
may learn that there is in that country a class of unwise men
and unwise women; that many readers there labor under a
degree of ignorance and mental vacancy, and read not actively
but passively, not to learn but to be amused. Is this fact so
very new to us ? Or what should we think of a German critic
that selected his specimens of British literature from the
Castle Spectre, Mr. Lewis's Monk, or the Mgsteries of IJdolplio,
and Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus ? Or would he
judge rightly of our dramatic taste, if he took his extracts
from Mr. Egan's Tom and Jerry ; and told his readers, as he
might truly do, that no play had ever enjoyed such currency
on the English stage as this most classic performance ? We
38 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
think, not. In like manner, till some author of acknowledged
merit shall so write among the Germans, and be approved
of by critics of acknowledged merit among them, or at least
secure for himself some permanency of favor among the
million, we can prove nothing by such instances. That there
is so perverse an author, or so blind a critic, in the whole
compass of German literature, we have no hesitation in
denying.
But farther : among men of deeper views, and with regard
to works of really standard character, we find, though not tlie
same, a similar objection repeated. Goethe's Wilhelm Meister,
it is said, and Faust, are full of bad taste also. With respect to
the taste in which they are written, we shall have occasion
to say somewhat hereafter: meanwhile we may be permitted
to remark that the objection would have more force, did it
seem to originate from a more mature consideration of the
subject. We have heard few English criticisms of such works,
in which the first condition of an approach to accuracy was
complied with ; — a transposition of the critic into the author's
point of vision, a survey of the author's means and objects as
they lay before himself, and a just trial of these by rules of
universal application. Faust, for instance, passes with many
of us for a mere tale of sorcery and art-magic. It would
scarcely be more unwise to consider Hamlet as depending for
its. main interest on the ghost that walks in it, than to regard
Faust as a production of that sort. For the present, there-
fore, this objection may be set aside ; or at least may be con-
sidered not as an assertion, but an inquiry, the answer to
which may turn out rather that the German taste is different
from ours, than that it is worse. Nay, with regard even to
difference, we should scarcely reckon it to be of great moment.
Two nations that agree in estimating Shakspeare as the highest
of all poets, can differ in no essential principle, if they under-
stood one another, that relates to poetry.
Nevertheless, this opinion of our opponents has attained a
certain degree of consistency with itself ; one thing is thought
to throw light on another ; nay, a quiet little theory has been
pro^jounded to explain the whole phenomenon. The cause of
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. S9
this bad taste, we are assured, lies in the condition of tho
German authors. These, it seems, are generally very poor;
the ceremonial law of the country excludes them from all
society with the great ; they cannot acquire the polish of
drawing-rooms, but must live in mean houses, and therefore
write and think in a mean style.
Apart from the truth of these assumptions, and in respect of
the theory itself, we confess there is something in the face of
it that afilicts us. Is it, then, so certain that taste and riches
are indissolubly connected ? That truth of feeling must ever
be preceded by weight of purse, and the eyes be dim for uni-
versal and eternal Beauty, till they have long rested on gilt
walls and costly furniture ? To the great body of mankind
this were heavy news ; for, of the thousand, scarcely one is
rich, or connected with the rich ; nine hundred and ninety-;
nine have always been poor, and must always be so. We take
the liberty of questioning the whole postulate. We think
that, for acquiring true poetic taste, riches, or association witli
the rich, are distinctly among the minor requisites ; that, in
fact, they have little or no concern with the matter. This wa
shall now endeavor to make probable.
Taste, if it mean anything but a paltry connoisseurship,
must mean a general susceptibility to truth and nobleness ; a
sense to discern, and a heart to love and reverence, all beauty,
order, goodness, wheresoever or in whatsoever forms and
accompaniments they are to be seen. This surely implies, as
its chief condition, not any given external rank or situation,
but a finely gifted mind, purified into harmony with itself,
into keenness and justness of vision ; above all, kindled into
love and generous admiration. Is culture of this sort found
exclusively among the higher ranks ? We believe it proceeds
less from without than within, in every rank. The charms of
Nature, the majesty of Man, the infinite loveliness of Truth
and Virtue, are not hidden from the eye of the poor; but
from the eye of the vain, the corrupted and self-seeking, be
he poor or rich. In old ages, the humble IMinstrel, a mendi-
cant, and lord of nothing but his harp and his own iree soul,
had intimations of those glories, while to the proud Baron iu
40 CllITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
his barbaric halls they were unknown. Nor is there still any
aristocratic monopoly of judgment more than of genius : for
as to that Science of Negation, which is taught peculiarly by
men of professed elegance, we confess we hold it rather cheap.
It is a necessary, but decidedly a subordinate accomplish-
ment ; nay, if it be rated as the highest, it becomes a ruinous
vice. This is an old truth; yet ever needing new application
and enforcement. Let us know what to love, and we shall
know also what to reject; what to afhrm, and we shall know
also what to deny : but it is dangerous to befjin with denial,
and fatal to end with it. To deny is easy ; nothing is sooner
learnt or more generally practised: as matters go, we need
no man of polish to teach it ; but rather, if possible, a hun-
dred men of wisdom to sho\/ us its limits, and teach us it.«
reverse.
Such is our hypothesis of the case : how stands it with the
facts ? Are the fineness and truth of sense manifested by
the artist found, in most instances, to be proportionate to his
wealth and elevation of acquaintance ? Are they found to
have any perceptible relation either with the one or the
other ? We imagine, not. Whose taste in painting, for in-
stance, is truer and finer than Claude Lorraine's ? And was
not he a poor color-grinder ; outwardly the meanest of me-
nials ? Where, again, we might ask, lay Shakspeare's rent-
roll ; and what generous peer took him by the hand and
unfolded to him the " open secret " of the Universe ; teaching
him that this was beautiful, and that not so ? Was he not
a peasant by birth, and by fortune something lower ; and was
it not thought much, even in the height of his reputation,
that Southampton allowed him equal patronage with tlie
zanies, jugglers and bear-wards of the time ? Yet compare
his taste, even as it respects the negative side of things ; for,
in regard to the positive and far higher side, it admits no
comparison with any other mortal's, — compare it, for in-
stance, with the taste of Beaumont and Fletcher, his contem-
poraries, men of rank and education, and of fine genius like
himself. Tried even by the nice, fastidious and in great part
false and artificial delicacy of modern times, how stands it
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATUKE. 41
vritli tlie two parties ; with the gay triumphant men of fash-
ion, and the poor vagrant linklxjy ? Does the latter sin
against, we shall not say taste, but etiquette, as the former
do ? For one line, for one word, which some Chesterfield
might wish blotted from the first, are there not in the others
whole pages and scenes which, with palpitating heart, he
would hurry into deepest night ? This too, observe, respects
not their genius, but their culture ; not their appropriation of
beauties, but their rejection of deformities, by supposition the
grand and peculiar result of high breeding ! Surely, in such
instances, even that humble supposition is ill borne out.
The truth of the matter seems to be, that with the cul-
ture of a genuine poet, thinker or other artist, the influence
of rank has no exclusive or even special concern. For men
of action, for senators, public speakers, political writers, the
case may be different ; but of such we speak not at present.
Neither do we speak of imitators, and the crowd of mediocre
men, to whom fashionable life sometimes gives an external
inoffensiveness, often compensated by a frigid malignity of
character. "We speak of men who, from amid the perplexed
and conflicting elements of their every-day existence, are to
form themselves into harmony and wisdom, and show forth
the same wisdom to others that exist along with them. To
such a man, high life, as it is called, will be a province of
human life, but nothing more. He will study to deal with
it as he deals with all forms of mortal being ; to do it jus-
tice, and to draw instruction from it : but his light will come
from a loftier region, or he wanders forever in darkness;
dwindles into a man of vei's de societe, or attains at best to
be a Walpole or a Caylus. Still less can we think that he is
to be viewed as a hireling ; that his excellence will be regu-
lated by his pay. " Sufficiently provided for from within,
he has need of little from without : " food and raiment, and
an unviolated home, will be given him in the rudest land ;
and with these, while the kind earth is round him, and the
everlasting heaven is over him, the world has little more
that it can give. Is he poor ? So also were Homer and
Socrates; so was Samuel Johnson; so was John Milton.
42 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Shall we reproach, him with his poverty, and infer that,
because he is poor, he must likewise be worthless ? God
forbid that the time should ever come when he too shall
esteem riches the synonym of good! The spirit of Mam-
mon has a wide empire ; but it cannot, and must not, be
worshipped in the Holy of Holies. Nay, does not the heart
of every genuine disciple of literature, however mean his
sphere, instinctively deny this principle, as applicable either
to himself or another ? Is it not rather true, as D'Alembert
has said, that for every man of letters, who deserves that
name, the motto and the watchword will be Freedom, Truth,
and even this same Poverty ; that if he fear the last, the two
first can never be made sure to him ?
We have stated these things, to bring the question some-
what nearer its real basis ; not for the sake of the Germans,
who nowise need the admission of them. The German authors
are not poor ; neither are they excluded from association with
the wealthy and well-born. On the contrary, we scruple not
to say, that in both these respects they are considerably better
situated than our own. Their booksellers, it is true, cannot
pay as ours do ; yet, there as here, a man lives by his writ-
ings ; and, to compare Jordens Avith Johnson and JJ Israeli,
somewhat better there than here. No case like our own noble
Otway's has met us in their biographies ; Boyces and Chatter-
tons are much rarer in German than in English history. But
farther, and what is far more important : From the number of
universities, libraries, collections of art, museums, and other
literary or scientific institutions of a public or private nature,
we question whether the chance which a meritorious man of
letters has before him, of obtaining some permanent appoint-
ment, some independent civic existence, is not a hundred to
one in favor of the German, compared with the Englishman.
This is a weighty item, and indeed the weightiest of all ; for
it will be granted, that, for the votary of literature, the rela-
tion of entire dependence on the merchants of literature is, at
best, and liowever liberal the terms, a highly questionable one.
It tempts him daily and hourly to sink from an artist into a
manufacturer ; nay, so precarious, fluctuating and every way
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 43
unsatisfactory must his civic and economic concerns become,
that too many of his class cannot even attain the praise of
common honesty as manufacturers. There is, no doubt, a
spirit of martyrdom, as we have asserted, which can sustain
this too : but few indeed have the spirit of martyrs ; and that
state of matters is the safest which requires it least. The
German authors, moreover, to their credit be it spoken, seem
to set less store by wealth than many of ours. There have,
been prudent, quiet men among them, who actually appeared
not to want more wealth; whom wealth could not tempt,
either to this hand or that, from their preappointed aims.
Neither must we think so hardly of the German nobility as to
believe them insensible to genius, or of opinion that a patent
from the Lion King is so superior to "a patent direct from
Almighty Godi" A fair proportion of the German authors
are themselves men of rank : we mention only, as of our
own time, and notable in other respects, the two Stolbergs
and Kovalis. Let us not be unjust to this class of persons.
It is a poor error to figure them as wrapt up in ceremonial
stateliness, avoiding the most gifted man of a lower station ;
and, for their own supercilious triviality, themselves avoided
by all truly gifted men. On the whole, we should change
our notion of the German nobleman : that ancient, thirsty,
thick-headed, sixteen-quartered Baron, who still hovers in our
minds, never did exist in such perfection, and is now as ex-
tinct as our own Squire Western. His descendant is a man
of other culture, other aims and other habits. We question
whether there is an aristocracy in Europe, which, taken as a
Avhole, both in a public and private capacity, more honors art
and literature, and does more both in public and private to
encourage them. Excluded from society ! What, Ave would
ask, was Wieland's, Schiller's, Herder's, Johannes MuUer's
society ? Has not Goethe, by birth a Frankfort burgher,
been, since his twenty-sixth year, the companion, not of
nobles but of princes, and for half his life a minister of
state ? And is not this man, unrivalled in so many far
deeper qualities, known also and felt to be unrivalled in
nobleness of breeding and bearing ; fit not to learn of princes
44 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
in this respect, but by the example of his daily life to teach
them ?
AVe hear much of the munificent spirit displayed among
the better classes in England; their high estimation of the
arts, and generous patronage of the artist. We rejoice to
hear it ; we hope it is true, and will become truer and truer.
We hope that a great change has taken place among these
classes, since the time when Bishop Burnet could write of
them, " They are for the most part the worst instructed, and
the least knowing, of any of tlieir rank I ever went among ! "
Nevertheless, let us arrogate to ourselves no exclusive praise
in this particular. Other nations can appreciate the arts,
and cherish their cultivators, as well as we. Nay, while
learning from us in many other matters, we suspect the Ger-
mans might even teach us somewhat in regard to this. At
all events, the pity, which certain of our aiithors express for
the civil condition of their brethren in that country is, from
such a quarter, a superfluous feeling. Nowhere, let us rest
assured, is genius more devoutly honored than there, by all
ranks of men, from peasants and burghers up to legislators
and kings. It was but last year that the Diet of the Em-
pire passed an Act in favor of one individual poet: the Final
Edition of Goethe's Works was guaranteed to be protected
against commercial injury in every State of Germany ; and
special assurances to that effect were sent him, in the kindest
terms, from all the Authorities there assembled, some of them
the highest in his country or in Europe. Nay, even while
we write, are not the newspapers recording a visit from the
Sovereign of Bavaria in person to the same venerable
man ? — a mere ceremony perhaps, but one which almost
recalls to us the era of the antique Sages and the Grecian
Kings.
This hypothesis, therefore, it would seem, is not supported
by facts, and so returns to its original elements. The causes
it alleges are impossible : but, what is still more fatal, the
effect it proposes to account for has, in reality, no existence.
We venture to deny that the Germans are defective in taste ;
even as a nation, as a public, taking one thing with another,
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 45
■we imagine they may stand comparison with any of their
neighbors ; as writers, as critics, they may decidedly court it.
True, there is a mass of dulness, awkwardness and false sus-
ceptibility in the lower regions of their literature : but is not
bad taste eudemical in such regions of every literature under
the sun ? Pure Stupidity, indeed, is of a quiet nature, and
content to be merely stupid. But seldom do we find it pure ;
seldom unadulterated with some tincture of ambition, which
drives it into new and strange metamorphoses. Here it has
assumed a contemptuous trenchant air, intended to represent
superior tact, and a sort of all-wisdom ; there a truculent atra-
bilious scowl, which is to stand for passionate strength : now
we have an outpouring of tumid fervor ; now a fruitless, asth-
matic hunting after wit and humor. Grave or gay, enthusias-
tic or derisive, admiring or despising, the dull man would be
something which he is not and cannot be. Shall we confess
that, of these two common extremes, we reckon the German
error considerably the more harmless, and, in our day, by
far the more curable ? Of unwise admiration much may
be hoped, for much good is really in it : but unwise con-
tempt is itself a negation ; nothing comes of it, for it is
nothing.
To judge of a national taste, however, we must raise our
view from its transitory modes to its perennial models ; from
the mass of vulgar writers, who blaze out and are extinguished
with the popular delusion which they flatter, to those few who
are admitted to shine with a pure and lasting lustre ; to whom,
by coinmon consent, the eyes of the people are turned, as to
its loadstars and celestial luminaries. Among German writers
of this stamp, we would ask any candid reader of them, let
him be of what country or creed he might, whether bad taste
struck him as a prevailing characteristic. Was Wieland's taste
uncultivated ? Taste, we should say, and taste of the very
species which a disciple of the Negative School would call the
highest, formed the great object of his life ; the perfection he
unweariedly endeavored after, and, more than any other per-
fection, has attained. The most fastidious Frenchman might
read him, with admiration of his merely French (qualities. And
46 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
is not Klopstock, with his clear enthusiasm, his azure purity,
and heavenly if still somewhat cold and lunar light, a man of
taste ? His Messias reminds us oftener of no other poets than
of Virgil and Kacine. But it is to Lessing that an Englishman
would turn with readiest affection. We cannot but wonder
that more of this man is not known among us ; or that the
knowledge of him has not done more to remove such miscon-
ceptions. Among all the writers of the eighteenth century,
we will not except even Diderot and David Hume, there is not
one of a more compact and rigid intellectual structure ; who
more distinctly knows what he is aiming at, or with more
' gracefulness, vigor and precision sets it forth to his readers.
He thinks with the clearness and piercing sharpness of the
most expert logician ; but a genial iire pervades him, a wit, a
heartiness, a general richness and fineness of nature, to which
most logicians are strangers. He is a sceptic in many tilings,
but the noblest of sceptics ; a mild, manly, half-careless enthu-
siasm struggles through his indignant unbelief : he stands
before us like a toilworn but unwearied and heroic champion,
earning not the conquest but the battle ; as indeed himself
admits to us, that " it is not the finding of truth, but the
honest search for it, that profits." We confess, we should be
entirely at a loss for the literary creed of that man who reck-
oned Lessing other than a thoroughly cultivated writer ; nay,
entitled to rank, in this particular, with the most distinguished
writers of any existing nation. As a poet, as a critic, philoso-
pher, or controversialist, his style will be found precisely such
as we of England are accustomed to admire most ; brief, ner-
vous, vivid ; yet quiet, without glitter or antithesis ; idiomatic,
pure without purism ; transparent, yet full of cliaracter and
reflex hues of meaning. " Every sentence," says Horn, and
justly, " is like a phalanx ; " not a word wrong-placed, not a
word that could be spared ; and it forms itself so calmly and
lightly, and stands in its completeness, so gay, yet so impreg-
nable ! As a poet he contemptuously denied himself all merit ;
but his readers have not taken him at his word : here too a
similar felicity of style attends him ; his plays, his Minna von
Bdrnhelm, his Kniille Galotti, his Nathan der Weise, have a
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 47
ffenuine and graceful poetic life ; yet no works known to us in
any language are purer from exaggeration, or any appearance
of falsehood. They are pictures, we might say, painted not in
colors, but in crayons ; yet a strange attraction lies in them ;
for the figures are grouped into the finest attitudes, and true
and spirit-speaking in every line. It is with his style chiefly
that we have to do here ; yet we must add, that the matter of
his works is not less meritorious. His Criticism and philo-
sophic or religious Scepticism were of a higher mood than had
yet been heard in Europe, still more in Germany : his Dra-
maturgie first exploded the pretensions of the French theatre,
and, with irresistible conviction, made Shakspeare known to
his countrymen ; preparing the way for a brighter era in their
literature, the chief men of which still thankfully look back
to Lessing as their patriarch. His Laocoon, with its deep
glances into the philosophy of Art, his Dialogues of Free-
mason.i, a work of far higher import than its title indicates,
may yet teach many things to most of us, which we know not,
and ought to know.
With Lessing and Klopstock might be joined, in this respect,
nearly every one, we do not say of their distinguished, but even
of their tolerated contemporaries. The two Jacobis, known
more or less in all countries, are little known here, if they are
accused of wanting literary taste. These are men, whether as
thinkers or poets, to be regarded and admired for their mild
and lofty wisdom, the devoutness, the benignity and calm
grandeur of their philosophical views. In such, it were
strange if among so many high merits, this lower one of a
just and elegant style, which is indeed their natural and even
necessary product, had been wanting. We recommend the
elder Jacobi no less for his clearness than for his depth ; of
the younger, it may be enough in this point of view to say,
that the chief praisers of his earlier poetry were the French.
Neither are Hamann and Mendelssohn, who could meditate
deep thoughts, defective in the power of littering them Avith
pro})riety. The Phcedon of the latter, in its chaste precision
and simplicity of style, may almost remind us of Xenophon :
Socrates, to our mind, has spoken in no modern language so
48 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
like Socrates, as here, by the lips of this wise and cultivated
Jew.*
Among the poets and more popular writers of the time, the
case is the same : Utz, Gellert, Cramer, Ramler, Kleist, Hage-
dorn, Eabener, Gleim, and a multitude of lesser men, whatever
excellences they might want, certainly are not chargeable with
bad taste. Nay, perhaps of all writers they are the least
chargeable with it : a certain clear, light, unaffected elegance,
of a higher nature than French elegance, it might be, yet to
the exclusion of all very deep or genial qualities, was the ex-
cellence they strove after, and, for the most part, in a fair
measure attained. They resemble English writers of the same,
or perhaps an earlier period, more than any, other foreigners :
apart from Pope, whose influence is visible enough, Beattie,
Logan, Wilkie, Glover, unknown perhaps to any of them,
might otherwise have almost seemed their models. Goldsmith
also would rank among them ; perhaps in regard to true poetic
genius, at their head, for none of them has left us a Vicar of
Wakefield ; though, in regard to judgment, knowledge, general
talent, his place would scarcely be so high.
The same thing holds in general, and with fewer drawbacks,
of the somewhat later and more energetic race, denominated
^ Tlie history of Mendelssohn is interesting in itself, and full of encourage-
ment to all lovers of self-iinprovement. At thirteen he was a wandering
Jewish beggar, without healtli, without home, almost without a language, —
for the jargon of broken Hebrew and provincial German which he spoke could
scarcely be called one. At middle age he could write tliis Phcr.don ; was a man
of wealth and breeding, and ranked among the teachers of his age. Like
Pope, he abode by his original creed, though often solicited to change it :
indeed, the grand problem of liis life was to better the inward and outward
co:idition of his own ill-fated peoj)le ; for whom he actually accomplished
much benefit. He was a mild, shrewd and worthy man ; and might well love
P'lC'l.tii and Socrates, for his own character was Socratic. Hn was a friend
of Lessiug's : indeed, a pupil ; for Lessing. having accidoiitally met him at
chess, recogni/.cd the spirit that lay struggling under such incumbrances, and
generously' undertook to hel]) him. By teaching the poor .Tew a little Greek,
he disenchanted him from the Talmud and the Rabbins. The two were after-
wards colaborers in Nicolai's Deutsche Blbliothek, the first Gorman Heview
of any character; v.hich, however, in the hands of Nicolai himself, it sub-
sequently lost. Mendelssohn's "Works have mostly been translated into
I'rench.
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 49
the Gottingen School ; in contradistinction from the Saxon, to
which Rabener, Cramer and Gellert directly belonged, and
most of those others indirectly. Holty, Burger, the two Stol-
bergs, are men whom Bossu might measure with his scales and
compasses as strictly as he pleased. Of Herder, Schiller,
Goethe, we speak not here : they are men of another stature
and form of movement, whom Bossu's scale and compasses
could not measure without difficulty, or rather not at all. To
say that such men wrote with taste of this sort, were saying
little ; for this forms not the apex, but the basis, in their con-
ception of st3^1e ; a quality not to be paraded as an excellence,
but to be nnderstood as indispensable, as there by necessity
and like a thing of course.
In truth, for it must be spoken out, our opponents are
widely astray in this matter ; so widely that their views of it
are not only dim and perplexed, but altogether imaginary and
delusive. It is proposed to school the Germans in the Alpha-
bet of taste ; and the Germans are already busied with their
Accidence ! Far from being behind other nations in the prac-
tice or science of Criticism, it is a fact, for which we fearlessly
refer to all competent judges, that they are distinctly and even
considerably in advance. We state what is already known to
a great part of Europe to be true. Criticism has assumed a
new form in Germany ; it proceeds on other principles, and
l)roposes to itself a higher aim. The grand question is not
now a question concerning the qualities of diction, the cohe-
rence of metaphors, the fitness of sentiments, the general logi-
cal truth, in a work of art, as it was some half-century ago
among most critics ; neither is it a question mainly of a ps}-
chological sort, to be answered by discovering and delineating
the peculiar nature of the poet from his poetry, as is usual
with the best of our own critics at present : but it is, not in-
deed exclusively, but inclusively of those two other questions,
properly and ultinaately a question on the essence and peculiar
life of the poetry itself. The first of these questions, as we
see it answered, for instance, in the criticisms of Johnson and
Karnes, relates, strictly speaking, to the garment of poetry ;
the second, indeed, to its bodtj and material existence, a much
VOL. Xlll. 4
50 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
higher point ; but only the last to its soul and spiritual exist-
ence, by which alone can the body, in its movements and
phases, be informed with significance and rational life. The
problem is not now to determine by what mechanism Addison
composed sentences and struck out similitudes ; but by what
far finer and more mysterious mechanism Shakspeare organ-
ized his dramas, and gave life and individuality to his Ariel
and his Hamlet. Wherein lies that life ; how have they at-
tained that shape and individuality ? Whence comes that
empyrean fire, which irradiates their whole being, and pierces,
at least in starry gleams, like a diviner thing, into all hearts ?
Are these dramas of his not verisimilar only, but true ; nay,
truer than reality itself, since the essence of unmixed reality
is bodied forth in them under more expressive symbols ?
What is this unity of theirs ; and can our deeper inspection
discern it to be indivisible, and existing by necessity, because
each work springs, as it were, from the general elements of all
Thought, and grows up therefrom, into form and expansion by
its own growth ? Not only who was the poet, and how did he
compose ; but what and how was the poem, and why was it a
poem and not rhymed eloquence, creation and not figured
passion ? These are the questions for the critic. Criticism
stands like an interpreter between the inspired and the unin-
spired ; between the prophet and those who hear the melody
of his Avords, and catch some glimpse of their material mean-
ing, but understand not their deeper import. She pretends to
open for us this deeper import ; to clear our sense that it may
discern the pure brightness of this eternal Beauty, and recog-
nize it as heavenly, under all forms where it looks forth, and
reject, as of the earth earthy, all forms, be their material
splendor what it may, where no gleaming of that other shines
through.
This is the task of Criticism, as the Germans understand it.
And how do they accomplish this task ? By a vague declama-
tion clothed in gorgeous mystic phraseology ? By vehement
tumultuous anthems to the poet and his poetry ; by epithets
and laudatory similitudes drawn from Tartarus and Elysium,
and all intermediate terrors and glories ; whereby, in truth, it
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 61
is rendered clear both that the poet is an extremely great poet,
and also that the critic's allotment of understanding, over*
flowed by these Pythian raptures, has unhappily melted into
deliquium ? Kowise in this manner do the Germans proceed :
but by rigorous scientific inquiry ; by appeal to principles
which, whether correct or not, have been deduced patiently,
and by long investigation, from the highest and calmest re-
gions of Philosophy. For this finer portion of their Criticism
is now also embodied in systems ; and standing, so far as these
reach, coherent, distinct and methodical, no less than, on their
much shallower foundation, the systems of Boileau and Blair.
That this new Criticism is a complete, much more a certain
science, we are far from meaning to affirm : the cesthetic theo-
ries of Kant, Herder, Schiller, Goethe, Eichter, vary in ex-
ternal aspect, according to the varied habits of the individual ;
and can at best only be regarded as approximations to the
truth, or modifications of it ; each critic representing it, as it
harmonizes more or less perfectly with the other intellectual
persuasions of his own mind, and of different classes of minds
that resemble his. Nor can we here undertake to inquire
what degree of such approximation to the truth tliere is iu
each or all of these writers ; or in Tieck and the two Schlegels,
who, especially the latter, have labored so meritoriously in
reconciling these various opinions ; and so successfully in im-
pressing and diffusing the best spirit of them, first in their
own country, and now also in several others. Thus much,
however, we will say : That we reckon the mere circumstance
of such a science being in existence, a ground of the highest
consideration, and worthy the best attention of all inquir-
ing men. For we should err widely if we thought that this
new tendency of critical science pertains to Germany alone.
It is a European tendency, and springs from the general con-
dition of intellect in Europe. We ourselves have all, for the
last thirty years, more or less distinctly felt the necessity of
such a science : witness the neglect into which our Blairs and
Bossus have silentl}-^ fallen ; our increased and increasing ad-
miration, not only of Shakspeare, but of all his contemporaries,
and of all who breathe any portion of his spirit j our coutro*
52 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
versy whether Pope was a poet ; and so much vague effort on
the part of our best critics everywhere to express some still
unexpressed idea concerning the nature of true poetry ; as if
they felt in their hearts that a pure glory, nay a divineness,
belonged to it, for which they had as yet no name and no in-
tellectual form. But in Italy too, in France itself, the same
thing is visible. Their grand controversy, so hotly urged, be-
tween the Classicists and Romanticists, in which the Schlegels
are assumed, much too loosely, on all hands, as the patrons
and generalissimos of the latter, shows us sufficiently what
spirit is at work in that long-stagnant literature. Doubtless
this turbid fermentation of the elements will at length settle
into clearness, both there and here, as in Germany it has al-
ready in a great measure done ; and perhaps a more serene
and genial poetic day is everywhere to be expected with some
confidence. How much the example of the Germans may have
to teach us in this particular, needs no farther exposition.
The authors and first promulgators of this new critical doc-
trine were at one time contemptuously named the New School ;
nor was it till after a war of all the few good heads in the
nation with all the many bad ones had ended as such wars
must ever do,^ that these critical principles were generally
adopted ; and their assertors found to be no School, or new
heretical Sect, but the ancient primitive Catholic Communion,
of which all sects that had any living light in them were but
members and subordinate modes. It is, indeed, the most
sacred article of this creed to preach and practise universal
tolerance. Every literature of the world has been cultivated
' It began in Schiller's Muscvalmnnnch for 1797. The Xenien (a series of
philuso])liii- epigrams jointly by Schiller and Goethe) descended there unex-
pectedly, like a flood of ethereal fire, on the German literary world ; quicken-
ing all that was noble into new life, but visiting the ancient empire of Dnlness
with astonishment and unknown pangs. The agitation was extreme ; scarcely
since the age of Lutlier has there been such stir and strife in the intellect of
Germany; indeed, scarcely since that age has there been a controversy, if wo
consider its ultimate bearings on the best and noblest interests of mankind,
so important as this, which, for the time, seemed only to turn on metaphysical
subtl 'tics, anil matters of mere elegance. Its farther apjdicalions became
ap])areut by degrees.
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 53
by the Germans ; and to every literature they have studied to
give due honor. JShakspeare and Homer, no doubt, occupy
alone the loftiest station in the poetical Olympus ; but there
is space in it for all true Singers out of every age and clime.
Ferdusi and the primeval Mythologists of Hindostan live in
brotherly union with the Troubadours and ancient Story-tellers
of the West. The wayward mystic gloom of Calderon, the
lurid fire of Dante, the auroral light of Tasso, the clear icy
glitter of Racine, all are acknowledged and reverenced ; nay
in the celestial forecourt an abode has been appointed for the
Gressets and Delilles, that no spark of inspiration, no tone of
mental music, might remain unrecognized. The Germans
study foreign nations in a spirit which deserves to be oftener
imitated. It is their honest endeavor to understand each,
with its own peculiarities, in its own special manner of exist-
ing ; not that they may praise it, or censure it, or attempt to
alter if, but simply that they may see this manner of existing
as the nation itself sees it, and so participate in whatever
worth or beauty it has brought into being. Of all literatures,
accordingly, the German has the best as well as the most
translations ; men like Goethe, Schiller, Wieland, Schlegel,
Tieck, have not disdained this task. Of Shakspeare there are
three entire versions admitted to be good ; and we know not
how many partial, or considered as bad. In their criticisms
of hiin, we ourselves have long ago admitted that no such clear
judgment or hearty appreciation of his merits had ever been
exhibited by any critic of our own.
To attempt stating in separate aphorisms the doctrines of
this new poetical system, would, in such space as is now
allowed us, be to insure them of misapprehension. The
science of Criticism, as the Germans practise it, is no study of
an hour; for it springs from the depths of thought, and re-
motely or immediately connects itself with the subtlest prob-
lems of all philosophy. One characteristic of it we ma}'' state,
the obvious parent of many others. Poetic beauty, in its pure
essence, is not, by this theory, as by all our theories, from
Hume's to Alison's, derived from anything external, or of
merely intellectual origin ; not from association, or any reflex
M CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
or reminiscence of mere sensations; nor from natural love,
either of imitation, of similarity in dissimilarity, of excitement
by contrast, or of seeing difficulties overcome. On the con-
trary, it is assumed as underived ; not borrowing its existence
from such sources, but as lending to most of these their sig-
nificance and principal charm for the mind. It dwells and is
born in the inmost Spirit of Man, united to all love of Virtue,
to all true belief in God ; or rather, it is one with this love
and this belief, another phase of the same highest principle
in the mysterious infinitude of the human Soul. To appre-
hend this beauty of poetry, in its full and purest brightness,
is not easy, but difficult ; thousands on thousands eagerly read
poems, and attain not the smallest taste of it ; yet to all un-
corrupted hearts, some effulgences of this heavenly glory are
here and there revealed; and. to apprehend it clearly and
wholly, to acquire and maintain a sense and heart that sees
and worships it, is the last perfection of all humane culture.
With mere readers for amusement, therefore, this Criticism
has, and can have, nothing to do ; these find their amusement,
in less or greater measure, and the nature of Poetry remains
forever hidden from them in deepest concealment. On all
hands, "there is no truce given to the hypothesis, that the
ultimate object of the poet is to please. Sensation, even of
the finest and most rapturous sort, is not the end, but the
means. Art is to be loved, not because of its effects^ but
because of itself ; not because it is useful for spiritual plea-
sure, or even for moral culture, but because it is Art, and the
highest in man, and the soul of all Beauty. To inquire after
its utility, would be like inquiring after the rdility of a God,
or, what to the Germans would sound stranger than it does to
us, the utU'dij of Virtue and Religion. — On these particulars,
the authenticity of which we might verify, not so much by
citation of individual passages, as by reference to the scope
and spirit of whole treatises, we must for the present leave
our readers to their own reflections, flight we advise them,
it would be to inquire farther, and, if possible, to see the
matter with their own eyes.
Meanwhile, that all this must tend, among the Germans, to
STATE OF GEBMAN LITERATURE. 65
raise the general standard of Art, and of what an Artist ought
to be in his own esteem and that of others, will be readily
inferred. The character of a Poet does, accordingly, stand
higher with the Germans than with most nations. That he is
a man of integrity as a man ; of zeal and honest diligence in
his art, and of true manly feeling towards all men, is of course
l^resupposed. Of persons that are not so, but employ their
gift, in rhyme or otherwise, for brutish or malignant purposes,
it is understood that such lie without the limits of Criticism,
being subjects not for the judge of Art, but for the judge of
Police. But even with regard to the fair tradesman, vrho offers
his talent in open market, to do work of a harmless and ac-
ceptable sort for hire, — with regard to this person also, their
opinion is very low. The "Bread-artist," as they call him,
can gain no reverence for himself from these men. " Unhappy
mortal," says the mild but lofty-minded Schiller, " Unhappy
mortal, that, with Science and Art, the noblest of all instru-
ments, effectest and attemptest nothing more than the day-
drudge with the meanest ; that, in the domain of perfect
Freedom, bearest about in thee the spirit of a Slave ! " Xay,
to the genuine Poet they deny even the privilege of regarding
what so many cherish, under the title of their " fame," as the
best and highest of all. Hear Schiller again : —
" The Artist, it is true, is the son of his age ; but pity for
him if he is its pupil, or even its favorite ! Let some benefi-
cent divinity snatch him, when a suckling, from the breast of
his mother, and nurse him with the milk of a better time, that
he may ripen to his full stature beneath a distant Grecian sky.
And having grown to manhood, let him return, a foreign shape,
into his century ; not, however, to delight it by his presence,
but dreadful, like the Son of Agamemnon, to purify it. The
matter of his works he will take from the present, but their
form he will derive from a nobler time ; nay from beyond all
time, from the absolute unchanging unity of his OAvn nature.
Here, from the pure ether of his spiritual essence, flows down
the Fountain of Beauty, uncontaminated by tlie pollutions of
ages and generations, which roll to and fro in their turbid vor-
tex far beneath it. His matter Caprice can dishonor, as she
66 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
has ennobled it ; but the chaste form is withdrawn from her
mutations. The Roman of the first century had long bent the
knee before his Caesars, when the statues of Eome were still
standing erect ; the temples continued holy to the eye, when
their gods had long been a laughing-stock ; and the abomina-
tions of a iSTero and a Commodus were silently rebuked by the
style of the edifice, which lent them its concealment. Man
has lost his dignity, but Art has saved it, and preserved it for
him in expressive marbles. Truth still lives in fiction, and
from the copy the original will be restored.
" But how is the Artist to guard himself from the corrup-
tions of his time, which on every side assail him ? By despis-
ing its decisions. Let him look upwards to his dignity and the
law, not downwards to his happiness and his wants. Free
alike from the vain activity that longs to impress its traces on
the fleeting instant, and from the querulous spirit of enthusi-
asm that measures by the scale of perfection the meagre prod-
uct of reality, let him leave to mere Understanding, which is
here at home, the province of the actual ; while he strives, by
uniting the possible with the necessary, to produce the ideal.
This let liim imprint and express in fiction and truth ; imprint
ifc in the sport of his imagination and the earnest of his actions ;
imprint it in all sensible and spiritual forms, and cast it silently
into everlasting time." ^
Still higher are Fichte's notions on this subject ; or rather,
expressed in higher terms, for the central principle is the same
both in the philosopher and the poet. According to Fichte,
there is a " Divine Idea " pervading the visible Universe ;
which visible Universe is indeed but its symbol and sensible
manifestation, having in itself no meaning, or even true exist-
ence independent of it. To the mass of men this Divine
Idea of tlie world lies hidden : yet to discern it, to seize it,
.'tnd live wholly in it, is the condition of all genuine virtue,
knowledge, freedom ; and the end, therefore, of all spiritual
etTort in every age. Literary Men are the appointed interpret-
ers of tliis Divine Idea ; a perpetual priesthood, we might say,
1 ll},rr (Up Aesthetisclit; Erzifhnng des Menschen, — On the iEsthetic Educa-
tirtu of Man.
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 67
standing forth, generation after generation, as the dispensers
and living types of God's everlasting wisdom, to show it in
their writings and actions, in such particular form as their
own particular times require it in. For each age, by the law
of its nature, is different from every other age, and demands
a different representation of the Divine Idea, the essence of
which is the same in all ; so that the literary man of one
century is only by mediation and reinterpretation applicable
to the wants of another. But in every century, every man
who labors, be it in what province he may, to teach others,
must iirst have possessed himself of the Divine Idea, or, at
least, be with his whole heart and his whole soul striving after
it. If, without possessing it or striving after it, he abide dili-
gently by some material practical department of knowledge,
he may indeed still be (says Fichte, in his ragged way) a " use-
ful hodman ; " but should he attempt to deal with the Whole,
and to become an architect, he is, in strictness of language,
" Nothing ; " — " he is an ambiguous mongrel between the
possessor of the Idea, and the man who feels himself solidly
supported and carried on by the common Eeality of things :
in his fruitless endeavor after the Idea, he has neglected to
acquire the craft of taking part in this Reality ; and so hovers
between two worlds, without pertaining to either." Elsewhere
he adds : —
" There is still, from another point of view, another division
in our notion of the Literary Man, and one to us of immediate
application. ]S"aniely, either the Literary Man has already
laid hold of the whole Divine Idea, in so far as it can be com-
prehended by man, or perhaps of a special portion of this its
comprehensible part, — which truly is not possible without at
' least a clear oversight of the whole ; — he has already laid
hold of it, penetrated, and made it entirely clear to himself, so
that it has become a possession recallable at all times in the
same shape to his view, and a component part of his person-
ality : in that case he is a completed and equipt Literary jMan,
a man who has studied. Or else, he is still struggling and
striving to make the Idea in general, or that particular portion
and point of it, from which onwards he for his part means
C8 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
to penetrate the whole, entirely clear to himself; detached
sparkles of light already spring forth on him from all sides,
and disclose a higher world before him ; but they do not yet
unite themselves into an indivisible whole ; they vanish from
his view as capriciously as they came ; he cannot yet bring
them under obedience to his freedom : in that case he is a pro-
gressing and self-unfolding literary man, a Student. That it
be actually the Idea, which is possessed or striven after, is
common to both. Should the striving aim merely at the out-
ward form, and the letter of learned culture, there is then pro-
duced, when the circle is gone round, the completed, when it
is not yet gone round, the progressing. Bungler {Stumper).
The latter is more tolerable than the former ; for there is
fitill room to hope that, in continuing his travel, he may at
some future point be seized by the Idea ; but of the first all
hope is over." *
From this bold and lofty principle the duties of the Literary
Man are deduced with scientific precision ; and stated, in all
their sacredness and grandeur, with an austere brevity more
impressive than any rhetoric. Fichte's metaphysical theory
may be called in question, and readily enough misapprehended ;
but the sublime stoicism of his sentiments will find some re-
sponse in many a heart. We must add the conclusion of his
first Discourse, as a farther illustration of his manner : —
" In disquisitions of the sort like ours of to-day, which all the
rest too must resemble, the generality are wont to censure :
First, their severity ; very often on the good-natured supposi-
tion that the speaker is not aware how much his rigor must
displease us ; that we have but frankly to let him know this,
and then doubtless he will reconsider himself, and soften his
statements. Tims, we said above that a man who, after liter-
ary culture, had not arrived at knowledge of the Divine Idea,
or did not strive towards it, was in strict speech Nothing ; and
farther down, we said that he was a Bungler. This is in tlie
style of those unmerciful expressions by which philosophers
give such offence. — Now, looking away from the present case,
^ IHifr das H'e^fn des Gekhten (On the Nature of the Literary Man) ; a
Coarse of Lectures delivered at Erlaugeu La 1S05.
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 53
that we may front the maxim in its general shape, I remind
you that this species of character, without decisive force to
renounce all respect for Truth, seeks merely to bargain and
cheapen something out of her, whereby he himself on easier
terms may attain to some consideration. But Truth, which
once for all is as she is, and cannot alter aught of her nature,
goes on her way ; and there remains for her, in regard to those
who desire her not simply because she is true, nothing else but
to leave them standing as if they had never addressed her.
" Then farther, discourses of this sort are wont to be cen-
sured as unintelligible. Thus I figure to myself, — nowise
you. Gentlemen, but some completed Literary Man of the
second species, whose eye the disquisition here entered upon
chanced to meet, as coming forward, doubting this way and
that, and at last reflectively exclaiming : ' The Idea, the Divine
Idea, that which lies at the bottom of Appearance : what, pray,
may this mean ? ' Of such a questioner I would inquire in
turn : ' What, pray, may this question mean ? ' — Investigate
it strictly, it means in most cases nothing more than : * Under
what other names, and in what other formulas, do I already
know this same tiling, which thou expressest by so strange
and to me so unknown a symbol ? ' And to this again in most
cases the only suitable reply were : ' Thou knowest this thing
not at all, neither under this nor under any other name ; and
wouldst thou arrive at the knowledge of it, thou must even
now begin at the beginning to make study thereof ; — and
then, most fitly, under that name by which it is here first pre-
sented to thee ! ' "
With such a notion of the Artist, it were a strange incon-
sistenc}' did Criticism show itself unscientific or lax in estimat-
ing the product of his Art. For light on this point, we might
refer to the writings of almost any individual among the Ger-
man critics : take, for instance, the Charakteristiken of the
two Schlegels, a work too of their younger years ; and say
whether in depth, clearness, minute and patient fidelity, these
Characters have often been surpassed, or the import and jjoetic
worth of so many poets and poems more vividly and accurately
brought to view. As an instance of a much higher kind, we
60 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
might refer to Goethe's criticism of Hamlet in his Wllhelm
Melster. This truly is what may be called the poetry of criti-
cism : for it is in some sort also a creative art ; aiming, at least,
to reproduce under a different shape the existing product of
the poet ; painting to the intellect what already lay painted
to the heart and the imagination. Nor is it over poetry
alone that Criticism watches with such loving strictness : the
mimic, the pictorial, the musical arts, all modes of repre-
senting or addressing the highest nature of man are acknowl-
edged as younger sisters of Poetry, and fostered with like care.
Winkelmann's History of Plastic Art is known by repute to all
readers : and of those who know it by inspection, many may
have wondered why such a work has not been added to our
OAvn literature, to instruct our own sculptors and painters. On
this subject of the plastic arts, we cannot withhold the follow-
ing little sketch of Goethe's, as a specimen of pictorial criticism
in what we consider a superior style. It is of an imaginary
Landscape-painter, and his views of Swiss scenery ; it will
bear to be studied minutely, for there is no word without its
meaning: —
"He succeeds in representing the cheerful repose of lake
prospects, where houses in friendly approximation, imaging
themselves in the clear wave, seem as if bathing in its depths ;
shores encircled with green hills, behind which riee forest
mountains, and icy peaks of glaciers. The tone of coloring in
such scenes is gay, mirthfully clear ; the distances as if over-
flowed with softening vapor, which from watered hollows and
river-valleys mounts up grayer and mistier, and indicates their
windings. No less is the master's art to be praised in views
from valleys lying nearer the high Alpine ranges, where de-
clivities slope down, luxuriantly overgrown, and fresh streams
roll rapidly along by the foot of rocks.
" With exquisite skill, in the deep shady trees of the fore-
ground, he gives the distinctive character of the several species ;
satisfying us in the form of the whole, as in the structure of
the branches, and the details of the leaves ; no less so, in the
fresh green with its manifold shadings, where soft airs appear
as if fanning us with benignant breath, and the lights as if
thereby put in motion.
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 61
"In the middle-ground, his lively green tone grows fainter
by degrees ; and at last, on the more distant mountain-tops,
passing into weak violet, weds itself with the blue of the sky.
But our artist is above all happy in his paintings of high
Alpine regions ; in seizing the simple greatness and stillness
of their character ; the wide pastures on the slopes, where dark
solitary firs stand forth from the grassy carpet ; and from high
cliffs foaming brooks rush down. Whether he relieve his
])asturages with grazing cattle, or the narrow winding rocky
l)ath with mules and laden pack-horses, he paints all with equal
truth and richness ; still introduced in the proper place, and
not in too great copiousness, they decorate and enliven these
scenes, without interrupting, without lessening their peaceful
solitude. The execution testifies a master's hand ; easy, with
a few sure strokes, and yet complete. In his later pieces, he
employed glittering English permanent-colors on paper : these
pictures, accordingly, are of pre-eminently blooming tone ;
cheerful, yet, at the same time, strong and full.
" His views of deep mountain-chasms, where, round and
round, nothing fronts us but dead rock, where, in the abyss,
overspanned by its bold arch, the wild stream rages, are, in-
deed, of less attraction than the former: yet' their truth excites
us ; Ave admire the great effect of the whole, produced, at so
little cost, by a few expressive strokes, and masses of local
colors.
'•'AMth no less accuracy of character can he represent the
regions of the topmost Alpine ranges, where neither tree nor
shrub any more appears ; but only, amid the rocky teeth and
snow-summits, a few sunny spots clothe themselves with a soft
sward. Beautiful, and balmy and inviting as he colors these
sj)ots, he has here wisely forborne to introduce grazing herds ;
for these regions give food only to the chamois, and a perilous
employment to the wild-hay-men." ^
1 Tlio i)oor wild-hay-inaii of tlie TJigibcrg,
Wliose trade is, on tlie brow of the aliyss,
To mow tTic common grass from nooks ixuil slielves
To which the cattle dare not climli.
Schiller's Wuhelni Tell.
62 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
We have extracted this passage from Wilhelm Meisters
Wanderjahre, Goethe's last Novel. The perusal of his whole
"Works would show, among many other more important facts,
that Criticism also is a science of which he is master ; that if
ever any man had studied Art in all its branches and bear-
ings, from its origin in the depths of the creative spirit, to its
minutest finish on the canvas of the painter, on the lips of the
poet, or under the finger of the musician, he was that man.
A nation which appreciates such studies, nay requires and
rewards them, cannot, wherever its defects may lie, be defec-
tive in judgment of the Arts.
But a weightier question still remains. What has been the
fruit of this its high and just judgment on these matters ?
What has criticism profited it, to the bringing forth of good
"works ? How do its poems and its poets correspond with so
lofty a standard ? We answer, that on this point also, Ger-
many may rather court investigation than fear it. There are
poets in that country who belong to a nobler class than most
nations have to show in these days ; a class entirely unknown
to some nations ; and, for the last two centuries, rare in all.
We have no hesitation in stating that we see in certain of the
best German poets, and those too of our own time, something
which associates them, remotely or nearly we say not, but
which does associate them with the Masters of Art, the Saints
of Poetry, long since departed, and, as we thought, without
successors, from the earth, but canonized in the hearts of all
generations, and yet living to all by the memory pi what they
did and were. Glances we do seem to find of that ethereal
glory which looks on us in its full brightness from the Trans-
figuratlon of Raffaelle, from the Tempest of Shakspeare ; and,
in broken but purest and still heart-piercing beams, struggling
through the gloom of long ages, from the tragedies of Sophocles,
and tlie weather-worn sculptures of the Tarthenon. This is
that heavenly spirit wliicli, best seen in the aerial embodiment
of poetry, but spreading likewise over all the thoughts and
actions of an age, has given us Surreys, Sydneys, Raleighs in
court and cam]), Cecils in policy, Hookers in divinity, Bacons
in philosophy, and Shakspeares and Spensers in song. All
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 63
hearts that know this, know it to be the highest; and
that, in poetry or elsewhere, it alone is true and imperish-
able. In affirming that any vestige, however feeble, of this
divine spirit, is discernible in German poetry, we are aware
that we place it above the existing poetry of any other
nation.
To prove this bold assertion, logical arguments were at all
times unavailing; and, in the present circumstances of the
case, more than usually so. Neither will any extract or speci-
men help us ; for it is not in parts, but in whole poems, that
the spirit of a true poet is to be seen. We can, therefore, only
name such men as Tieck, Richter, Herder, Schiller, and, above
all, Goethe ; and ask any reader who has learned to admire
wisely our own literature of Queen Elizabeth's age, to peruse
these writers also ; to study them till he feels that he has
understood them, and justly estimated both their light and
darkness ; and then to pronounce whether it is not, in some
degree, as we have said. Are there not tones here of that old
melody ? Are there not glimpses of that serene soul, that
calm harmouious strength, that smiling earnestness, that Love
and Faith and Humanity of nature ? Do these foreign con-
temporaries of ours still exhibit, in their characters as men,
something of that sterling nobleness, that union of majesty
with meekness, which we must ever venerate in those our
spiritual fathers ? And do their works, in the new form of
this century, show forth that old nobleness, not consistent only,
with the science, the precision, the scepticism of these days,
but wedded to them, incorporated with them, and shining
through them like their life and soul ? Might it in truth
almost seem to us, in reading the prose of Goethe, as if we
were reading that of Milton ; and of Milton writing with the
culture of this time ; combining French clearness witli old
English depth ? And of his poetry may it indeed be said that
it is poetry, and yet the poetry of our own generation ; an
ideal world, and yet the world we even now live in ? — These
questions we must leave candid and studious inqxiirers to
answer for themselves ; premising only tliat the secret is not
to be found on the surface ; that the first reply is likely to be
64 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
in the negative, but with inquirers of this sort by no means
likely to be the final one.
To ourselves, we confess, it has long so appeared. The
poetry of Goethe, for instance, we reckon to be Poetry, some-
times in the very highest sense of that word ; yet it is no remi-
niscence, but something actually present and before us; no
looking back into an antique Fairyland, divided by impassable
abysses from the real world as it lies about us and within us ;
•but a looking round upon that real world itself, now rendered
holier to our eyes, and once more become a solemn temple,
where the spirit of Beauty still dwells, and is still, under new
emblems, to be worshipped as of old. With Goethe, the my-
thologies of bygone days pass only for what they are : we have
no witchcraft or magic in the common acceptation ; and spirits
no longer bring with them airs from heaven or blasts from
liell; for Pandemonium and the steadfast Empyrean have
faded away, since the opinions which they symbolized no longer
are. Neither does he bring his heroes from remote Oriental
climates, or periods of Chivalry, or any section either of At-
lantis or the Age of Gold ; feeling that the reflex of these
things is cold and faint, and only hangs like a cloud-picture
in the distance, beautiful but delusive, and which even the
simplest know to be a delusion. The end of Poetry is higher :
she must dwell in Reality, and become manifest to men in the
forms among which they live and move. And this is what we
prize in Goethe, and more or less in Schiller and the rest ; all
of whom, each in his own way, are writers of a similar aim.
The coldest sceptic, the most callous worldling, sees not the
actual asjjects of life more sharply than they are here delin-
eated : the Nineteenth Century stands before us, in all its
contradi(!ti(jn and perplexity; barren, mean and baleful, as we
liave all known it ; yet here no longer mean or barren, but
enamelled into beauty in the poet's spirit; for its secret signifi-
cance is hiid open, and thus, as it were, the life-giving fire that
shinibers in it is called forth, and flowers and foliage, as of old,
are springing on its bleakest wildernesses, and overmantling
its sternest olilTs. For these men have not only the clear eye,
but the loving heart. They have penetrated into the mystery
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 63
of Nature ; after long trial they have been initiated ; and to
unwearied endeavor, Art has at last yielded her secret ; and
thus can the Spirit of our Age, embodied in fair imaginations,
look forth on us, earnest and full of meaning, from their works.
As the first and indispensable condition of good poets, they are
wise and good men : much they have seen and suffered, and
they have conquered all this, and made it all their own ; they
have known life in its heights and depths, and mastered it in
both, and can teach others what it is, and how to lead it rightly.
Their minds are as a mirror to us, where the perplexed image
of our own being is reflected back in soft and clear interpreta-
tion. Here mirth and gravit}' are blended together ; wit rests
on deep devout wisdom, as the greensward with its flowers
must rest on the rock, whose foundations reach do\ynward to
the centre. In a word, they are believers ; but their faith is
no sallow plant of darkness ; it is green and flowery, for it
grows in the sunlight. And this faith is the doctrine they have
to teach us, the sense which, under every noble and graceful
form, it is their endeavor to set forth : —
"As all Xature's thousand changes
But one changeless God proclaim,
So in Art's wide kingdoms ranges
One sole meaning, still the same :
This is Truth, eternal Reason,
Which from Beauty takes its dress.
And, serene through time and season,
Stands for aye in loveliness."
Such indeed is the end of Poetry at all times ; yet in no recent
literature known to us, except the German, has it been so far
attained ; nay, perhaps, so much as consciously and steadfastly
attempted.
The reader feels that if this our opinion be in any measure
true, it is a truth of no ordinary moment. It concerns not
this writer or that ; but it opens to us new views on the for-
tune of spiritual culture with ourselves and all nations. Have
we not heard gifted men complaining that Poetry had passed
away without return ; that creative imagination consorted not
with vigor of intellect, and that in the cold light of science
VOL. XIII. 5
66 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
there was no longer room for faith in things unseen ? The
old simplicity of heart was gone ; earnest emotions must no
longer be expressed in earnest symbols ; beauty must recede
into elegance, devoutness of character be replaced by clearness
of thought, and grave wisdom by shrewdness and persiflage.
Such things we have heard, but hesitated to believe them. If
the poetry of the Germans, and this not by theory but by ex-
ample, have proved, or even begun to prove, the contrary, it
will deserve far higher encomiums than any we have passed
upon it.
In fact, the past and present aspect of German literature
illustrates the literature of England in more than one way.
Its history keeps pace with that of ours ; for so closely are all
European communities connected, that the phases of mind in
any one country, so far as these represent its general circum-
stances and intellectual position, are but modified repetitions
of its phases in every other. We hinted above that the Saxon
School corresponded with what might be called the Scotch :
Cramer Avas not unlike our Blair ; Von Cronegk might be com-
pared with Michael Bruce ; and Rabener and Gellert with
Beattie and Logan. To this mild and cultivated period, there
succeeded, as with us, a partial abandonment of poetry, in favor
of political and philosophical Illumination. Then was the
time when hot war was declared against Prejudice of all sorts ;
Utility was set up for the universal measure of mental as well
as material value ; poetry, except of an economical and pre-
ceptorial character, was found to be the product of a rude age ;
and religious enthusiasm was but derangement in the biliary
organs. Then did the Prices and Condorcets of Germany in-
dulge in day-dreams of perfectibility ; a new social order was
to bring back the Saturnian era to the world ; and philoso-
phers sat on their sunny Pisgah, looking back over dark sav-
age deserts, and forward into a land lluwing with milk and
honey.
This period also passed away, with its good and its evil ;
of which chiefly the latter seems to be remembered ; for we
scarcely ever find the affair alluded to, except in terms of
contempt, by the title Anflddrerci (lUuminationism) ; and its
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. G7
partisans, in subsequent satirical controversies, receiv^ed the
nickname of Ph'distem (Philistines), which the few scattered
remnants of them still bear, both in writing and speech. Poe-
try arose again, and in a new and singular shape. The Soi'-
roivs of Werter, Gotz von Berlich'mgen, and the Robbers, may
stand as patriarchs and representatives of three separate
classes, which, commingled in various proportions, or separately
coexisting, now with the preponderance of this, now of that,
occupied the whole popular litei-ature of Germany till near
the end of the last century. These were the Sentimentalists,
the Chivalry-play writers, and other gorgeous and outrageous
persons ; as a whole, now pleasantly denominated the Kraft-
tncinner, literally, Power-men. They dealt in sceptical lamen-
tation, mysterious enthusiasm, frenzy and suicide : they recurred
with fondness to the Feudal Ages, delineating many a battle-
mented keep, and swart buff -belted man-at-arms ; for in reflec-
tion, as in action, they studied to be strong, vehement, rapidly
effective ; of battle-tumult, love-madness, heroism and despair,
there was no end. This literary period is called the Stunn-
und Drang-Zeit, the Storm- and Stress-Period ; for great indeed
was the woe and fury of these Power-men. Beauty, to their
mind, seemed synonymous with Strength, All passion was
poetical, so it were but fierce enough. Their head moral vir-
tue was pride ; their beau ideal of manhood was some transcript
of Milton's Devil, Often they inverted Bolingbroke's plan,
and instead of ''patronizing Providence," did directly the op-
posite ; raging with extreme animation against Fate in gen-
eral, because it enthralled free virtue ; and with clenched
hands, or sounding shields, hurling defiance towards the vault
of heaven.
' These Power-men are gone too ; and, with few exceptions,
save the three originals above named, their works have already
followed them. The application of all this to our own litera-
ture is too obvious to require much exposition. Have not we
also had our Power-men ? And will not, as in Germany, to
us likewise a milder, a clearer, and a truer time come round ?
Our Byron was in his youth but what Schiller and Goethe had
been in theirs : yet the author of Werter wrote Iiih'ujivuie and
68 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Torquato Tasso ; and he who began with the Robbers ended
with JVUhelm Tell. With longer life, all things Avere to have
been hoped for from Byron : for he loved truth in his inmost
heart, and would have discovered at last that his Corsairs and
Harolds were not true. It was otherwise appointed. But
with one man all hope does not die. If this way is the right
one, we too ijhall iind it. The poetry of Germany, mean-
while, we cannot but regard as well deserving to be studied, in
this as in other points of view : it is distinctly an advance
beyond any other known to us ; whether on the right path or
not, may be still uncertain ; but a path selected by Schillers
and Goethes, and vindicated by Schlegels and Tiecks, is surely
worth serious examination. For the rest, need we add that it
is study for self-instruction, nowise for purposes of imitation,
that we recommend ? Among the deadliest of poetical sins
is imitation ; for if every man must have his own way of
thought, and his own way of expressing it, much more every
nation. But of danger on that side, in the country of Shak-
speare and Milton, there seems little to be feared.
We come now to the second grand objection against Ger-
man literature, its Mysticism. In treating of a subject itseli
so vague and dim, it were well if we tried, in the first place,
to settle, with more accuracy, what each of the two contend-
ing parties really means to say or to contradict regarding it.
ilysticism is a word in the mouths of all : yet, of the hundred,
perhaps not one has ever asked himself what this opprobrious
epithet properly signified in his mind ; or where the boundary
between true science and this Land of Chimeras was to be laid
down. Examined strictly, mystical, in most cases, will turn
out to be merely synonymous Avith not understood. Yet surel}^
there may be haste and oversight here ; for it is well known,
that, to the understanding of anything, two conditions are
equally required ; intelUyihility in the thing itself being no
whit more indispensable than mtelligence in the examiner of
it. " I am bound to find you in reasons, Sir," said Johnson,
"but not in brains ; " a speech of the most shocking unpolite-
ness, yet truly enough expressing the state of the case.
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 69
It may throw some light on this question, if we remind our
readers of the following fact. In the field of human inves-
tigation there are objects of two sorts; First, the visible, in-
cluding not only such as are material, and may be seen by the
bodily eye ; but all such, likewise, as may be represented in a
shape, before the mind's eye, or in any way pictured there :
And, secondly, the invisible, or such as are not only unseen by
human eyes, but as cannot be seen by any eye ; not objects of
Sv?nse at all j not capable, in short, of being pictured or imaged
in the mind, or in any way represented by a shape either with-
out the mind or within it. If any man shall here turn upon
us, and assert tliab there are no such invisible objects ; that
whatever cannot be so pictured or imagined (meaning irnaged) is
nothing, and the science that relates to it nothing ; we shall
regret the circumstance. We shall request him, however, to
consider seriously and deeply within himself, what he means
simply by these two words, God and his own Soul ; and
whether he finds that visible shape and true existence are liere
also one and the same ? If he still persist in denial, we have
nothing for it, but to wish him good speed on his own sepa-
rate path of inquiry ; and he and we will agree to differ on
this subject of mysticism, as on so many more important ones.
Now, whoever has a material and visible object to treat, be
it of Natural Science, Political Philosophy, or any such ex-
ternally and sensibly existing department, may represent it to
his own mind, and convey it to the min-ds of others, as it were,
by a direct diagram, more complex indeed than a geometrical
diagram, but still with the same sort of precision ; and, pro-
vided his diagram be complete, and the same both to himself
and his reader, he may reason of it, and discuss it, with the
learness, and, in some sort, the certainty of geometry itself.
If he do not so reason of it, this must be for want of compre-
hension to image out the ivhole of it, or of distinctness to con-
vey the savie whole to his reader : the diagrams of the two
are different ; the conclusions of the one diverge from those
of the other, and the obscurit}' here, provided the reader be a
man of sound judgment and due attentiveness, results from
incapacity on the part of the writer. In such a case, the latter
(-
<0 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
is j ustly regarded as a man of imperfect intellect ; lie grasps
more than he can carry ; he confuses what, with ordinary
faculty, might be rendered clear ; he is not a mystic, but, what
is much Avorse, a dunce. Another matter it is, however, when
the object to be treated of belongs to the invisible and imma-
terial class ; cannot be pictured out even by the writer him-
self, much less, in ordinary symbols, set before the reader.-^
In this case, it is evident, the difficulties of comprehension
are increased an hundred-fold. Here it will require long,
patient and skilful effort, both from the writer and the reader,
before the two can so much as speak together; before the
former can make known to the latter, not how the matter
stands, but even what the matter is, which they have to in-
vestigate in concert. He must devise new means of explana-
tion, describe conditions of mind in which this invisible idea
arises, the false persuasions that eclipse it, the false shows
that may be mistaken for it, the glimpses of it that appear
elsewhere ; in short, strive, by a thousand well-devised methods,
to guide his reader up to the perception of it ; in all which,
moreover, the reader must faithfully and toilsomely co-operate
with him, if any fruit is to come of their mutual endeavor.
Should the latter take up his ground too early, and affirm to
himself that now he has seized Avhat he still has not seized ;
that this and nothing else is the thing aimed at by his teacher,
the consequences are plain enough : disunion, darkness and
contradiction between the two ; the writer has written for
another man, and this reader, after long provocation, quarrels
with him finally, and quits him as a mystic.
Nevertheless, after all these limitations, we shall not hesi-
tate to admit, that there is in the German mind a tendency to
mysticism, properly so called ; as perhaps there is, unless care-
fully guarded against, in all minds tempered like theirs. It
is a fault ; but one hardly separable from the excellences we
admire most in th(>m. A simple, tender and devout nature,
seized by some touch of divine Truth, and of this perhaps
under some rude enough symbol, is rapt with it into a whirl-
wind of unutterable thoughts ; wild gleams of s})lendor dart
to and fro in the eye of the seer, but the vision will not abide
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 71
•vith him, and yet he feels that its light is light from heaven,
and precious to him beyond all price. A simple nature, a
George Fox or a Jacob Bohme, ignorant of all the ways of
men, of the dialect in which they speak, or the forms b}^ which
they think, is laboring with a poetic, a religious idea, which,
like all such ideas, must express itself by word and act, or
consume the heart it dwells in. Yet how shall he speak ; how
shall he pour forth into other souls that of which his own soul
is full even to bursting ? He cannot speak to us ; he knows
not our state, and cannot make known to us his own. His
words are an inexplicable rhapsody, a speech in an unknown
tongue. Whether there is meaning in it to the speaker him-
self, and how much or how true, we shall never ascertain ; for
it is not in the language of men, but of one man who had not
learned the language of men ; and, with himself, the key to
its full interpretation was lost from amongst us. These are
mystics ; men who either know not clearly their own meaning,
or at least cannot put it forth in formulas of thought, where-
by others, with Avhatever difficulty, may apprehend it. AVas
tlieir meaning clear to themselves, gleams of it will jet shine
through, how ignorantly and unconsciously soever it may have
been delivered ; was it still wavering and obscure, no science
could have delivered it wisely. In either case, much more in
the last, they merit and obtain the name of mystics. To scoif-
ers they are a ready and cheap prey ; but sober persons under-
stand that pure evil is as unknown in this lower Universe as
pure good ; and that even in mystics, of an honest and deep-
feeling heart, there may be much to reverence, and of the rest
more to pity than to mock.
But it is not to apologize for Bohme, or INrovalis, or the
school of Theosophus and Flood, that we have here under-
taken. iSTeither is it on such persons that the charge of
mysticism brought against the Germans mainly rests. Bohme
is little known among us ; Xovalis, much as he deserves know-
ing, not at all ; nor is it understood, that, iu their own coun-
try, these men rank higher than they do. or might do, with
ourselves. The chief mystics in Germany, it would appear,
are the Transcendental Bhilosopliers, Kant, Fichte, and
72 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Schelling! With these is the chosen seat of mysticism,
these are its " tenebrific constellation," from which it " doth
ray out darkness " over the earth. Among a certain class of
thinkers, does a frantic exaggeration in sentiment, a crude
fever-dream in opinion, anywhere break forth, it is directly
labelled as Kantism ; and the moon-struck speculator is, for
the time, silenced and put to shame by this epithet. For
often, in such circles, Kant's Philosophy is not only an absur-
dity, but a wickedness and a horror ; the pious and peaceful
sage of Konigsberg passes for a sort of Necromancer and
Black-artist in Metaphysics ; his doctrine is a region of bound-
less baleful gloom, too cvinningly broken here and there by
splendors of unholy fire ; spectres and tempting demons people
it, and, hovering over fathomless abysses, hang gay and gor-
geous air-castles, into which the hapless traveller is seduced
to enter, and so sinks to rise no more.
If anything in tlie history of Philosophy could surprise us,
it might well be this. Perhaps among all the metaphysical
writers of the eighteenth century, including Hume and Hartley
themselves, there is not one that so ill meets the conditions
of a mystic as this same Immanuel Kant. A quiet, vigilant,
clear-sighted man, who had become distinguished to the world
in mathematics before he attempted philosophy ; who in his
writings generally, on this and other subjects, is perhaps
characterized by no quality so much as precisely by the dis-
tinctness of his conceptions, and the sequence and iron strict-
ness with which he reasons. To our own minds, in the little
that we know of him, he has more than once recalled Father
lioscovich in Natural Philosophy ; so piercing, yet so sure ; so
concise, so still, so simple ; with such clearness and composure
does he mould the complicacy of his subject ; and so firm,
sharp and definite are the results he evolves from it.^ Right
or wrong as his hypothesis may be, no one that knows him
will suspect that he himself had not seen it, and seen over it ;
1 We have heard tliat the Latiu Translation of his Works is unintelligible,
the Translator himself not having understood it; also that Villers is no safe
guide in the study of him. Neither Villers nor those Latin Works arc known
t(i us.
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 73
had not meditated it with calmness and deep thought, and
studied throughout to expound it with scientitic rigor. Nei-
ther, as we often hear, is there any superhuman faculty re-
quired to follow hira. We venture to assure such of our
readers as are in any measure used to metaphysical study,
that the Kritik der reinen Vernunft is by no means the
hardest task they have tried. It is true, there is an unknown
and forbidding terminology to be mastered ; but is not this
the case also witli Chemistry, and Astronomy, and all other
Sciences that deserve the name of science ? It is true, a care-
less or unprepared reader will find Kant's writing a riddle ;
but will a reader of this sort make much of Newton's Frhi-
cipia, or D'Alembert's Calculus of Variations ? He Avill make
notliing of them ; perhaps less than nothing ; for if he trust
to his own judgment, he will pronounce them madness. Yet
if the Philosophy of Mind is any philosophy at all, Physics
and Mathematics must be plain subjects compared with it.
But these latter are happy, not only iu the fixedness and sim-
plicity of their methods, but also in the universal acknowledg-
ment of their claim to that prior and continual intensity of
application, without which all progress in any science is im-
posbible ; though more than one may be attempted without it ;
and blamed, because without it they will yield no result.
The truth is, German Philosophy differs not more widely
from ours in the substance of its doctrines than in its manner
of communicating them. The class of disquisitions named
Kambi-rhllosophie (Parlor-fire Philosophy) in Germany, is
held in little estimation there. No right treatise on any-
thing, it is believed, least of all on the nature of the human
mind, can be profitably read, unless the reader himself co-
operates : the blessing of half-sleep in such cases is denied
him ; he must be alert, and strain every faculty, or it profits
nothing. Philosophy, with these men, pretends to be a Science,
nay the living principle and soul of all Sciences, and must be
treated and studied scientifically, or not studied and treated
at all. Its doctrines should be present with every cultivated
writer; its spirit should pervade every piece of composition,
how slight or popular soever : but to treat itself popularly
Ti CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
would be a degradation and an impossibility. Philosophy
dwells aloft in the Temple of Science, the divinity of its
inmost shrine ; her dictates descend among men, but she
herself descends not ; whoso would behold her, must climb
with long and laborious effort; nay still linger in the fore-
court, till manifold trial have proved him worthy of admission
into the interior solemnities.
It is the false notion prevalent respecting the objects aimed
at, and the purposed manner of attaining them, iu German
Philosophy, that causes, in great part, this disappointment of
our attempts to study it, and the evil report which the disap-
pointed naturally enough bring back with them. Let the
reader believe us, the Critical Philosophers, whatever they
may be, are no mystics, and have no fellowship with mystics.
What a mystic is, we have said above. But Kant, Pichte, and
Schelling are men of cool judgment, and determinate energetic
character ; men of science and profound and universal investi-
gation ; nowhere does the world, in all its bearings, spiritual
or material, theoretic or practical, lie pictured in clearer or
truer colors than in such heads as these. We have heard
Kant estimated as a spiritual brother of Bohme : as justly
might we take Sir Isaac Newton for a spiritual brother of
Baron Swedenborg, and Laplace's Mechanism of the Heavens
for a peristyle to the Vision of the Neio Jerusalem. That this
is no extravagant comparison, we appeal to any man acquainted
with any single volume of Kant's writings. Neither, though
Schelling's system differs still more widely from ours, can we
reckon Schelling a mystic. He is a man evidently of deep
insight into individual things ; speaks wisely, and reasons with
the nicest accuracy, on all matters where we understand his
data. Fairer might it be in us to say that we had not yet ap-
preciated his truth, and therefore could not appreciate his error.
P>nt above all, the mysticism of Fichte might astonish us. The
cold, colossal, adamantine spirit, standing erect and clear, like
a Cato Major among degenerate men ; fit to have been the
teacher of the Stoa, and to have discoursed of Beauty and
Virtue in the groves of Academe ! Our reader has seen some
words of Fichte's : are these like words of a mystic ? We
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 75
state Fichte's character, as it is known and admitted by men
of all parties among the Germans, when we say that so robust
an intellect, a soul so calm, so lofty, massive and immovable,
has not mingled in philosophical discussion since the time of
Luther. We figure his motionless look, had he heard this
charge of mysticism ! For the man rises before us, amid con-
tradiction and debate, like a granite mountain amid clouds and
wind. Ridicule, of the best that could be commanded, has
been already tried against him ; but it could not avail. What
was the wit of a thousand wits to him ? The cry of a thou-
sand choughs assaulting that old cliff of granite : seen from
the summit, these, as they winged the midway air, showed
scarce so gross as beetles, and their cry was seldom even au-
dible. Fichte's opinions may be true or false ; but his char-
acter, as a thinker, can be slightly valued only by such as know
it ill ; and as a man, approved by action and suffering, in his
life and in his death, he ranks with a class of men who were
common only in better ages than ours.
The Critical Philosophy has been regarded by persons of
approved judgment, and nowise directly implicated in the
furthering of it, as distinctly the greatest intellectual achieve-
ment of the century in which it came to light. August Wil-
helm Schlegel has stated in plain terms his belief, that in
respect of its probable influence on the moral culture of Eu-
rope, it stands on a line with the Reformation. We mention
Schlegel as a man whose opinion has a known value among
ourselves. But the worth of Kant's philosophy is not to be
gathered from votes alone. The noble system of morality,
the purer theology, the lofty views of man's nature derived
from it, nay perhaps the very discussion of such matters, to
which it gave so strong an impetus, have told with remarkable
and beneficial influence on the whole spiritual character of
Germany. No writer of any importance in that countr}-, be
he acquainted or not with the Critical Philosophy, but breathes
a spirit of devoutness and elevation more or less directly drawn
from it. Such men as Goethe and Schiller cannot exist with-
out eifect in any literature or in any century : but if one cir-
cumstance more than another has contributed to forward their
76 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
endeavors, and introduce that higher tone into the literature
of Germany, it has been this philosophical system ; to which,
in wisely believing its results, or even in wisely denying them,
all that was lofty and pure in the genius of poetry, or the
reason of man, so readily allied itself.
That such a system must, in the end, become known among
ourselves, as it is already becoming known in France and
Italy, and over all Europe, no one acquainted, in any measure
with the character of this matter, and the character of Eng-
land, will hesitate to predict. Doubtless it will be studied
here, and by heads adequate to do it justice ; it will be inves-
tigated duly and thoroughly ; and settled in our minds on the
footing which belongs to it, and v/here thenceforth it must
continue. Respecting the degrees of truth and error which
Avill then be found to exist in Kant's system, or in the modifi-
cations it has since received, and is still receiving, we desire
to be understood as making no estimate, and little qualified to
make any. We would have it studied and known, on general
gi-ounds ; because even the errors of such men are instructive ;
and becavise, without a large admixture of truth, no error can
exist under such combinations, and become diffused so widely.
To judge of it we pretend not : we are still inquirers in the
mere outskirts of the matter ; and it is but inquiry that we
Avish to see promoted,
^Meanwhile, as an advance or first step towards this, we may
state something of what has most struck ourselves as charac-
terizing Kant's system ; as distinguishing it from every other
known to us ; and chielly from the Metaphysical Philosophy
which is tauglit in Britain, or rather which icas taught ; for,
on looking round, we see not that there is any such I'hilosophy
in existence at the present day.-^ The Kantist, in direct con-
' The name of Dugald Stewart is a name venerable to all Europe, and to
none more dear and venerable tlian to ourselves. Ncvertiieless his writings
are not a Pliilosophy, l>ut a making ready for one. He does not enter on the
field to till it ; he only encon)])asses it with fences, invites cultivators, and
drives away intruders: often (fallen on evil days) he is reduced to long argu-
ments with tlie ]iassers-hy, to prove that it is a field, that this so highly
jiri/.ccl domain of liis is, in truth, .soil and suhstance, not clouds and shadow.
We regard his di.scussions ou the nature of Philosophic Language, and his
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 77
tradiction to Locke and all his followers, both of the French
and English or Scotch school, commences from within, and
proceeds outwards ; instead of commencing from without, and,
with various precautions and hesitations, endeavoring to pro-
ceed inwards. The ultimate aim of all Philosophy must be to
interpret appearances, — from the given symbol to ascertain
the thing. Isow the first step towards this, the aim of what
may be called Primary or Critical Philosophy, must be to find
some indubitable principle ; to fix ourselves on some unchange-
able basis; to discover what the Germans call the Urwahr,
the Primitive Truth, the necessarily, absolutely and eternally
True. This necessarily Time, this absolute basis of Truth,
Locke silently, and Keid and his followers with more tumult,
find in a certain modified Experience, and evidence of Sense,
in the universal and natural persuasion of all men. Not so
the Germans : they deny that there is here any absolute Truth,
or that any Philosophy whatever can be built on such a basis ;
nay they go to the length of asserting, that such an appeal
even to the universal persuasions of mankind, gather them
with what precautions you may, amounts to a total abdication
of Philosophy, strictly so called, and renders not only its far-
ther progress, but its very existence, impossible. What, they
would say, have the persuasions, or instinctive beliefs, or
whatever they are called, of men, to do in this matter ? Is it
not the object of Philosopliy to enlighten, and rectify, and
many times directly contradict these very beliefs ? Take, for
unwearied efforts to set forth and guard against its fallacies, as worthy of all
acknowledgment ; as indeed forming the greatest, perhaps the only true im-
provement, wiiich Philosophy has received among us in our age. It is only
to a superficial observer that the import of these discussions can seem trivial;
riglitly understood, they give sufficient and final answer to Hartley's and Dar-
win's, and all other possible forms of Materialism, the grand Idolatry, as wo
may riglitly call it, by wliich, in all times, the true Worship, that of the In-
visible, lias been polluted and withstood. Mr. Stewart has written warmly
against Kant ; but it would surprise him to find liow much of a Kantist ho
himself essentially is. lias not the whole scope of his labors been to reconcile
what a Kantist would call his Understanding witii his Reason ; a noble, but
still too fruitless effort to overarch the chasm which, for all minds but his
own, separates his Science from his Religion ? We regard the assiduous
•tudy of his Works as the best preparation for studying those of Kaut.
'78 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
instance, the voice of all generations of men on the subject of
Astronomy. Will there, out of any age or climate, be one
dissentient against the fact of the Sun's going round the
Earth ? Can any evidence be clearer ; is there any persuasion
more universal, any belief more instinctive ? And yet the
Sun moves no hair's-breadth ; but stands in the centre of his
Planets, let us vote as we please. So is it likewise with our
evidence for an external independent existence of Matter, and,
in general, with our whole argument against Hume ; whose
reasonings, from the premises admitted both by him and us,
the Germans affirm to be rigorously consistent and legitimate,
.and, on these premises, altogether uncontroverted and incon-
trovertible. British Philosophy, since the time of Hume, ap-
pears to them nothing more than a " laborious and unsuccessful
striving to build dike after dike in front of our Churches and
Judgraent-halls, and so turn back from them the deluge of
Scepticism, with which that extraordinary writer overliowed
us, and still threatens to destroy whatever we value most."
This is August Wilhelm Schlegel's verdict; given in words
equivalent to these.
The Germans take up the matter differently, and would
assail Hume, not in his outworks, but in the centre of his
citadel. They deny his first principle, that Sense is the only
inlet of Knowledge, that Experience is the primary ground of
Belief. Their Primitive Truth, however, they seek, not his-
torically and by experiment, in the universal persuasions of
men, but by intuition, in the deepest and purest nature of
Man, Instead of attempting, which they consider vain, to
prove the existence of God, Virtue, an immaterial Soul, by
inferences drawn, as the conclusion of all Philosophy, from
the world of Sense, they find these things written as the
beginning of all Philosophy, in obscured but ineffaceable char-
actws, within our inmost being ; and themselves first afford-
ing any certainty and clear meaning to that very world of
Sense, by which we endeavor to demonstrate them. God is,
nay alone h, for with like emphasis we cannot say that any-
thing else is. Tliis is the Absolute, the Primitively True,
which the philosopher seeks. Endeavoring, by logical argu-
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 79
ment, to prove the existence of God, a Kantist might say,
would be like taking out a candle to look for the sun ; nay,
gaze steadily into your candle-light, and the sun himself may
be invisible. To open the inward eye to the sight of this
Primitively True ; or rather we might call it, to clear off the
Obscurations of Sense, which eclipse this truth within us, so
that we may see it, and believe it not only to be true, but
the foundation and essence of all other truth, — may, in such
language as we are here using, be said to be the problem of
Critical Philosophy.
In tliis point of view, Kant's system may be thought to
have a remote affinity to those of Malebranche and Descartes.
But if they in some measure agree as to their aim, there is
the widest difference as to the means. We state what to our-
selves has long appeared the grand characteristic of Kant's
Philosophy, when we mention his distinction, seldom perhaps
expressed so broadly, but uniformly implied, between Under-
standing and Reason ( Verstand and Veriiunft). To most of
our readers this may seem a distinction without a difference :
nevertheless, to the Kantists it is by no means such. They
believe that both Understanding and Reason are organs, or
rather, we should say, modes of operation, by which the mind
discovers truth ; but they think that their manner of proceed-
ing is essentially different ; that their provinces are separable
and distinguishable, nay that it is of the last importance to
separate and distinguish them. Reason, the Kantists say, is
of a higher nature than Understanding; it works by more
subtle methods, on higher objects, and requires a far finer
culture for its development, indeed in many men it is never
developed at all : but its results are no less certain, nay
rather, they are much more so ; for Reason discerns Truth
itself, the absolutely and primitively True ; while Under- »
standing discerns only relations, and cannot decide without if.
The proper province of Understanding is all, strictly speak-
ing, real, practical and material knowledge, Mathematics,
Physics, Political Economy, the adaptation of means to ends
in the whole business of life. In this province it is t\\e
strength and universal implement of the mind : an indispen-
80 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
sable servant, without whicli, indeed, existence itself would
be impossible. Let it not step beyond this province, how-
ever ; not usurp the province of Reason, which it is appointed
to obey, and cannot rule over without ruin to the whole spir-
itual man. Should Understanding attempt to prove the exist-
ence of God, it ends, if thoroughgoing and consistent with
itself, ill Atheism, or a faiat possible Theism, which scarcely
differs from this : should it speculate of Virtue, it ends in
UtUity, making Prudence and a sufficiently cunning love of
Self the highest good. Consult Understanding about the
Beauty of Poetry, and it asks. Where is this Beauty ? or
discovers it at length in rhythms and fitnesses, and male and
female rhymes. Witness also its everlasting paradoxes on
Necessity and the Freedom of the Will ; its ominous silence
on the end and meaning of man ; and the enigma which,
under such inspection, the whole purport of existence be-
comes.
Nevertheless, say the Kantists, there is a truth in these
things. Virtue is Virtue, and not Prudence ; not less surely
than the angle in a semicircle is a right angle, and no trape-
zium : Shakspeare is a Poet, and Boileau is none, think of
it as you may : neither is it more certain that I myself exist,
than that God exists, infinite, eternal, invisible, the same yes-
terday, to-day and forever. 'To discern these truths is the
province of Eeason, which therefore is to be cultivated as the
highest faculty in man. Not by logic and argument does it
work ; yet surely and clearly may it be taught to work : and
its domain lies in that higher region whither logic and argu-
ment cannot reach; in that holier region, where Poetry, and
Virtue and Divinity abide, in whose presence Understanding
wavers and recoils, dazzled into utter darkness by that " sea
of light,'' at once the fountain and the termination of all true
knowledge.
\\ ill the Kantists forgive us for the loose and popular man-
ner in which we must here speak of these things, to bring
tlunn in any measure before the eyes of our readers ? — It
may illustrate the distinction still farther, if we say, that in
the opinion of a Kantist the French are of all European
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 81
nations the most gifted with Understanding, and the most
destitute of Eeason ; ^ that David Hume had no forecast of
this latter; and that Shakspeare and Luther dwelt peren-
nially in its purest sphere.
Of the vast, nay in these days boundless, importance of
this distinction, could it be scientifically established, we need
remind no thinking man. For the rest, far be it from the
reader to suppose that this same Eeason is but a new appear-
ance, under another name, of our own old " Wholesome Preju-
dice," so well known to most of us ! Prejudice, wholesome or
unwholesome, is a personage for whom the German Philoso-
phers disclaim all shadow of respect ; nor do the vehement
among them hide their deep disdain for all and sundry who
fight under her flag. Truth is to be loved purely and solely
because it is true. With moral, political, religious considei-a-
tions, high and dear as they may otherwise be, the Philoso-
pher, as such, has no concern. To look at them would but
perplex him, and distract his vision from the task in his
hands. Calmly he constructs his theorem, as the Geometer
does his, without hope or fear, save that he may or may not
find the solution ; and stands in the middle, by the one, it
may be, accused as an Infidel, by the other as an Enthusi-
ast and a Mystic, till the tumult ceases, and what was true,
is and continues true to the end of all time.
Such are some of the high and momentous questions treated
of, by calm, earnest and deeply meditative men, in this system
of Philosophy, which to the wiser minds among us is still
unknown, and by the vmwiser is spoken of and regarded in
such manner as we see. The profoundness, subtlety, extent
of investigation, which the answer of these questions presup-
poses, need not be farther pointed out. With the truth or
falsehood of the system, we have here, as already stated, no
concern : our aim has been, so far as might be done, to show
it as it appeared to us ; and to ask such of our readers as pur-
sue these studies, whether this also is not worthy of some
study. The reply we must now leave to themselves.
' Sclielling has said as much or more (Meihode d/'ii Arademisrlien Stadium,
pp. 105-111), in terms which we could wish wo had space to transcribe.
VOL. xiii. 0
82 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
As an appendage to the charge of Mysticism brought against
the Germans, there is often added the seemingly incongruous
one of Irireligion. On this point also we had much to say ;
but must for the present decline it. Meanwhile, let the reader
be assured, that to the charge of Irreligion, as to so many
others, the Germans will plead not guilty. On the contrary,
they will not scruple to assert that their literature is, in a
positive sense, religious ; nay, perhaps to maintain, that if
ever neighboring nations are to recover that pure and high
spirit of devotion, the loss of which, however we may disguise
it or pretend to overlook it, can be hidden from no observant
mind, it must be by travelling, if not on the same path, at
least in the same direction in which the Germans have already
begun to travel. We shall add, that the Keligion of Germany
is a subject not for slight but for deep study, and, if we mis-
take not, may in some degree reward the deepest.
Here, however, we must close our examination or defence.
We have spoken freely, because we felt distinctly, and thought
the matter worthy of being stated, and more fully inquired
into. Farther than this, we have no quarrel for the Germans :
we would have justice done to them, as to all men and all things ;
but for their literature or character we profess no sectarian
or exclusive preference. We think their recent Poetry, indeed,
superior to the recent Poetry of any other nation ; but taken
as a whole, inferior to that of several ; inferior not to our own
only, but to that of Italy, nay perhaps to that of Spain. Their
Philosophy too must still be regarded as uncertain ; at best
only the beginning of better things. But surely even this is
not to be neglected. A little light is precious in great dark-
ness : nor, amid the myriads of Poetasters and PhUosophes,
are Poets and Pliilosophers so numerous that we should reject
such, wlien they speak to us in the hard, but manly, deep and
expressive tones of that old Saxon speech, which is also our
mother-tongue.
We coni'ess, the present aspect of spiritual Europe might
fill a ni('l;uicholi(! observer with doubt and foreboding. It is
mournful to sec so many noble, tender and high-aspiring minds
STATE OF GERMAN LITERATURE. 83
deserted of that religious light which once guided all such :
standing sorrowful on the scene of past convulsions and con-
troversies, as on a scene blackened and burnt up with fire;
mourning in the darkness, because there is desolation, and no
home for the soul ; or what is worse, pitching tents among the
ashes, and kindling weak earthly lamps which we are to take
for stars. This darkness is but transitory obscuration : these
ashes are the soil of future herbage and richer harvests. Re-
ligion, Poetry, is not dead ; it will never die. Its dwelling and
birthplace is in the soul of man, and it is eternal as the being
of man. In any point of Space, in any section of Time, let
there be a living Man ; and there is anr Infinitude above him
and beneath him, and an Eternity encompasses him on this
hand and on that ; and tones of Sphere-music, and tidings
from loftier worlds, will flit round him, if he can but listen,
and visit him with holy influences, even in the thickest press
of trivialities, or the din of busiest life. Happy the man,
happy the nation that can hear these tidings ; that has them
written in fit characters, legible to every eye, and the solemn
import of them present at all moments to every heart ! That
there is, in these days, no nation so happy, is too clear ; but
tliat all nations, and ourselves in the van, are, with more or
less discernment of its nature, struggling towards this happi-
ness, is the hope and the glory of our time. To us, as to
others, success, at a distant or a nearer day, cannot be uncer-
tain. Meanwhile, the first condition of success is, that, in
striving honestly ourselves, we honestly acknowledge the
striving of our neighbor ; that with a Will unwearied in seek-
ing Truth, we have a Sense open for it, wheresoever and how-
soever it may arise.
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER.^
[1828.]
If the charm of fame consisted, as Horace has mistakenly
declared, " in being pointed at with the finger, and having it
said, This is he ! " few writers of the present age could boast
of more fame than Werner. It has been the unhappy fortune
of this man to stand for a long period incessantly before the
world, in a far stronger light than naturally belonged to him,
or could exhibit him to advantage. Twenty years ago he was
a man of considerable note, which has ever since been degener-
ating into notoriety. The mystic dramatist, the sceptical
enthusiast, was known and partly esteemed by all students of
poetry ; Madame de Stael, we recollect, allows him an entire
chapter in her Allemagne. It was a much coarser curiosity,
and in a much wider circle, which the dissipated man, by suc-
cessive indecorums, occasioned ; till at last the convert to
Popery, the preaching zealot, came to figure in all newspapers ;
and some picture of him was required for all heads that would
not sit blank and mute in the topic of every coffee-house and
^ FoREiGV Revikw, No. 1. — Lcbpv.i-Ahriss Friedrich Ludirig Zachnrids
Wernerx. Von dcm Ileraus(ieher von Hoffmanns Lelien iind Nachlass. (Sketch
of the Life of Friedrich Liulwig Zacharias Weruer. By the Editor of " Iloff-
iiiaiin's Life and Remains.") Pierlin, 1823.
2. Die. Suhiip. des Tfuds. (The Sons of the A'' alloy.) A Dramatic Poem.
Part I. Die Templer auf Ci/pcrn. (The Templars in Cyprus.) Part II.
Die Kmiizeshrudfir. (The Brethren of the Cross.) Berlin, 1801, 1802.
3. Dtis Krciiz an der Osts'e. (The Cross on the Baltic.) A Tragedy.
Berlin, 1800.
4. Martin Luther, oder die. Wcihe der Kraft. (Martin Luther, or the Con.se-
cration of Strenf^tli.) A Tragedy. Berlin, 1807.
5. I>ii' Mnitir dt-r Mukkuiiitr. (The JNlother of the Maccabees.) A Tragedy.
Vienna, lft::0.
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 85
aesthetic tea. In dim heads, that is, in the great majority, the
picture was, of course, perverted into a strange bugbear, and
the original decisively enough condemned ; but even the few,
who might see him in his true shape, felt too well that noth-
ing loud could be said in his behalf; that, with so many
mournful blemishes, if extenuation could not avail, no com-
plete defence was to be attempted.
At the same time, it is not the history of a mere literary
profligate that we have here to do with. Of men whom fine
talents cannot teach the humblest prudence, whose high feel-
ing, unexpressed in noble action, must lie smouldering with
baser admixtures in their own bosom, till their existence,
assaulted from without and from within, becomes a burnt and
blackened ruin, to be sighed over by the few, and stared at, or
trampled on, by the many, there is unhappily no want in any
country ; nor can the unnatural union of genius with depravity
and degradation have such charms for our readers, that we
should go abroad in quest of it, or in any case dwell on it
otherwise than with reluctance, Werner is something more
than this : a gifted spirit, struggling earnestly amid the- new,
complex, tumultuous influences of his time and country, but
without force to body himself forth from amongst them ; a
keen adventurous swimmer, aiming towards high and distant
landmarks, but too weakly in so rough a sea ; for the currents
drive him far astray, and he sinks at last in the waves, attain-
ing little for himself, and leaving little, save the memory of
his failure, to others. A glance over his history may not be
\inprofitable ; if the man himself can less interest us, the ocean
of German, of European Opinion still rolls in wild eddies to
and fro ; and with its movements and refluxes, indicated in
the history of such men, every one of us is concerned.
Our materials for this survey are deficient, not so much in
quantity as quality. The " Life," now known to be by Hitzig
of Berlin, seems a very honest, unpresuming performance ; but,
on the other hand, it is much too fragmentary and discursive
for our wants ; the features of the man are nowhere united
into a portrait, but left for the reader to unite as he may ; a
86 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
task which, to most readers, will be hard enough : for the
"Work, short in compass, is more than proportionally short in
details of facts ; and Werner's history, much as an intimate
friend must have known of it, still lies before us, in great
part, dark and unintelligible. For what he has done we
should doubtless thank our Author ; yet it seems a pity, that
iu this instance he had not done more and better. A singular
chance made him, at the same time, companion of both Hoff-
mann and Werner, perhaps the two most showy, heterogene-
ous and misiuterpretable writers of his day ; nor shall we deny
that, in performing a friend's duty to their memory, he has
done truth also a service. His Life of Hoffmann,'^ pretending
to no artfulnesss of arrangement, is redundant, rather than
defective, in minuteness ; but there, at least, the means of a
correct judgment are brought within our reach, and the work,
as usual with Hitzig, bears marks of the utmost fairness ; and
of an accuracy which we might almost call professional : for
the Author, it would seem, is a legal functionary of long stand-
ing, and now of respectable rank ; and he examines and records,
Avith a certain notarial strictness too rare in compilations of
this sort.
So far as Hoffmann is concerned, therefore, we have reason
to be satisfied. In regard to Werner, however, we cannot say
so much : here we should certainly have wished for more facts,
though it had been with fewer consequences drawn from them ;
were these somewhat chaotic expositions of Werner's char-
acter exchanged for simple particulars of his walk and con-
versation, the result would be much surer, and, especially to
foreigners, much more complete and luminous. As it is, from
repeated perusals of this biography, we have failed to gather
any very clear notion of the man : nor, with perhaps more
study of his writings than, on other grounds, they could have
merited, does his manner of existence still stand out to us with
that distinct coliesion which puts an end to doubt. Our view
of him the reader will acce],)t as an approximation, and be
content to wonder with us, and charitably pause where we
cannot altogether interpret.
i See Appendix I. No. 2. § Hoffmann.
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 87
Werner was born at Konigsberg, in East Prussia, on the
18th of !N"ovember, 1768. His father was Professor of History
and Eloquence in the University there ; and farther, in virtue
of this office, Dramatic Censor ; which latter circumstance
procured young Werner almost daily opportunity of visiting
the theatre, and so gave him, as he says, a greater acquaint-
ance with the mechanism of the stage than even most players
are possessed of. A strong taste for the drama it probably
enough gave him ; but this skill in stage-mechanism may be
questioned, for often in his own plays, no such skill, but rather
the Avant of it, is evinced.
The Professor and Censor, of whom we hear nothing in
blame or praise, died in the fourteenth year of his son, and
the boy now fell to the sole charge of his mother ; a woman
whom he seems to have loved warmly, but whose guardian-
ship could scarcely be the best for him. Werner himself
speaks of her in earnest commendation, as of a pure, higli-
minded and heavily afflicted being. Hoffmann, however, adds,
that she was hypochondriacal, and generally quite delirious,
imagining herself to be the Virgin Mary, and her son to be the
promised Shiloh ! Hoffmann had opportunity enough of know-
ing ; for it is a curious fact that these two singular persons
were brought up under the same roof, though, at this time, by
reason of their difference of age, Werner being eight years
older, they had little or no acquaintance. "WTiat a nervous and
melancholic parent was, Hoffmann, by another unhappy coin-
cidence, had also full occasion to know : his own mother,
parted from her husband, lay helpless and broken-hearted for
the last seventeen years of her life, and the first seventeen of
his ; a source of painfi;l influences, Avhich he used to trace!
through the whole of his own character ; as to the like cause '
he imputed the primary perversion of Werner's. How far his
views on this point were accurate or exaggerated, we have no
means of judging.
Of Werner's early years the biographer says little or noth-
ing. W^e learn only that, about the usual age, he matriculated
in the Konigsberg University, intending to qualify himself for
the business of a lawyer ; and with his professional studies
88 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
united, or attempted to unite, the study of philosophy under
Kant. His college-life is characterized by a single, but too
expressive word : " It is said," observes Hitzig, " to have been
very dissolute." His progi-ess in metaphysics, as in all
branches of learning, might thus be expected to be small;
indeed, at no period of his life can he, even in the language of
panegyric, be called a man of culture or solid information on
any subject. Nevertheless, he contrived, in his twenty-first
year, to publish a little volume of " Poems," apparently in
very tolerable magazine metre ; and after some " roamiugs "
over Germany, having loitered for a while at Berlin, and
longer at Dresden, he betook himself to more serious business ;
applied for admittance and promotion as a Prussian man of
law ; the employment which young jurists look for in that
country being chiefly in the hands of Government ; consisting,
indeed, of appointments in the various judicial or administra-
tive Boards by which the Provinces are managed. In 1793,
Werner accordingly was made Kaminersecretdr (Exchequer
Secretary) ; a subaltern office, which he held successively in
several stations, and last and longest in Warsaw, where Hitzig,
a young man following the same profession, first became ac-
quainted with him in 1799.
What the purport or result of Werner's " roamings " may
have been, or how he had demeaned himself in office or out of
it, we are nowhere informed ; but it is an ominous circum-
stance that, even at this period, in his thirtieth year, he had
divorced two wives, the last at least by mutual consent, and
was looking out for a third ! Hitzig, with whom he seems to
have formed a prompt and close intimacy, gives us no full pic-
ture of him under any of his aspects : yet we can see that his
life, as naturally it might, already wore somewhat of a shat-
tered appearance in his own eyes ; that he was broken in
character, in spirit, perhaps in bodily constitution ; and, con-
t(,Miting liimself with the transient gratifications of so gay a
city and so tolerable an appointment, had renounced all steady
and rational hope either of being happy, or of deserving to be
so. Of unsteady and irrational hopes, however, he had still
abundance. The fine enthusiasm of his nature, undestroyed
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 89
by so ma.ny external perplexities, nay to which perhaps these
very perplexities had given fresh and undue excitement, glowed
forth in strange many-colored brightness from amid the wreck
of his fortunes ; and led him into wild worlds of speculation,
the more vehemently, that the real world of action and duty
had become so unmanageable in his hands.
Werner's early publication had sunk, after a brief provincial
life, into merited oblivion : in fact, he had then only been a
rhymer, and was now, for the first time, beginning to be a poet.
We have one of those youthful pieces transcribed in this Vol-
ume, and certainly it exhibits a curious contrast with his sub-
sequent writings, both in form and spirit. In form, because,
unlike the first-fruits of a genius, it is cold and correct ; while
liis later works, without exception, are fervid, extravagant
and full of gross blemishes. In spirit no less, because, treat-
ing of his favorite theme, Religion, it treats of it harshly and
sceptically ; being, indeed, little more than a metrical version
of common Utilitarian Free-thinking, as it may be found (with-
out metre) in most taverns and debating-societies. Werner's
intermediate secret-history might form a strange chapter in
psychology : for now, it is clear, his French scepticism had
got overlaid with wondrous theosophic garniture ; his mind
was full of visions and cloudy glories, and no occupation
pleased him better than to controvert, in generous inquiring
minds, that very unbelief which he appears to have once en-
tertained in his own. From Hitzig's account of the matter,
this seems to have formed the strongest link of his intercourse
with Werner. The latter was his senior by ten years of time,
and by more than ten years of unhappy experience ; the grand
questions of Immortality, of Fate, Free-will, Foreknowledge
absolute, were in continual agitation between them ; and Hit-
zig still remembers with gratitude these earnest warnings
against irregularity of life, and so many ardent and not inef-
fectual endeavors to awaken in the passionate temperament of
youth a glow of purer and enlightening fire.
"Some leagues from Warsaw," says the Biographer, "en-
chantingly embosomed in a thick wood, close by the high banks
of the Vistula, lies the Caraaldulensian Abbey of Bielany,
90 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
inhabited by a class of monks, who in strictness of discipline
yield only to those of La Trappe. To this cloistral solitude
Werner was wont to repair with his friend, every fine Satur-
day of the summer of 1800, so soon as their occupations in the
city were over. In defect of any formal inn, the two used to
bivouac in the forest, or at best to sleep under a temporary
tent. The Sunday was then spent in the open air ; in roving
about the woods ; sailing on the river, and the like ; till late
night recalled them to the city. On such occasions, the
younger of the party had ample room to unfold his whole
heart before his more mature and settled companion; to ad-
vance his doubts and objections against many theories, which
Werner was already cherishing ; and so, by exciting him with
contradiction, to cause him to make them clearer to him-
self."
Week after week, these discussions were carefully resumed
from the point where they had been left : indeed, to Werner,
it would seem, this controversy had unusual attractions ; for
he was now busy composing a Poem, intended principally to
convince the world of those very truths which he was striving
to impress on his friend ; and to which the world, as might be
expected, was likely to give a similar reception. The char-
acter, or at least the way of thought, attributed to Robert
d'Heredon, the Scottish Templar, in the Sons of the Valley,
was borrowed, it appears, as if by regular instalments, from
these conferences with Hitzig ; the result of the one Sunday
being duly entered in dramatic form during the week ; then
audited on the Sunday following; and so forming the text
for farther disquisition. " Blissful days," adds Hitzig, " pure
and innocent, which doubtless Werner also ever held in pleased
remembrance ! "
The SlJJme des Thais, composed in this rather questionable
fashion, was in due time forthcoming; the First Part in 1801,
the Second about a year afterwards. It is a drama, or rather
two dramas, unrivalled at least in one particular, in length ;
each Part being a play of six acts, and the whole amounting
t(j somewhat more than 800 small octavo pages ! To attempt
any analysis of such a work would but fatigue our readers to
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 91
little purpose : it is, as might be anticipated, of a most loose
and formless structure; expanding on all sides into vague
boundlessness, and, on the whole, resembling not so much a
poem as the rude materials of one. The subject is the de-
struction of the Templar Order; an event which has been
dramatized more than once, but on which, notwithstanding,
Werner, we suppose, may boast of being entirely original.
The fate of Jacques Molay and his brethren acts here but
like a little leaven : and lucky were we, could it leaven the
lump ; but it lies buried under such a mass of Mystical
theology, Masonic mummery. Cabalistic tradition and Kosicru-
cian philosophy, as no power could work into dramatic union.
The incidents are few, and of little interest ; interrupted con-
tinually by flaring shows and long-winded speculations ; for
Werner's besetting sin, that of loquacity, is here in decided
action ; and so we wander, in aimless windings, through scene
after scene of gorgeousness or gloom; till at last the whole
rises before us like a wild phantasmagoria ; cloud heaped on
cloud, painted indeed here and there with prismatic hues,
but representing nothing, or at least not the subject, but the
author.
In this last point of view, hoAvever, as a picture of himself,
independently of other considerations, this play of Werner's
may still have a certain value for us. The strange chaotic
nature of the man is displayed in it : his scepticism and
theosophy ; his audacity, j-et intrinsic weakness of character ;
his baffled longings, but still ardent endeavors after Truth and
Good ; his search for them in far journeyings, not on the beaten
highways, but through the pathless infinitudes of Thought.
To call it a work of art would be a misapplication of names :
it is little more than a rhapsodic effusion ; the outpouring
of a passionate and mystic soul, only half-knowing what it
utters, and not ruling its own movements, but ruled by them.
It is fair to add, that such also, in a great measure, was
Werner's own view of the matter : most likely the utterance
of these things gave him such relief, that, crude as they were,
he could not suppress them. For it ought to be remembered,
that in this performance one condition, at least, of genuine
92 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
inspiration is not wanting: Werner evidently thinks that in
these his ultramundane excursions he has found truth ; he has
sometliing positive to set forth, and he feels himself as if
bound on a high and holy mission in preaching it to his
fellow-men.
To explain with any minuteness the articles of Werner's
creed, as it was now fashioned and is here exhibited, would be
a task perhaps too hard for us, and, at all events, unprofitable
in proportion to its difficulty. We have found some separable
passages, in which, under dark symbolical figures, he has him-
self shadowed forth a vague likeness of it : these we shall now
submit to the reader, with such expositions as we gather from
the context, or as German readers, from the usual tone of
speculation in that country, are naturally enabled to supply.
This may, at the same time, .convey as fair a notion of the
work itself, with its tawdry splendors,^ and tumid grandilo-
quence, and mere playhouse thunder and lightning, as by any
other plan our limits would admit.
Let the reader fancy himself in the island of Cyprus, where
the Order of the Templars still subsists, though the heads of it
are already summoned before the French King and Pope Clem-
ent ; which summons they are now, not without dreary enough
forebodings, preparing to obey. The purport of this First
Part, so far as it has any dramatic purport, is to paint the
situation, outward and inward, of that once pious and heroic,
and still magnificent and powerful body. It is entitled The
Templars in Cijprus ; but why it should also be called The
Sons of the Valley does not so well appear ; for the Brother-
hood of the Valleij has yet scarcely come into activity, and
only hovers before us in glimpses, of so enigmatic a sort,
that we know not fully so much as whether these its Sons are
of flesh and blood like ourselves, or of some spiritual nature,
or of something intermediate and altogether nondescript. For
the rest, it is a series of spectacles and dissertations ; the
acticm cannot so much be said to advance as to revolve. On
this occasion the Templars are admitting two new members;
the acolytes have already passed their preliminary trials ;
this is the chief and final one : —
LIFE AND WKITINGS OF WERNER. 93
Act V. Scene I.
Midnight. Interior of the Temple Church. Backwards, a deep perspec-
tive of Altars and Gothic Pillars. On the righthhand side of the fore-
ground, a little Chapel ; and in this an Altar with the figure of St.
Sebastiati. The scene is lighted very dimly by a single Lamp which
hangs before the Altar.
Adalbert [dressed in white, without mantle or doublet j groping
his way in the dark].
Was it not at the altar of Sebastian
That I was bidden wait for the Unknown ?
Here should it be ; but darkness with her veil
Inwraps the figures. [Advancing to the Altar.
Here is the fifth pillar !
Yes, this is he, the Sainted. — How the glimmer
Of that faint lamp falls on his fading eye ! —
Ah, it is not the spears o' th' Saracens,
It is the pangs of hopeless love that burning
Transfix thy heart, poor Comrade ! — O my Agnes,
May not thy spirit, in this earnest hour,
Be looking on ? Art hovering in that moonbeam
Which struggles through the painted window, and dies
Amid the cloister's gloom ? Or linger'st thou
Behind these pillars, which, ominous and black,
Look down on me, like horrors of the Past
Upon the Present ; and hidest tliy gentle form,
Lest with thy paleness thou too much afi"right me ?
Hide not thyself, pale shadow of my Agnes,
Thou aff'rightest not thy lover. — Hush ! —
Hark ! Was not there a rustling ? — Father ! You ?
Philip [rushing in with tcild looks].
Yes, Adalbert ! — But time is precious ! — Come,
My son, my one sole Adalbert, come with me !
Adalbert. Wliat would you, father, in this solemn hour ?
Philip. This hour, or never ! [Leading Adalbert to the Altar.
Hither ! — Knowcst thou Jiiin f
Adalbert. 'T is Saint Sebastian.
PniMP. Because he would not
Renounce his f;iith, a tjTant had him murdered. [Points to his head.
These furrows, too, the rage of tyrants ph)ughed
94 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
In thy old father's face. My son, my first-bom child,
In this great hour I do conjure thee 1 Wilt thou,
Wilt thou obey me ?
Adalbert. Be it just, I will I
Phiup. Then swear, in this great hour, in this dread presence;
Here by thy father's head made early gray,
By the remembrance of thy mother's agony,
And by the ravished blossom of thy Agnes,
Against the Tyranny which sacrificed us,
Inexpiable, bloody, everlasting hate I
Adalbert. Ha ! This the All-avenger spoke through thee I —
Yes ! Bloody shall my Agnes' death-torch bum
In Philip's heart ; I swear it !
Philip [tcith increasing vehemence] . And if thou break
This oath, and if thou reconcile thee to him.
Or let his golden chains, his gifts, his prayers,
His dying moan itself avert thy dagger
When th' hour of vengeance comes, — shall this gray head,
Thy mother's wail, the last sigh of thy Agnes,
Accuse thee at the bar of the Eternal !
Adalbert. So be it, if I break my oath I
Philip. Then man thee ! —
[Looking up, then slirinking together, as with dazzled eyes.
Ha ! was not that his lightning ? — Fare thee well !
I hear the footstep of the Dreaded ! — Firm —
Remember me, remember this stern midnight ! [Retires hastily.
Adalbert [alone]. Yes, Grayhead, whom the beckoning (rf the
Lord
Sent hither to awake me out of craven sleep,
I will remember thee and this stern midnight,
And my Agnes' spirit shall have vengeance ! — •
Enter an Armed 3Ian. He is mailed from head to foot in black
harness ; his visor is closed.
Armed Man. Pray ! [Adalbert kneels.
Bare thyself I — [He strips him to tJie girdle and raises him.
Look on the ground, and follow !
[He leads him into the background to a trap-door, on the
right. He descends first himself ; and when Adalbert
has followed him, it closes.
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 95
Scene IL
Cemetery of the Templars, under the Church. The scene is lighted only
hy a Lamp which hangs down from the vault. Arouiid are Tomb-
stones of deceased Knights, marked with Crosses and sculptured Bones.
In the background, two colossal Skeletons holdinj between them a large
white Book, marked with a red Cross ; from the under end of the
Book hangs a long black curtain. The Book, of which only the cover
is visible, has an inscription in black ciphers. The Skeleton on the
right holds in its right hand a naked drawn Sword ; that on the left
holds in its left hand a Palm turned downwards. On the right side
of the foreground stands a black Coffin open ; on tJie left, a similar
one ivith the body of a Templar in the full dress of his Order ; on both
Coffins are inscriptions in white ciphers. On each side, nearer the
background, are seen the lowest steps of the stairs which lead up into
the Temple Church above the vault.
Armed Man [rwt yet visible ; above on tlie right hand stairs].
Dreaded ! Is the grave laid open ?
Concealed Voices. Yea !
Armed Man [who after a pause shows himself on the stairs].
Shall he behold the Tombs o' th' fathers ?
Concealed Voices. Yea 1
[Armed Man with drawn sword leads Adalbert carefully
down the steps on the right hand.
Armed Man [to Adalbert].
Look down ! 'T is on thy life ! [Leads him to the open Coffin.
What seest thou ?
Adalbert. An open empty Coffin.
Armed Man. 'T is the house
Where thou one day shalt dwell. — Caust read the inscription ?
Adalbert. No.
Armed Man. Hear it, then : " Thy wages, Sin, is Death."
[Leads him to the opposite Coffin wheie the Body is lying.
Look dfiwn I 'T is on thy life ! — Wliat seest thou ? [Shows the Coffin.
Adalbert. A Coffin with a Corpse.
Armed Man. He is thy Brother ;
One day thou art as he. — Canst read th' inscription f
Adalbert. No.
Armed Man. Hear : " Corruption is the name of Life."
Now lo()k around ; go forward, — move, and act ! —
[He pushes him towards the background of tlie stage.
96 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Adalbert [observing the BooJc] .
Ha ! Here the Book of Ordination ! — Seems [Approaching.
As if th' inscription on it might be read. [He reads iL
" Knock four times on the ground,
Thou shalt behold thy loved one."
0 Heavens ! And may I see thee, sainted Agnes ?
My bosom yearns for thee ! — [Hastening close to the Book.
[ With the following words, he stamps four times on the
ground.
One, — Two, — Three, — Four ! —
[The curtain hanging from the Booh rolls rapidly up, and covers it. A
colossal DeviV s-he^d appears between the two Skeletons ; its form is
horrible ; it is gilt ; has a huge golden Crown, a Heart of the same
on its Brow ; rolling flamitig Eyes ; Serpents instead of Hair ;
golden Chains round its neck, which is visible to the breast; and a
golden Cross, yet not a Crucifix, which rises over its right shoxdder,
as if crushing it down. The whole Bust rests on four gilt Dragon^ s-
fcet. At sight of it, Adalbert starts back in horror, and exclaims :
Defend us !
Armed Man. Dreaded I may he hear it ?
Concealed Voices. Yea!
Akmeu Man [touches the Curtain tcith his sword; it roUs down
over the DeviFs-head, concealing it again ; and above, as
before, appears the Book, but now opened, with white colossal
leaves and red characters. The Armed Man, pointing con-
stantly to the Book tcith his Sword, and therewith turning the
leaves, addresses Adalbert, tcho staiids on the other side of the
Book, and nearer the foreground'\.
List to the Story of the Fallon Master.
[He reads the following from the Book ; yet not standing
before it, but on one side, at some paces distance, and
whilst he reads, turning the leaves with his Sword.
" So now when the foundation-stone was laid,
The Lord called fortli the Master, Baffomotus,
And saiil to hhn : Go and comjdcte my Temple!
But in his heart the Master thouglit: What boots it
Building tliee a teTuple ? and took the stones,
And built him.'iolf a dwelling, and what stones
"Were left he gave for filtliy gold and silver.
Ndw after forty moons the Lord returned,
And spake: Wiiere is my Temple, Baflometus?
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 97
The Master said : I had to build myself
A dwelling ; grant me other forty weeks.
And after forty weeks, the Lord returns,
And asks : Where is my Temple, BaflFometus ?
He said : There were no stones (hut he had sold them
For filthy gold) ; so wait yet forty days.
In forty days thereafter came the Lord,
And cried : Where is my Temple, Baifometus ?
Then like a millstone fell it on his soul
How he for lucre had betrayed his Lord ;
But yet to other sin the Fiend did tempt him,
And he answered, saying : Give me forty hours I
And when the forty hours were gone, the Lord
Came down in wrath : My Temple, Baifometus ?
Then fell ho quaking on his face, and cried
For mercy ; but the Lord was wroth, and said :
Since thou hast cozened me with empty lies.
And those the stones I lent thee for my Temple
Hast sold them for a purse of filthy gold,
Lo, I will cast thee fortli, and with the Mammon
Will chastise thee, until a Saviour rise
Of thy own seed, who shall redeem thy trespass.
Then did the Lord lift up the purse of gold ;
And shook the gold into a melting-pot.
And set the melting-pot upon the Sun,
So that the metal fused into a fluid mass.
And then he dipt a finger in the same,
And straightway touching Baffometus,
Anoints him on the chin and brow and cheeks.
Then was the face of Bafibmetus changed:
His eyeballs rolled like fire-flames.
His nose became a crooked vulture's bill.
The tongue hung bloody from his throat ; the flesh
Went from his hollow cheeks ; and of his hair
Grew snakes, and of the snakes grew Devil's-horns.
Again the Lord put forth his finger with the gold,
And pressed it upon Bafi"ometus' heart ;
Whereby the heart did bleed and wither up.
And all his members bled and withered up,
And fell away, the one and then the other.
At last his back itself sunk into ashes ;
The head alone continued gilt and living;
TOL. ini. 7
j
98 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. i
And instead of back, grew dragon's-talons,
Which destroyed aU life from off the Earth. j
Then from the ground the Lord took up the hearty j
Which, as he touched it, also grew of gold, '
And placed it on the brow of Baffometus ;
And of the other metal in the pot ;
He made for him a burning crown of gold, ]
And crushed it on his serpent-hair, so that
Even to the bone and brain the circlet scorched him.
And round the neck he twisted golden chains,
Which strangled him and pressed his breath together.
What in the pot remained he poured upon the ground,
Athwart, along, and there it formed a cross ;
The which he lifted and laid upon his neck.
And bent him that he could not raise his head. 1
Two Deaths moreover he appointed warders '
To guard him : Death of Life, and Death of Hope.
The Sword of the first he sees not, but it smites him;
The other's Palm he sees, but it escapes him.
So languishes the outcast Baffometus
Four thousand years and four-and-forty moons,
Till once a Saviour rise from his own seed, i
Redeem his trespass and deliver him." [To Adalbert. 1
This is the Story of the Fallen Master.
[ With his Sword he touclxes the Curtain, u-hich now as
before rolls up over the Book ; so that the Head under
it again becomes visible, in its former shape.
Adalbert [looking at the Head].
Hah, what a hideous shape !
Head [ivith a hollow voice] . Deliver me ! —
Armed Man. Dreaded! shall the work begin ?
CoN'CEALKD VoiCES. Yea!
Armed Max [to Adalbert]. Take the neckband
Away ! [Pointing to the Head.
Adalbert. T dare not !
IlEAii [with a still more piteous tone]. Oh, deliver me 1
Adalbert [taking off the chaim]. Poor fallen one !
Armed Man. Now lift the crown from 's head !
Adalbert. It seems so heavy !
Armed Man. Touch it, it grows light.
[Adalbert taking off the Crown and casting it, as fie did
the chains, on the ground.
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 99
Armed Man. Now take the golden heart from off his brow I
Adalbert. It seems to bum !
Armed Man. Thou errest : ice is warmer.
Adalbert [taking the Seartfrom the Brow].
Hah ! shivering frost !
Armed Man. Take from his back the Cross,
And throw it from thee ! —
Adalbert. How ! The Saviour's token t
Head. Deliver, oh, deliver me !
Armed Man. This Cross
Is not thy Master's, not that bloody one :
Its counterfeit is this : throw 't from thee !
Adalbert [taking it from the Bust, atvd laying it softly on the
ground] .
The Cross of the Good Lord that died for me ?
Armed Man. Tliou shalt no more believe in one thai died/
Tliou shalt henceforth believe in one that liveth
And never dies ! — Obey, and question not, —
Step over it !
Adalbert. Take pity on me 1
Armed Man [threatening him with his Sword]. Step I
Adalbert. I do 't with shuddering —
\_Steps over, and tlien looks up to the Head, which raists
itself as freed from a had.
How the figure rises
And looks in gladness 1
Armed Man. Him whom thou hast served
Till now, deny !
Adalbert [horror-struck] Deny the Lord my God ?
Armed Man. Thy God 't is not : the Idol of this World !
Deny him, or —
[Pressing on him with the Sword in a threatening posture.
— thou diest !
Adalbert. I deny !
Armed Man [pointing to tJie Head with his Sword].
Go to the Fallen ! — Kiss his lips ! —
— And so on through many other sulphurous pages ! How
much of this mummery is copied from the actual practice of
the Templars we know not with certainty ; nor what precisely
either they or Werner intended, by this marvellous "Story
100 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
of the Fallen Master," to shadow forth. At first view, one
might take it for an allegory, couched in Masonic language, —
and truly no flattering allegory, — of the Catholic Church j
and this trampling on the Cross, which is said to have been
actually enjoined on every Templar at his initiation, to be a
type of his secret behest to undermine that Institution, an?"
redeem the spirit of Religion from the state of thraldom anc
distortion under which it was there held. It is known at least
and was well known to Werner, that the heads of the Tern
plars entertained views, both on religion and politics, which
they did not think meet for communicating to their age, and
only imparted by degrees, and under mysterious adumbrations,
to the wiser of their own Order. They had even publicly
resisted, and succeeded in thwarting, some iniquitous mea-
sures of Philippe Auguste, the French King, in regard to
his coinage ; and this, while it secured them the love of the
people, was one great cause, perhaps second only to their
wealth, of the hatred which that sovereign bore them, and
of the savage doom which he at last executed on the whole
body.
But on these secret principles of theirs, as on Werner's
manner of conceiving th^m, we are only enabled to guess;
for Werner, too, has an esoteric doctrine, which he does not
promulgate, except in dark Sibylline enigmas, to the unin-
itiated. As we are here seeking chiefly for his religious creed,
which forms, in truth, with its changes, the main thread
whereby his wayward, desultory existence attains any unity
or even coherence in our thoughts, we may quote another
passage from the same First Part of this rhapsody ; which,
at the same time, will afford us a glimpse of his favorite hero,
Robert d'Heredon, lately the darling of the Templars, but
now, for some momentary infraction of their rules, cast into
prison, and expecting death, or, at best, exclusion from the
Order. Gottfried is another Templar, in all points the re-
verse of Robert.
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 101
Act IV. Scene I.
Prison ; at the waU a Table. Robert, without sword, cap, or mantle,
sits downcast on one side of it : Gottfried, who keeps watch by him,
sitting at the other.
Gottfried. But how couldst thou so far forget thyself?
Thou wert our pride, the Master's frieud and favorite !
Robert. I did it, thou perceiv'st !
Gottfried, How could a word
Of the old surly Hugo so provoke thee ?
Robert. Ask uot — Man's being is a spider-web :
The passionate flash o' th' soul — comes not of him ;
It is the breath of that dark Genius,
Which whirls invisible along the threads :
A servant of eternal Destiny,
It purifies them from the vulgar dust.
Which earthward strives to press the net :
But Fate gives sign ; the breath becomes a whirlwind,
And in a moment rends to shreds the thing
We thought was woven for Eternity.
Gottfried. Yet ea«h man shapes his Destiny himself.
Robert. Small soul 1 dost thou too know it ? Has the story
Of Force and free Volition, that, defying
The corporal Atoms and Annihilation,
Metliodic guides the car of Destiny,
Come down to thee f Dream'st thou, poor Nothingness,
. That thou, and like of thee, and ten times better
Than thou or I, can lead the wheel of Fate
One hair's-breadth from its everlasting track?
I too have had such dreams : but fearfully
Have I been shook from sleep ; and they are fled ! —
Lof)k at our Order : has it spared its thousands
Of noblest lives, the victims of its Purpose ;
And has it gained this Pur|iose; can it gain it?
Look at our noble Molay's silvered hair :
The fruit of watchful nights and stormful days,
And of the broken yet still burning heart !
That mighty heart ! — Through sixty battling years,
'T has beat in pain for nothing : his creation
Remains the vision of liis own great soul ;
102 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
It dies with hiin ; and one day shall the pUgrim
Ask where his dust is lying, and not learn !
Gottfried [yawning].
But then the Christian has the joy of Heaven
For recompense : in his flesh he shall see God.
Robert. In his flesh ? — Now fair befall the journey !
Wilt stow it in behind, by way of luggage,
When tlie Angel comes to coach thee into Glory I
Mind also that the memory of those fair hours
When dinner smoked before thee, or thou usedst
To dress thy nag, or scour thy rusty harness,
And such like noble business be not left beliind ! —
Ha ! self-deceiving bipeds, is it not enough
The carcass should at every step oppress.
Imprison you ; that toothache, headache,
Gout, — who knows what all, — at every moment,
Degrades the god of Earth into a beast ;
But you would take this villanous mingle,
The coarser dross of all the elements,
Which, by the Light-beam from on high that visits
And dwells in it, but baser shows its baseness, —
Take this, and all the freaks which, bubble-like,
Spring forth o' th' blood, and which by such fair name*
You call, — along with you into your Heaven ? —
Well, be it so ! much good may 't —
[As his eye, by chance, lights on Gottfried, who meanwhile
has fallen asleep.
— Sound already f
There is a race for whom all serves as — pillow,
Even rattling chains are but a lullaby.
This Robert d'Heredon, whose preaching has here such a nar-
cotic virtue, is destined ultimately for a higher office than to
rattle his chains by way of lullaby. He is ejected from the
Order ; not, liowevev, with disgrace and in anger, but in sad
feeling of necessity, and with tears and blessings from his
brethren ; and the messenger of the Vallctj, a strange, ambigu-
ous, little, sylph-like maiden, gives him obscure encouragement,
before his departure, to possess his soul in patience ; seeing, if
he can learn the grand secret of Renunciation, his course is not
ended, but only opening on a fairer scene. Robert knows not
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 103
■well what to make of this ; but sails for his native Hebrides, in
darkness and contrition, as one who can do no other.
In the end of the Second Part, which is represented as
divided from the First by an interval of seven years, Kobert
is again summoned forth ; and the whole surprising secret of
his mission, and of the Valley which appoints it for him, is
disclosed. This Friedenthal (Valley of Peace) it now appears,
is an immense secret association, which has its chief seat some-
where about the roots of Mount Carmel, if we mistake not;
but, comprehending in its ramifications the best heads and
hearts of every country, extends over the whole civilized
world; and has, in particular, a strong body of adherents in
Paris, and indeed a subterraneous but seemingly very com-
modious suite of rooms under the Carmelite Monastery of that
city. Here sit in solemn conclave the heads of the Establish-
ment ; directing from their lodge, in deepest concealment, the
principal movements of the kingdom : for William of Paris,
archbishop of Sens, being of their number, the king and his
other ministers, fancying within themselves the utmost free-
dom of action, are nothing more than puppets in the hands of
this all-powerful Brotherhood, which watches, like a sort of
Fate, over the interests of mankind, and, by mysterious agen-
cies, forwards, we suppose, "the cause of civil and religious
liberty all over the world." It is they that have doomed the
Templars ; and, without malice or pity, are sending their
leaders to the dungeon and the stake. That knightly Order,
once a favorite minister of good, has now degenerated from its
purity, and come to mistake its purpose, having taken up poli-
tics and a sort of radical reform ; and so must now be broken
and reshaped, like a worn implement, which can no longer do
its appointed work.
Such a magnificent " Society for the Suppression of Vice "
may well be supposed to walk by the most philosophical prin-
ciples. These Friedenthalers, in fact, profess to be a sort of
Invisible Church ; preserving in vestal purity the sacred fire of
religion, which burns with more or less fuliginous admixture
in the worship of every people, but only with its clear sidereal
lustre in the recesses of the Valley. They are Bramins on
104 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
the Ganges, Bonzes on the Hoang-ho, Monks on tlie Seine.
They addict themselves to contemplation and the subtlest
study ; have penetrated far into the mysteries of spiritual and
physical nature; they command the deep-hidden virtues of
plant and mineral ; and their sages can discriminate the eye
of the mind froip its sensual instruments, and behold, without
type or material embodiment, the essence of Being. Their ac-
tivity is all-comprehending and unerringly calculated : they rule
over the world by the authority of wisdom over ignorance.
In the Fifth Act of the Second Part, we are at length, after
many a hint and significant note of preparation, introduced
to the privacies of this philosophical Santa Hermandad. A
strange Delphic cave this of theirs, under the very pavements
of Paris ! There are brazen folding-doors, and concealed voices,
and sphinxes, and naphtha-lamps, and all manner of wondrous
furniture. It seems, moreover, to be a sort of gala evening
with them ; for the " Old Man of Carmel, in eremite garb, with
a long beard reaching to his girdle," is for a moment discovered
" reading in a deep monotonous voice." The " Strong Ones,"
meanwhile, are out in quest of Eobert d'Heredon; who, by
cunning practices, has been enticed from his Hebridean soli-
tude, in the hope of saving Molay, and is even now to be
initiated, and equipped for his task. After a due allowance
of pompous ceremonial, Ilobert is at last ushered in, or rather
dragged in ; for it appears that he has made a stout debate, not
submitting to the customary form of being ducked, — an essen-
tial preliminary, it would seem, — till compelled by the direst
necessity. He is in a truly Highland anger, as is natural : but
l)y various manipulations and solacements, he is reduced to
reason again ; finding, indeed, the fruitlessness of anything
else ; for when lance and sword and free space are given him,
and lie makes a thrust at Adam of Valincourt, the master of
the ceremonies, it is to no purpose : the old man has a torpedo
quality in him, which benumbs the stoutest arm ; and no death
issues from the baffled sword-point, but only a small spark of
electric fire. With his Scottish prudence, Robert, under these
circumstances, cannot but perceive that quietness is best. The
people hand him, in succession, the " Cup of Strength," the
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 105
" Cup of Beauty," and the " Cup of Wisdom ; " liquors brewed,
if we may judge from their effects, with the highest stretch
of Eosicrucian art ; and which must have gone far to disgust
Robert d'Heredon with his natural usquebaugh, however excel-
lent, had that fierce drink been in use then. He rages in a fine
frenzy ; dies away in raptures ; and then, at last, " considers
what he wanted and what he wants." Now is the time for
Adam of Valincourt to strike in with an interminable exposi-
tion of the " objects of the society." To not unwilling but
still cautious ears he unbosoms himself, in mystic wise, with
extreme copiousness ; turning aside objections like a veteran
disputant, and leading his apt and courageous pupil, by signs
and wonders, as well as by logic, deeper and deeper into the
secrets of theosophic and thaumaturgic science. A little
glimpse of this our readers may share with us ; though we
fear the allegory will seem to most of them but a hollow nut.
Nevertheless, it is an allegory — of its sort ; and we can profess
to have translated with entire fidelity : —
Adam. Thy riddle by a second will be solved.
[He leads him to the Sphinx.
Behold this Sphinx ! Half-beast, half-angel, both
Combined in one, it is an emblem to thee
Of th' ancient ISIother, Nature, herself a riddle,
And only by a deeper to be mastor'd.
Eternal Clearness in th' eternal Ferment :
This is the riddle of Existence : — read it, —
Propose that other to her, and she serves thee !
[T^e door on the right-hand opens, and, in the space behind
it, appears, as before, the Old Man of Carmel, sitting at
a Table, and reading in a large Volume. Three dec}}
strokes of a Bell are heard.
Old Man of Caumel [reading ivith a loud but still monotonous
voice] . "And when the Lord saw Phosphorus " —
RoBEUT [interrupting him] . Ha ! Again
A story as of Baflbmetus ?
Adam. Not so.
That tale of theirs was but some poor distortion
Of th' outmost image of our Sanctuary. —
106 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Keep silence here ; and see thou interrupt not,
By too bold cavilling, this mystery.
Old Man [reading].
" And when the Lord saw Phosphoros his pride,
Being wroth thereat, he cast him forth,
And shut him in a prison called Life ;
And gave him for a Garment earth and water,
And bound him straitly in four Azure Chains,
And pour'd for him the bitter Cup of Fire.
The Lord moreover spake : Because thou hast forgotten
My will, I yield thee to the Element,
And thou shall be his slave, and have no longer
Remembrance of thy Birthplace or my Name.
And sithence thou hast sinn'd against me by
Thy prideful Thought of being One and Somewhat,
I leave with thee that Thought to be thy whip,
And this thy weakness for a Bit and Bridle ;
Till once a Saviour from the Waters rise.
Who shall again baptize thee in my bosom.
That so thou mayst be Nought and All.
" And when the Lord had spoken, he drew back
As in a mighty rushing ; and the Element
Rose up round Phosphoros, and tower'd itself
Aloft to Heav'n ; and he lay stunn'd beneath it.
"But when his first-bom Sister saw his pain.
Her heart was full of sorrow, and she turn'd her
To the Lord ; and with veil'd face, thus spake Mylitta : *
Pity my Brother, and let me console him !
*' Tlien did the Lord in pity rend asunder
A little chink in Phosphoros his dungeon,
That so he might behold his Sister's face;
And when she silent peep'd into his Prison,
She left with him a Mirror for his solace ;
And when he look'd therein, his earthly Garment
Pressed him less; and, like the gleam of morning,
Some faint remembrance of his Birthplace dawn'd.
" But yet the Azure Chains she could not break.
The bitter Cup of Fire not take from him.
Therefore she pray'd to Mythras, to her Father,
* MyJitia in tho old Persian mysteries was the name of the Moon; Mythrat
that of the Sun.
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WEfiNER. lOT
To save his youngest-bom ; and Mythras went
Up to the footstool of the Lord, and said :
Take pity on my Son ! — Then said the Lord :
Have I not sent Mylitta that he may
Behold his Birthplace ? — Wherefore Mythras answer'd :
What profits it? The Chains she cannot break,
The bitter Cup of Fire not take from him.
So will I, said the Lord, the Salt be given him.
That so the bitter Cup of Fire be softened j
But yet the Azure Chains must lie on him
Till once a Saviour rise from out the Waters. —
And when the Salt was laid on Phosphor's tongue,
The Fire's piercing ceased ; but th' Element
Congeal'd the Salt to Ice, and Phosphoros
Lay there benumb'd, and had not power to move.
But Isis saw him, and thus spake the Mother:
*' Thou who art Father, Strength and Word and Light.*
Shall he my last-bom grandchild lie forever
In pain, the down-pressed thrall of his rude Brother f
Then had the Lord compassion, and he sent him
The Herald of the Saviour from the Waters;
The Cup of Fluidness, and in the cup
The drops of Sadness and the drops of Longing :
And then the Ice was thawed, the' Fire grew cool,
And Phosphoros again had room to breathe.
But yet the earthy Garment cumber'd him.
The Azure Chains still gall'd, and the Remembrance
Of the Name, the Lord's, which he had lost, was wanting.
*' Then the Mother's heart was mov'd with pity.
She beckoned the Son to her, and said :
Thou who art more than I, and yet my nursling,
Put on this Robe of Earth, and show thyself
To fallen Phosphoros bound in the dungeon.
And open him tliat dungeon's narrow cover.
Then said the Word: It shall be so ! and sent
His messenger Disease ; she broke the roof
Of Phosphor's Prison, so that once again
The Fount of Light he saw: the Element
Was dazzled blind ; but Phosphor knew his Father.
And when the Word, in Earth, came to the Prison,
The Element address'd him as his like ;
But Phosphoros look'd up to him, and said :
108 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Thou art sent hither to redeem from Sin,
Yet thou art not the Saviour from the Waters. —
Then spake the Word: The Saviour from the Waters
I surely am not ; yet when thou hast drunk
The Cup of Fluiduess, I will redeem thee.
Then Phosphor drank the Cup of Fluidness,
Of Longing, and of Sadness ; and his Garment
Did drop sweet drops ; wherewith the Messenger
Of the Word wash'd aU his Garment, till its folds
And stiffness vanish'd, and it 'gan grow light.
And when the Prison Life she touch'd, straightway
It waxed thin and lucid like to crystal.
But yet the Azure Chains she could not break. —
Then did the Word vouchsafe him the Cup of Faith;
And having drunk it, Phosphoros look'd up,
And saw the Saviour standing in the Waters.
Both hands the Captive stretch'd to grasp that Saviour ;
But he fled.
" So Phosphoros was griev'd in heart.
But yet the Word spake comfort, giving him
The Pillow Patience, there to -lay his head.
And having rested, he rais'd his head, and said :
Wilt thou redeem me from the Prison too ?
Then said the Word : Wait yet in peace seven moons.
It may be nine, until thy hour shall come.
And Phosphor answer'd : Lord, thy will be done !
" Which when the mother Isis saw, it griev'd her ;
She called the llainbow up, and said to him :
Go thou and tell the Word that he forgive
The Captive these seven moons ! And Rainbow flew
Where he was sent ; and as he shook his wings
There dropt from thorn the Oil of Purity :
And this tlie Word did gather in a Cup,
And clcans'd with it tlie Sinner's head and bosom.
Then passing forth into his Father's Garden,
lie broath'd upon the ground, and there arose
A flow'rct out of it, like milk and rose-bloom;
Which having wetted with the dew of Rapture,
lie crown'd therewith the Captive's brow ; then grasped him
With l\is right hand, the Rainbow with the left;
Mylitta likewise with her Mirror came,
And Phosphoros looked into it, and saw
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 109
Writ on the Azure of lufinity
The long-forgotteu Name, and the Remembrance
Of HIS Birthplace, gleaming as in light of gold.
'' Then fell there as if scales from Phosphor's eyesj
He left the Thought of heing One and Somewhat,
His nature melted in the mighty All ;
Like sighings from above came balmy healing,
So that his heart for very bliss was bursting.
For Chains and Garment cumber'd him no more :
The Garment he had changed to royal puq)le.
And of his chains were fashion'd glancing jewels.
" True, still the Saviour from the Waters tarried;
Yet came tlie Spirit over him ; the Lord
Turn'd towards him a gracious countenance,
And Isis held him in her mother-arms.
" This is the last of the Evangels."
[The door doses, and again conceals the Old Man of
Carmel.
The purport of this enigma Eobert confesses that he does
not " wholly understand ; " an admission in which, we suspect,
most of our readers, and the Old Man of Carmel himself, were
he candid, might be inclined to agree with him. Sometimes,
in the deeper consideration which translators are bound to
bestow on such extravagances, we have fancied we could dis-
cern in this apologue some glimmerings of meaning, scattered
here and there like weak lamps in the darkness ; not enough
to interpret the riddle, but to show that by possibility it might
have an interpretation, — was a typical vision, with a certain
degree of significance in the wild mind of the poet, not an
inane fever-dream. Might not Phosphoros, for example, indi-
cate generally the spiritual essence of man, and this story be
an emblem of his history ? He longs to be " One and Some-
what ; " that is, he labors under the very common complaint
of egoism; cannot, in the grandeur of Beauty and Virtue,
forget his own so beautiful and virtuous Self ; but, amid the
glories of the majestic All, is still haunted and blinded by
some shadow of his own little Me. For this reason he is pun-
ished ; imprisoned in the " Element " (of a material body),
and has the " four Azure Chains " (the four principles of mat-
110 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
ter) bound round him ; so that he can neither think nor act,
except in a foreign medium, and under conditions that en-
cumber and confuse him. The *' Cup of Fire " is given him ;
perhaps, the rude, barbarous passion and cruelty natural to all
uncultivated tribes ? But, at length, he beholds the " Moon ; "
begins to have some sight and love of material Kature ; and,
looking into her " Mirror," forms to himself, under gross em-
blems, a theogony and sort of mythologic poetry ; in which, if
he still cannot behold the " Name," and has forgotten his own
" Birthplace," both of which are blotted out and hidden by the
" Element," he finds some spiritual solace, and breathes more
freely. Still, however, the " Cup of Fire " tortures him ; till
the " Salt " (intellectual culture ?) is vouchsafed ; which, in-
deed, calms the raging of that furious bloodthirstiness and
warlike strife, but leaves him, as mere culture of the under-
standing may be supposed to do, frozen into irreligion and
moral inactivity, and farther from the " Name " and his " Own
Original " than ever. Then, is the *' Cup of Fluidness " a more
merciful disposition ? and intended, with " the Drops of Sad-
ness and the Drops of Longing," to shadow forth that woe-
struck, desolate, yet softer and devouter state in which mankind
displayed itself at the coming of the " Word," at the first
promulgation of the Christian religion ? Is the " Rainbow "
the modern poetry of Europe, the Chivalry, the new form of
Stoicism, the whole romantic feeling of these later days ? But
who or what the " Heiland aus den Wassem (Saviour from
the Waters) " may be, we need not hide our entire ignorance ;
this being apparently a secret of the Valley, which Robert
d'Heredon, and Werner, and men of like gifts, are in due time
to show the world, but unhappily have not yet succeeded in
bringing to light. Perhaps, indeed, our whole interpretation
may be thought little better than lost labor ; a reading of what
was only scrawled and flourished, not written ; a shaping of
gay castles and metallic palaces from the sunset clouds, which,
though mountain-like, and purple and golden of hue, and tow-
ered together as if by Cyclopean arms, are but dyed vapor.
Adam of Valincourt continues his exposition in the most
liberal way ; but, through many pages of metrical lecturing, he
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. Ill
does little to satisfy us. What was more to his purpose, he
partly succeeds in satisfying Eobert d'Heredon ; who, after
due preparation, — Molay being burnt like a martyr, under
the most promising omens, and the Pope and the King of
France struck dead, or nearly so, — sets out to found the order
of St. Andrew in his own country, that of Calatrava in Spain,
and other knightly missions of the Heiland aus den Wassem
elsewhere ; and thus, to the great satisfaction of all parties,
the Sons gf the Valley terminates, "positively for the last
time."
Our reader may have already convinced himself that in this
strange phantasmagoria there are not wanting indications of a
very high poetic talent. We see a mind of great depth, if not
of sufficient strength; struggling with objects which, though
it cannot master them, are essentially of richest significance.
Had the writer only kept his piece till the ninth year ; medi-
tating it with true diligence and unwearied will ! But the
weak Werner was not a man for such things : he must reap
the harvest on the morrow after seed-day, and so stands before
us at last as a man capable of much, only not of bringing
aught to perfection.
Of his natural dramatic genius, this work, ill-concocted as it
is, affords no unfavorable specimen; and may, indeed, have
justified expectations which were never realized. It is true,
he cannot yet give form and animation to a character, in the
genuine poetic sense ; we do not see any of his dramatis per-
sonce, but only hear of them : yet, in some cases, his endeavor,
though imperfect, is by no means abortive ; and here, for in-
stance, Jacques Molay, Philip Adalbert, Hugo, and the like,
though not living men, have still as much life as many a buff-J
and-scarlet Sebastian or Barbarossa, whom Ave find swaggering,
for years, with acceptance, on the boards. Of his spiritual
beings, whom in most of his Plays he introduces too profusely,
we cannot speak in commendation : they are of a mongrel
nature, neither rightly dead nor alive ; in fact, they sometimes
glide about like real though rather singular mortals, through
the whole piece ; and only vanish as ghosts in the fifth act.
But, on the other hand, in contriving theatrical incidents and
112 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
sentiments ; in scenic shows, and all manner , of gorgeous,
frightful, or astonishing machinery, Werner exhibits a copious
invention, and strong though untutored feeling. Doubtless, it
is all crude enough; all illuminated by an impure, barbaric
splendor ; not the soft, peaceful brightness of sunlight, but
the red, resinous glare of playhouse torches. Werner, how-
ever, was still young ; and had he been of a right spirit, all
that was impure and crude might in time have become ripe
and clear ; and a poet of no ordinary excellence .would have
been moulded out of him.
But, as matters stood, this was by no means the thing Wer-
ner had most at heart. It is not the degree of poetic talent
manifested in the Sons of the Valley that he prizes, but the
religious truth shadowed forth in it. To judge from the para-
bles of Baifometus and Phosphoros, our readers may be dis-
posed to hold his revelations on this subject rather cheap.
Nevertheless, taking up the character of Vates in its widest
sense, Werner earnestly desires not only to be a poet, but a
prophet ; and, indeed, looks upon his merits in the former
province as altogether subservient to his higher purposes in
the latter. We have a series of the most confused and long-
winded letters to Hitzig, who had now removed to Berlin ;
setting forth, with a singular simplicity, the mighty projects
Werner was cherishing on this head. He thinks that there
ought to be a new Creed promulgated, a new Body of Re-
ligionists established ; and that, for this purpose, not writing,
but actual preaching, can avail. He detests common Protes-
tantism, under which he seems to mean a sort of Socinianism,
or diluted French Infidelity : he talks of Jacob Bohme, and
Luther, and Schleiermacher, and a new Trinity of " Art, Ke-
ligion and Love." All this should be sounded in the ears of
men, and in a loud voice, that so their torpid slumber, the
harbinger of spiritual death, may be driven away. With the
utmost gravity, he commissions his correspondent to wait
upon Schlegel, Tieck and others of a like spirit, and see
whether they will not join him. For his own share in the
matter, he is totally indifferent ; will serve in the meanest
capacity, and rejoice with his whole heart, if, in zeal and
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 113
ability as poets and preachers, not some only, but every one
should infinitely outstrip him. ^Ve suppose he had dropped
the thought of being " One and Somewhat ; " and now wished,
rapt away by this divine purpose, to be " ISTought and All."
On the Heiland aits den Wassei-n this correspondence throws
no farther light : what the new Creed specially was which
"Werner felt so eager to plant and propagate, we nowhere learn
with any distinctness. Probably he might himself have been
rather at a loss to explain it in brief compass. His theogonj',
we suspect, was still very much m posse ; and perhaps only
the moral part of this system could stand before him with
some degree of clearness. On this latter point, indeed, he is
determined enough ; well assured of his dogmas, and apparently
•waiting but for some proper vehicle in which to convey them
to the minds of men. His fundamental principle of morals
we have seen in part already : it does not exclusively or pri-
marily belong to himself; being little more than that high
tenet of entire Self-forgetfulness, that " merging of the Me in
the Idea ; " a principle which reigns both in Stoical and Chris-
tian ethics, and is at this day common, in theory, among all
German philosophers, especially of the Transcendental class.
Werner has adopted this principle with his Vv^hole heart and
his whole soul, as the indispensable condition of all Virtue.
He believes it, we should say, intensely, and without compro-
mise, exaggerating rather than softening or concealing its
peculiarities. He will not have Happiness, under any form,
to be the real or chief end of man : this is but love of enjoy-
ment, disguise it as we like ; a more complex and sometimes
more respectable species of hunger, he would say ; to be
admitted as an indestructible element in human nature, but
nowise to be recognized as the highest ; on the contrary, to
be resisted and incessantly warred with, till it become obe-
dient to love of God, which is only, in the truest sense, love
of Goodness, and the germ of which lies deep in the inmost
nature of man ; of authority superior to all sensitive im-
pulses ; forming, in fact, the grand law of his being, as
subjection to it forms the first and last condition of spiritual
health. He thinks that to propose a reward for virtue is to
VOL. XIII. 8
114 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
render virtue impossible. He warmly seconds Schleiermacher
in declaring that even the hope of Immortality is a consider-
ation unfit to be introduced into religion, and tending only
to pervert it, and impair its sacredness. Strange as this may
seem, Werner is firmly convinced of its importance ; and has
even enforced it specifically in a passage of his Sohne des
Thais, which he is at the pains to cite and expound in his
correspondence with Hitzig. Here is another fraction of that
wondrous dialogue between Kobert d'Heredon and Adam ol:
Valincourt, in the cavern of the Valley : —
Robert. And Death, — so dawns it on me, — Death perhaps^
The doom that leaves nought of this Me remaining.
May be perhaps the Symbol of that Self-denial, —
Perhaps still more, — perhaps, — I have it, friend ! —
That cripplish Immortality, — think'st not? —
Which but spins forth our paltry 3Ie, so thin
And pitiful, into Infinitude,
That too must die f — This shallow Self of ours,
We are not nail'd to it eternally ?
We can, we must be free of it, and then
Uucumbered wanton in the Force of All !
Adam [calling joy fully into the interior of the Cavern],
Brethren, he has renounced I Himself has found it !
Oh, praised be Light ! He sees ! The North is sav'd I
Concealed Voices of the Old Men of the Valley.
Huil and joy to thee, thou Strong One :
Force to thee from above, and Light I
Complete, — complete the work !
Adam [embracing Robert].
Come to my heart ! — &c. &c.
Such was the spirit of that new Faith, which, symbolized
under niythuses of Baffometus and Phosphoros, and " Sa-
viours from the Waters," and " Trinities of Art, Religion and
Love," and to be preached abroad by the aid of Schleier-
macher, and what was then called the New Poetical School,
"Werner seriously purposed, like another Luther, to cast forth,
as good seed, among the ruins of decayed and down-trodden
LIFE AXD WRITINGS OF WERNER. 115
Protestantism ! Whether Hitzig was still young enough to
attempt executing his commission, and applying to Schlegel
and Tieck for help ; and if so, in what gestures of speechless
astonishment, or what peals of inextinguishable laughter they
answered him, we are not informed. One thing, however, is
clear : that a man with so unbridled an imagination, joined to
so weak an understanding and so broken a volition ; who had
plunged so deep in Theosophy, and still hovered so near the
surface in all practical knowledge of men and their affairs ;
who, shattered and degraded in his own private character,
could meditate such apostolic enterprises, — was a man likely,
if he lived long, to play fantastic tricks in abundance ; and, at
least in his religious history, to set the world a-wondering.
Conversion, not to Popery, but, if it so chanced, to Braminism,
was a thing nowise to be thought impossible.
Nevertheless, let his missionary zeal have justice from us.
It does seem to have been grounded on no wicked or even
illaudable motive : to all appearance, he not only believed
what he professed, but thought it of the highest moment that
others should believe it. And if the proselytizing spirit,
which dwells in all men, be allowed exercise even when it
only assaults what it reckons Errors, still more should this
be so when it proclaims what it reckons Truth, and fancies
itself not taking from us what in our eyes may be good, but
adding thereto what is better.
Meanwhile, Werner was not so absorbed in spiritual schemes,
that he altogether overlooked his own merely temporal com-
fort. In contempt of former failures, he was now courting
for himself a third wife, " a young Poless of the highest per-
sonal attractions ; " and this under difficulties which would
have appalled an ordinary wooer : for the two had no language
in common ; he not understanding three words of Polish, she
not one of German. Xevertheless, nothing daunted by this
circumstance, na}' perhaps discerning in it an assurance against
many a sorrowful curtain-lecture, he prosecuted his suit, we
suppose by signs and dumb-show, with such ardor, tliat lie
quite gained the fair mute ; wedded her in 1801 ; and soon
after, in her company, quitted ^^'arsaw for Konigsberg, where
116 CRITICAL AND MISCELX.ANEOUS ESSAYS.
the helpless state of his mother required immediate attention.
It is from Konigsberg that most of his missionary epistles to
llitzig are written ; the latter, as we have hinted before, being
now stationed, by his official appointment, in Berlin. The sad
duty of watching over his crazed, forsaken and dying mother,
Werner appears to have discharged with true lilial assiduity :
for three years she lingered in the most painful state, under
his nursing ; and her death, in 1804, seems notwithstanding
to have filled him with the deepest sorrow. This is an extract
of his letter to Hitzig on that mournful occasion : —
" I know not whether thou hast heard that on the 24th of
February (the same day when our excellent Mnioch died in
Warsaw), my mother departed here, in my arms. My Friend !
God knocks with an iron hammer at our hearts ; and we are
duller than stone, if we do not feel it ; and madder than mad,
if we think it shame to cast ourselves into the dust before the
All-powerful, and let our whole so highly miserable Self be
annihilated in the sentiment of His infinite greatness aud long-
suffering. I wish I had words to paint how inexpressibly
pitiful my Sohne des Thais appeared to me in that hour, when,
after eighteen years of neglect, I again went to partake in the
Communion ! This death of my mother — the pure royal poet-
and-martyr spirit, who for eight years had lain continually
on a sick-bed, and suffered unspeakable things — affected me
(much as, for her sake aud my own, I could not but wish it)
with altogether agonizing feelings. Ah, Friend, how heavy
do my youthful faults lie on me ! How much would I give to
have my mother — (though both I and my wife have of late
times lived wholly for her, and had much to endure on her
account) — how much would I give to have her back to me but
for one week, that I might disburden my heavy-laden heart
with tears of repentance ! My beloved Friend, give thou no
grief to thy parents : ah, no earthly voice can awaken the
dead ! God aud Parents, that is the first concern ; all else is
secondary."
This affection for his mother forms, as it were, a little island
of light and verdure in Werner's history, whore, amid so much
that is dark autl desolate, one feels it pleasant to linger. Here
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 11 T
was at least one duty, perhaps indeed the only one, which, in
a wayward wasted life, he discharged with hdelity ; from his
conduct towards this one hapless being, we may perhaps still
learn that his heart, however perverted by circumstances, was
not incapable of true, disinterested love. A rich heart by
Z^ature ; but unwisely squandering its riches, and attaining to
a pure union only with this one heart ; for it seems doubtful
whether he ever loved another ! His poor mother, while alive,
was the haven of all his earthly voyagings ; and, in after
years, from amid far scenes and crushing perplexities, he often
looks back to her grave with a feeling to which all bosoms
must respond.^ The date of her decease became a memorable
era in his mind ; as may appear from the title which he gave
long afterwards to one of his most popular and tragical pro-
ductions. Die Viei^und-zwanziyste Fehruar (The Twenty-fourth
of February).
After this event, which left him in possession of a small
but competent fortune, Werner returned with his wife to his
post at Warsaw. By this time, Hitzig too had been sent back,
and to a higher post : he was now married likewise ; and the
two wives, he says, soon became as intimate as their husbands.
In a little while Hoffmann joined them ; a colleague in Hitzig's
oifice, and by him ere long introduced to Werner, and the
other circle of Prussian men of law ; who, in this foreign cap-
ital, formed each other's chief society ; and, of course, clave
to one another more closely than they might have done else-
where. Hoffmann does not seem to have loved Werner ; as,
indeed, he was at all times rather shy in his attachments ; and
^ See, for example, the Preface to his Mutter der Makkahaer, ■written at
Vienna, in 1819. The tone of still but deep and heartfelt sadness which runs
through the whole of this piece cannot be communicated in extracts. We
quote only a half stanza, which, except in prose, we shall not venture to
translate : —
" Ich, rlem der Liebe Koaen
Und alle Freudenrosen
Beym eisten Schaufeltosen
Am Muttergrab' entflohn.
I, for ■whom the caresses of love and all roses of joy withered away as the
first shovel with its mould sounded on the coffin of mv mother."
118 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
to his quick eye, and more rigid fastidious feeling, the lofty
theory and low selfish practice, the general diffuseness, nay
incoherence of character, the pedantry and solemn affectation,
too visible in the man, could nowise be hidden. Nevertheless,
he feels and acknowledges the frequent charm of his conver-
sation : for "Werner many times could be frank and simple ;
and the true humor and abandonment with which he often
launched forth into bland satire on his friends, and still oftener
on himself, atoned for many of his whims and weaknesses.
Probably the two could not have lived together by themselves :
but in a circle of common men, where these touchy elements
were attempered by a fair addition of wholesome insensibili-
ties and formalities, they even relished one another ; and,
indeed, the whole social union seems to have stood on no
undesirable footing. For the rest, Warsaw itself was, at this
time, a gay, picturesque and stirring city ; full of resources
for spending life in pleasant occupation, either wisely or
unwisely.-^
It was here that, in 1805, Werner's Kreuz an der Ostsee
(Cross on the Baltic) was written : a sort of half-operatic per-
formance, for which Hoffmann, who to his gifts as a writer
^ Hitzig has thus described the first aspect it presented to Hoffmann :
" Streets of stately breadth, formed of palaces in the finest Italian style, and
wooden huts which threatened every moment to rush down over the heads of
their inmates ; in these edifices, Asiatic pomp combined in strange union with
Greenland squalor. An ever-moving population, forming the sharpest con-
trasts, as in a perpetual masquerade : long-bearded Jews ; monks in the garb
of every order ; here veiled and deeply shrouded nuns of strictest discipline,
walking self-secluded and apart ; there flights of young Polesses, in silk
mantles of the brightest colors, talking and promenading over broad squares.
The venerable ancient Polish noble, with moustaches, caftan, girdle, sabre,
and red or yellow boots ; the new generation equipt to the utmost pitch as
Parisian Incioi/ab!es ; with Turks, Greeks, Russians, Italians, Frenclimen, in
ever-changing throng. Add to this a police of inconceivable tolerance, dis-
turbing no popular sport ; so that little puppet-theatres, apes, camels, dancing-
bears, practised incessantly in open spaces and streets ; while the most elegant
equipages, and the poorest pedestrian bearers of burden, stood gazing at them.
Fartiier, a theatre in the national language ; a good French company ; an
Italian opera; German players of at least a very passable sort ; masked balls
on a quite original but highly entertaining plan ; places for pleasure-excursions
all round the city," &c. &c. — Hoffmann's Leben und Nachlass, b. i. s. 287.
LIFE AND WRITINGS OP WERNER. 119
added perhaps still higher attainments both as a musician and
a painter, composed the accompaniment. He complains that
in this matter Werner was very ill to please. A ridiculous
scene, at the first reading of the piece, the same shrewd wag
has recorded in his Serapions-Bruder : Hitzig assures us that
it is literally true, and that Hoffmann himself was the main
actor in the business.
"Our Poet had invited a few friends, to read to them, in
manuscript, his Kreiiz an der Ostsee, of which they already
knew some fragments that had raised their expectations to
the highest stretch. Planted, as usual, in the middle of the
circle, at a little miniature table, on which two clear lights,
stuck in high candlesticks, were burning, sat the Poet : he
had drawn the manuscript from his breast ; the huge snuff-box,
the blue-checked handkerchief, aptly reminding you of Baltic
muslin, as in use for petticoats and other indispensable things,
lay arranged in order before him. — Deep silence on all sides !
— Not a breath heard ! — The Poet cuts one of those unparal-
leled, ever-memorable, altogether indescribable faces you have
seen in him, and begins. — Now you recollect, at the rising of
the curtain, the Prussians are assembled on the coast of the
Baltic, fishing amber, and commence by calling on the god who
presides over this vocation. — So begins :
' Bangputtis ! Bangputtis ! Bangputtis ! '
— Brief pause ! Incipient stare in the audience ! — and from a
fellow in the corner comes a small clear voice : ' My dearest,
most valued friend ! ray best of poets ! if thy whole dear opera
is written in that cursed language, no soul of us knows a syl-
lable of it ; and I beg, in the Devil's name, thou wouldst have
the goodness to translate it first ! ' " ^
Of this KrcAiz an der Ostsee our limits will permit us to say
but little. It is still a fragment ; the Second Part, which was
often promised, and, we believe, partly written, having never
yet been published. In some respects, it appears to us the
best of Werner's dramas : there is a decisive coherence in the
plot, such as we seldom find with him ; and a firmness, a
^ HofEmanu's Serapions-Bruder, b. iv. s. 240.
120 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS,
rugged nervous brevity in the dialogue, which is equally rare.
Here, too, the mystic dreamy agencies, which, as in most of
his pieces, he has interwoven with the action, harmonize more
than usually with the spirit of the whole. It is a wild subject,
and this helps to give it a corresponding wildness of locality.
The first planting of Christianity among the Prussians by the
Teutonic Knights leads us back of itself into dim ages of
antiquity, of superstitious barbarism, and stern apostolic zeal :
it is a scene hanging, as it were, in half-ghastly chiaroscuro, on
a ground of primeval Night : where the Cross and St. Adalbert
come in contact with the Sacred Oak and the Idols of Romova,
we are not surprised that spectral shapes peer forth on us from
the gloom.
In constructing and depicting of characters, Werner, indeed,
is still little better than a mannerist : his persons, differing in
external figure, differ too slightly in inward nature; and no
one of them comes forward on us with a rightly visible or
living air. Yet, in scenes and incidents, in what may be
called the general costume of his subject, he has here attained
a really superior excellence. The savage Prussians, with their
amber-fishing, their bear-hunting, their bloody idolatry and
stormful untutored energy, are brought vividly into view ; no
less so the Polish Court of Plozk, and the German Crusaders,
in their bridal-feasts and battles, as they live and move, here
placed on the verge of Heathendom, as it were, the vanguard
of Light m conflict with the kingdom of Darkness. The noc-
turnal assault on Plozk by the Prussians, where the handful
of Teutonic Knights is overpowered, but the citj^ saved from
ruin by the miraculous interposition of the " Harper," who
now proves to be the Spirit of St. Adalbei't ; this, with the
scene which follows it, on the Island of the Vistula, where the
dawn slowly breaks over doings of woe and horrid cruelty,
but of woe and cruelty atoned for by immortal hope, — belong
iimloubtedly to Werner's most successful efforts. With much
that is questionable, much that is merely common, there are
intermingled touches from tlio true Land of Wonders ; indeed,
the whole is overspread with a certain dim religious light, in
which its many pettinesses and exaggerations are softened into
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 121
something which at least resembles poetic harmony. We give
this drama a high praise, when we say that more than once it
has reminded us of Calderon.
The " Cross on the Baltic " had been bespoken by Iffland for
the Berlin theatre; but the complex machinery of the piece,
the " little flames " springing, at intervals, from the heads of
certain characters, and the other supernatural ware with which
it is replenished, were found to transcend the capabilities of
any merely terrestrial stage. Iffland, the best actor in Ger-
many, was himself a dramatist, and man of talent, but in all
points differing from Werner, as a stage-machinist may differ
from a man with the second-sight. Hoffmann chuckles in
secret over the perplexities in which the shrewd prosaic man-
ager and playwright must have found himself, when he came
to the " little flame." Nothing remained but to write back a
refusal, full of admiration and expostulation : and Iffland wrote
one which, says Hoffmann, " passes for a masterpiece of the-
atrical diplomacy."
In this one respect, at least, Werner's next play was happier,
for it actually crossed the "Stygian marsh" of green-room
hesitations, and reached, though in a maimed state, the Ely-
sium of the boards ; and this to the great joy, as it proved,
both of Iffland and all other parties interested. We allude to
the Marfin LutJter, oder die Weihe der Kraft (Martin Luther,
or the Consecration of Strength), 'Werner's most popular per-
formance ; which came out at Berlin in 1807, and soon spread
over all Germany, Catholic as well as Protestant ; being acted,
it would seem, even in Vienna, to overflowing and delighted
audiences.
If instant acceptance, therefore, were a measure of dramatic
merit, this play should rank high among that class of works.
Nevertheless, to judge from our own impressions, the sober
reader of Martin Luther will be far from finding in it such
excellence. It cannot be named among the best dramas : it
is not even the best of Werner's. There is, indeed, much
scenic exhibition, many a " fervid sentiment," as the news-
papers have it; nay, with all its mixture of coarseness, here
and there a glimpse of genuine dramatic inspiration : but, as
122 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
a whole, the work sorely disappoints us ; it is of so loose and
mixed a structure, and falls asunder in our thoughts, like the
iron and the clay in the Chaldean's Dream. There is an in-
terest, perhaps of no trivial sort, awakened in the First Act ;
but, unhappily, it goes on declining, till, in the Fifth, an ill-
natured critic might almost say, it expires. The story is too
wide for Werner's dramatic lens to gather into a focus ; be-
sides, the reader brings with him an image of it, too fixed for
being so boldly metamorphosed, and too high and august for
being ornamented with tinsel and gilt pasteboard. Accord-
ingly, the Diet of Worms, plentifully furnished as it is with
sceptres and armorial shields, continues a much grander scene
in History than it is here in Fiction. Neither, with regard to
the persons of the play, excepting those of Luther and Cath-
arine, the Nun whom he weds, can we find much scope for
praise. Nay, our praise even of these two must have many
limitations. Catharine, though carefully enough depicted, is,
in fact, little more than a common tragedy-queen, with the
storminess, the love, and other stage-heroism, which belong
prescriptively to that class of dignitaries. With regard to
Luther himself, it is evident that Werner has put forth his
whole strength in this delineation ; and, trying him by com-
mon standards, we are far from saying that he has failed.
Doubtless it is, in some respects, a significant and even sub-
lime delineation ; yet must we ask whether it is Luther, the
Luther of History, or even the Luther proper for this drama ;
and not rather some ideal portraiture of Zacharias Werner
himself ? Is not this Luther, with his too assiduous flute-
playing, his trances of three days, his visions of the Devil
(at whom, to the sorrow of the housemaid, he resolutely
throws his huge inkbottle), by much too spasmodic and brain-
sick a personage ? We cannot but question the dramatic
beauty, whatever it may be in history, of that three days'
trance ; the hero must before this have been in want of mere
victuals ; and there, as he sits deaf and dumb, with his eyes
sightless, yet fixed and staring, are we not tempted less to
admire, than to send in all haste for some officer of the Hu-
mane Society ? — Seriously, we cannot but regret that these
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 123
and other such blemishes had not been avoided, and the char-
acter, worked into chasteness and purity, been presented to
us in the simple grandeur which essentially belongs to it. For,
censure as we may, it were blindness to deny that this figure of
Luther has in it features of an austere loveliness, a mild yet
awful beauty : undoubtedly a figure rising from the depths
of the poet's soul ; and, marred as it is with such adhesions,
piercing at times into the depths of ours ! Among so many
poetical sins, it forms the chief redeeming virtue, and truly
were almost in itself a sort of atonement.
As for the other characters, they need not detain us long.
Of Charles the Fifth, by far the most ambitious, — meant,
indeed, as the counterpoise of Luther, — we may say, with-
out hesitation, that he is a failure. An empty Gascon this ;
bragging of his power, and honor and the like, in a style
which Charles, even in his nineteenth year, could never have
used. " One God, one Charles," is no speech for an emperor ;
and, besides, is borrowed from some panegyrist of a Spanish
opera-singer. Xeither can we fall in with Charles, when he
tells us that ''he fears nothing, — not even God." We humbly
think he must be mistaken. With the old Miners, again, with
Hans Luther and his Wife, the Reformer's parents, there is
more reason to be satisfied : yet in Werner's hands simplicity
is always apt, in such cases, to become too simple ; and these
honest peasants, like the honest Hugo in the " Sons of the
Valley," are very garrulous.
The drama of MaHin Luther is named likewise the Conse-
cration of Strength ; that is, we suppose, the purifying of this
great theologian from all remnants of earthly passion, into a
clear heavenly zeal ; an operation which is brought about,
strangely enough, by two half-ghosts and one whole ghost, —
a little fairy girl, Catharine's servant, who impersonates Faith ;
a little fairy youth, Luther's servant, who represents Art ; and
the "Spirit of Cotta's wife," an honest housekeeper, but de-
funct many years before, who stands for Purity. These three
supernaturals hover about in very whimsical wise, cultivating
flowers, playing on flutes, and singing dirge-like epithalamiums
over unsound sleepers : we cannot see how aught of this is to
124 CRITICAL AND MISCELLA^^EOUS ESSAYS.
" consecrate strength ; " or, indeed, what such jack-o'-lantern
personages have in the least to do with so grave a business.
If the author intended by such machinery to elevate his sub-
ject from the Common, and unite it with the higher region of
the Infinite and the Invisible, we cannot . think that his con-
trivance has succeeded, or was worthy to succeed. These
half-allegorical, half-corporeal beings yield no contentment
anywhere : Abstract Ideas, however they may put on fleshly
garments, are a class of characters whom we cannot sym-
pathize with or delight in. Besides, how can this mere em-
bodiment of an allegory be supposed to act on the rugged
materials of life, and elevate into ideal grandeur the doings
of real men, that live and move amid the actual pressure of
worldly things ? At best, it can stand but like a hand in the
viargin: it is not performing the task proposed, but only tell-
ing us that it was meant to be performed. To our feelings,
this entire episode runs like straggling bindweed through the
whole growth of the piece, not so much uniting as encumber-
ing and choking up what it meets with ; in itself, perhaps, a
green and rather pretty weed ; yet here superfluous, and, like
any other weed, deserving only to be altogether cut away.
Our general opinion of Martin Luther, it would seem, there-
fore, corresponds ill with that of the " overflowing and de-
lighted audiences " over all Germany. We believe, however,
that now, in its twentieth year, the work may be somewhat
more calmly judged of even there. As a classical drama it
could never pass with any critic; nor, on the other hand,
sluiU we ourselves deny that, in the lov/er sphere of a popu-
lar spectacle^ its attractions are manifold. AVe find it, what,
more or less, we find all Werner's pieces to be, a splendid,
sparkling mass ; yet not of pure metal, but of many-colored
scoria, not unmingled with metal ; and must regret, as ever,
that it had not been refined in a stronger furnace, and kept in
the crucible till the true silver-glcavi, glancing from it, had
shown that the process was complete.
Werner's dramatic popularity could not remain without
influence on him, more es2)ecially as he was now in the very
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 125
centre of its brilliancy, having changed his residence from
Warsaw to Berlin, some time before his Weihe der Kraft
was acted, or indeed written. Von Schroter, one of the state-
ministers, a man harmonizing with Werner in his " zeal both
for religion and freemasonry," had been persuaded by some
friends to appoint him his secretary. Werner naturally re-
joiced in such promotion ; yet, combined with his theatrical
success, it perhaps, in the long-run, did him more harm than
good. He might now, for the first time, be said to see the
busy and influential world with his own eyes : but to draw
future instruction from it, or even to guide himself in its
present complexities, he was little qualified. He took a shorter
method : " he plunged into the vortex of society," says Hitzig,
with brief expressiveness ; became acquainted, indeed, with
Fichte, Johannes Miiller, and other excellent men, but united .
himself also, and with closer partiality, to players, play-lovers,
and a long list of jovial, admiring, but highly unprofitable
companions. His religious schemes, perhaps rebutted by col-
lision with actual life, lay dormant for the time, or mingled
in strange union with wine-vapors, and the " feast of reason
and the flow of soul." The result of all this might, in some
measure, be foreseen. In eight weeks, for example, Werner
had parted with his wife. It was not to be expected, he
writes, that she should be happy with him. " I am no bad
man," continues he, with considerable candor ; " yet a weak-
ling in many respects (for God strengthens me also in sev-
eral), fretful, capricious, greedy, impure. Thou knowest me !
Still, immersed in my fantasies, in my occupation : so that
here, what with playhouses, what with social parties, she had
no manner of enjoyment with me. She is innocent : I too
perhaps ; for can I pledge m3-self that I am so ? " These
rpj)eated divorces of Werner's at length convinced him that
ho had no talent for managing wives ; indeed, we subsequently
find him, more than once, arguing in dissuasion of marriage
altogether. To our readers one otlier consideration may occur:
astonishment at the state of marriage-hiw, and tlic strange
footing this "sacrament" must stand on througliout I'rotestaut
Germany. For a Christian man, at least not a ^Maliometan,
126 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
to leave three widows behind him, certainly wears a peculiar
aspect. Perhaps it is saying much for German morality, that
so absurd a system has not, by the disorders resulting from it,
already brought about its own abrogation.
Of Werner's farther proceedings in Berlin, except by impli-
cation, we have little notice. After the arrival of the French
armies, his secretaryship ceased ; and now wifeless and place-
less, in the summer of 1807, " he felt himself," he says, " au-
thorized by Fate to indulge his taste for pilgriming." Indulge
it accordingly he did ; for he wandered to and fro many years,
nay we may almost say, to the end of his life, like a perfect
Bedouin. The various stages and occurrences of his travels
he has himself recorded in a paper, furnished by him for his
own name, in some Biographical Dictionary. Hitzig quotes
great part of it, but it is too long and too meagre for being
quoted here. Werner was at Prague, Vienna, Munich, —
everywhere received with open arms ; " saw at Jena, in De-
cember, 1807, for the first time, the most universal and the
clearest man of his age (the man whose like no one that has
seen him will ever see again), the great, nay only Goethe ;
and under his introduction, the pattern of German princes "
(the Duke of Weimar) ; and then, " after three ever-memorable
months in this society, beheld at Berlin the triumphant entry
of the pattern of European tyrants" (Napoleon). On the
summit of the Rigi, at sunrise, he became acquainted with
the Crown-Prince, now King, of Bavaria ; was by him intro-
duced to the Swiss festival at Interlaken, and to the most
" intellectual lady of our time, the Baroness de Stael ; and
must beg to be credited when, after sufficient individual expe-
rience, he can declare, that the heart of this high and noble
woman was at least as great as her genius." Coppet, for a
while, was his head-quarters ; but he went to Paris, to Wei-
mar,^ again to Switzerland ; in short, trudged and hurried
^ It was here that Ilitzig saw him for the last time, in 1809; found ad-
mittance, through his means, to a court-festival in honor of Bcrnadotte ;
and ho still recollects, with gratification, " the lordly spectacle of ( Joethe
and that sovereign standing front to front, engaged in the liveliest couver-
Buliou."
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 127
hither and thither, inconstant as an ignis fatuxis, and restless
as the Wandering Jew,
On his mood of mind during all this period Werner gives
us no direct information; but so unquiet an outward life
betokens of itself no inward repose ; and when we, from
other lights, gain a transient glimpse into the wayfarer's
thoughts, they seem still more fluctuating than his footsteps.
His project of a New Keligion was by this time abandoned :
Hitzig thinks his closer survey of life at Berlin had taught
him the impracticability of such chimeras. Nevertheless, the
subject of Religion, in one shape or another, nay of propa-
gating it in new purity by teaching and preaching, had nowise
vanished from his meditations. On the contrary, we can per-
ceive that it still formed the master-principle of his soul,
" the pillar of cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night,"
which guided him, so far as he had any guidance, in the path-
less desert of his now solitary, barren and cheerless existence.
W'hat his special opinions or prospects on the matter had, at
this period, become, we nowhere learn ; except, indeed, nega-
tively, — for if he has not yet found the new, he still cor-
dially enough detests the old. All his admiration of Luther
cannot reconcile him to modern Lutheranism. This he re-
gards but as another and more hideous impersonation of the
Utilitarian spirit of the age, nay as the last triumph of In-
fidelity, which has now dressed itself in priestly garb, and
even mounted the pulpit, to preach, in heavenly symbols, a
doctrine which is altogether of the earth. A curious passage
from his Preface to the Cross on the Baltic we may quote,
by way of illustration. After speaking of St. Adalbert's mira-
cles, and how his body, when purchased from the heathen for
its weight in gold, became light as gossamer, he proceeds : —
''Though these things may be justly doubted ; yet one mira-
cle cannot be denied him, the miracle, namely, that after his
death he has extorted from this Spirit of Protestantism against
Strength in general, — which now replaces the old heathen
and catholic Spirit of Persecution, and weighs almost as much
as Adalbert's body, — the admission, that he knew what he
wanted ; was what he wished to be ; was so wholly ; and
128 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
therefore must have been a man at all points diametrically
opposite both to that Protestantism, and to the culture of our
day." In a Note, he adds : " There is another Protestantism,
however, which constitutes in Conduct what Art is in Specu-
lation, and which I reverence so highly, that I even place it
above Art, as Conduct is above Speculation at all times. But in
this, St. Adalbert and St. Luther are — colleagues : and if God,
which I daily pray for, should awaken Luther to us before the
Last Day, the first task he would find, in respect of that de-
generate and spurious Protestantism, would be, in his some-
what rugged manner, to — protest against it."
A similar, or perhaps still more reckless temper, is to be
traced elsewhere, in passages of a gay, as Avell as grave charac-
ter. This is the conclusion of a letter from Vienna, in 1807 :
" We have Tragedies here which contain so many edifying
maxims, that you might use them instead of Jesus Slrach, and
have them read from beginning to end in the Berlin Sunday-
Schools. Comedies, likewise, absolutely bursting with house-
hold felicity and nobleness of mind. The genuine Kasperl is
dead, and Schikander has gone his ways ; but here too Bigotry
and Superstition are attacked in enlightened Journals with
such profit, that the people care less for Popery than even you
in Berlin do ; and prize, for instance, the Weihe der Kraft,
which has also been declaimed in llegensburg and Munich
to thronging audiences, — chiefly for the multitude of liberal
Protestant opinions therein brought to light ; and regard the
author, all his struggling to the contrary unheeded, as a secret
lUuminatus, or at worst an amiable Enthusiast. In a word,
Vienna is determined, without loss of time, to overtake Ber-
lin in the career of improvement ; and when I recollect that
Berlin, on her side, carries Porst's Hymn-book with her, in her
reticule, to the shows in the Tluerrjarten ; and that the ray of
Christiano-catholico-platonic Faith pierces deeper and deeper
into your (already by nature very deep) Privy-covmeillor
iVIa'm'selle, — I almost fancy that Germany is one great mad-
house ; and could find in my heart to pack up my goods, and
set off for Italy, to-morrow morning; — not, indeed, that I
might work there, where follies enough are to be had too \ but
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 129
that, amid ruins and flowers, I might forget all things, and
myself in the first place." ^
To Italy accordingly he went, though with rather different
objects, and not quite so soon as on the morrow. In the
course of his wanderings, a munificent ecclesiastical Prince,
the Furst Primas von Dalberg, had settled a yearly pension
on him ; so that now he felt still more at libert}'^ to go whither
he listed. In the course of a second visit to Coppet, and
which lasted four months, Madame de Stael encouraged and
assisted him to execute his favorite project; he set out,
through Turin and Florence, and "on the 9th of December,
1809, saw, for the first time, the Capital of the World ! " Of
his proceedings here, much as we should desire to have minute
details, no information is given in this Narrative ; and Hitzig
seems to know, by a letter, merely that " he knelt with stream-
ing eyes over the graves of St. Peter and St. Paul." This
little phrase says much. Werner appears likewise to have
assisted at certain " Spiritual Exercitations {Ge'istliche Uelun-
gen) ; " a new invention set on foot at Rome for quickening
the devotion of the faithful; consisting, so far as we can
gather, in a sort of fasting-and-prayer meetings, conducted on
the most rigorous principles ; the considerable band of devotees
being bound over to strict silence, and secluded for several
days, with conventual care, from every sort of intercourse with
the world. The effect of these Exercitations, Werner elsewhere
declares, was edifying to an extreme degree ; at parting on
the threshold of their holy tabernacle, all the brethren " em-
braced each other, as if intoxicated with divine joy ; and each
confessed to the other, that throughout tliese precious days he
had been, as it were, in heaven ; and now, strengthened as by
a soul-purifying bath, was but loath to venture back into the
cold week-day world." The next step from these Tabor-feasts,
if, indeed, it had not preceded them, was a decisive one : *• On
the 19th of April, 1811, Werner had grace given him to return
to the Faith of his fathers, the Catholic ! "
Here, then, the " crowning mercy " had at length arrived I
This passing of the Eubicon determined the whole remainder
^ Lebens-Abriss, s. 70.
VOL. XIII. 9
130 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
of Werner's life ; which had henceforth the merit at least ot
entire consistency. He forthwith set about the professional
study of Theology ; then, being perfected in this, he left Italy
in 1813, taking care, however, by the road, " to supplicate, and
certainly not in vain, the help of the Gracious Mother at Lo-
retto ; " and after due preparation, under the superintendence
of his patron, the Prince Archbishop von Dalberg, had himself
ordained a Priest at Aschaffenburg, in June, 1814. Next from
Aschaffenburg he hastened to Vienna ; and there, with all his
might, began preaching ; his first auditory being the Congress
of the Holy Alliance, which had then just begun its venera-
ble sessions. "The novelty and strangeness," he says, "nay
originality of his appearance, secured him an extraordinary
concourse of hearers." He was, indeed, a man worth hearing
and seeing ; for his name, noised abroad in many-sounding
peals, was filling all Germany from the hut to the palace.
This, he thinks, might have affected his head ; but he " had a
trust in God, which bore him through." Neither did he seem
anywise anxious to still this clamor of his judges, least of all
to propitiate his detractors : for already, before arriving at
Vienna, he had published, as a pendant to his Martin Luther,
or the Consecration of Strength, a Pamphlet in doggerel metre,
entitled the Consecration of Weakness, wherein he proclaims
himself to the whole world as an honest seeker and finder of
truth, and takes occasion to revoke his old " Trinity " of art,
religion and love ; love having now turned out to be a danger-
ous ingredient in such mixtures. The writing of this Wcihe
der Unkraft Avas reckoned by many a bold but injudicious
measure, — a throwing down of the gauntlet when the lists
were full of tumultuous foes, and the knight was but weak, and
his cause, at best, of the most questionable sort. To rei)orts,
and calumnies, and criticisms, and vituperations, there was no
limit.
What remains of this strange eventful history may be summed
up in few words. Werner accepted no special charge in the
Church ; but continued a private and secular Priest ; preach-
ing diligently, but only where he himself saw good ; oftenest
at Vienna, but in summer over all parts of Austria, in Styria,
LIFE AND WKITINGS OF WERNER. 131
Carinthia, and even Venice. Everywhere, he says, the opin-
ions of his hearers were "violently divided." At one time,
he thought of becoming Monk, and had actually entered on a
sort of novitiate ; but he quitted the establishment rather
suddenly, and, as he is reported to have said, "for reasons
known only to God and himself." By degrees, his health grew
very weak : yet he still labored hard both in public and private ;
writing or revising poems, devotional or dramatic ; preaching,
and officiating as father-confessor, in which last capacity he is
said to have been in great request. Of his poetical produc-
tions during this period, there is none of any moment known
to us, except the Mother of the Maccabees (1819) ; a tragedy
of careful structure, and apparently in high favor with the
author, but which, notwithstanding, need not detain us long.
In our view, it is the worst of all his pieces ; a pale, blood-
less, indeed quite ghost-like affair ; for a cold breath as from
a sepulchre chills the heart in perusing it : there is no passion
or interest, but a certain woe-struck martyr zeal, or rather
frenzy, and this not so much storming as shrieking ; not loud
and resolute, but shrill, hysterical and bleared with ineffec-
tual tears. To read it may well sadden us : it is a convul-
sive fit, whose uncontrollable wri things indicate, not strength,
but the last decay of that.^
Werner was, in fact, drawing to his latter end : his health had
long been ruined ; especially of later years, he had suffered
much from disorders of the lungs. In 1817, he was thought to
be dangerously ill ; and afterwards, in 1822, when a journey
to the Baths partly restored him ; though he himself still felt
that his term was near, and spoke and acted like a man that
was shortly to depart. In January, 1823, he was evidently
^ Of his Attila (1808), his Vier-und-zwanzirjste Fehrunr (1809), his Cun€<]unde
(1814), and various other pieces written in his wanderings, we liave not room
to spealc. It is the less necessary, as the Attila and Twenty-fourth of February,
by much the best of these, have already been forcibly, and on the wiiole fairly,
characterized by Madame de Stael. Of the last-named little work we might
say, with double emj)hasis. Nee pueros coram populo Medfa trucldet : it has a
deep and genuine tragic interest, were it not so painfully protracted into the
regions of pure horror. Werner's Sermons, his Hymns, his Preface to Thomas
a Kempis, &c. are entirely unknown to us.
132 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
dying : his affairs lie had already settled ; mnch of his time he
spent in prayer ; was constantly cheerful, at intervals even
gay. "His death," says Hitzig, "was especially mild. On
the eleventh day of his disorder, he felt himself, particularly
towards evening, as if altogether light and well ; bo that he
would hardly consent to have any one to watch with him. Thi
servant whose turn it was did watch, however ; he had sa^-
down by the bedside between two and three next morning (th«
17th), and continued there a considerable while, in the belief
that his patient was asleep. Surprised, however, that no
"breathing was to be heard, he hastily aroused the household)
and it was found that Werner had already passed away."
In imitation, it is thought, of Lipsius, he bequeathed his
Pen to the treasury of the Virgin at Mariazell, " as a chief in-
strument of his aberrations, his sins and his repentance." He
was honorably interred at Enzersdorf on the Hill; where a
simple inscription, composed by himself, begs the wanderer to
" pray charitably for his poor soul ; " and expresses a trem-
bling hope that, as to Mary Magdalen, "because she loved
much," so to him also " much may be forgiven."
We have thus, in hurried movement, travelled over Zacharias
Werner's Life and Works ; noting down from the former such
particulars as seemed most characteristic ; and gleaning from
the latter some more curious passages, less indeed with a view
to their intrinsic excellence, than to their fitness for illustrating
the man. These scattered indications we must now leave our
readers to interpret each for himself : each will adjust them
into that combination which shall best harmonize with his own
way of thought. As a writer, Werner's character will occasion
little difficulty. A richly gifted nature ; but never wisely
guided, or resolutely applied ; a loving heart ; an intellect
subtle and inquisitive, if not always clear and strong ; a gor-
geous, deep and bold imagination ; a true, nay keen and burn-
ing sympathy with all high, all tender and holy things : here
lay the main elements of no common poet ; save only that one
was still wanting, — the force to cultivate them, and mould
them into pure union. But they have remained uncultivated,
LIFE AND WRITINGS OP WERNER. 133
disunited, too often struggling in wild disorder : his poetry,
like his life, is still not so much an edifice as a quarry. Werner
had cast a look into perhaps the very deepest region of the
Wonderful ; but he had not learned to live there : he was yet
no denizen of that mysterious land ; and, in his visions, its
splendor is strangely mingled and overclouded with the flame
or smoke of mere earthly fire. Of his dramas we have already
spoken; and with much to praise, found always more to cen-
sure. In his rhymed pieces, his shorter, more didactic poems,
we are better satisfied : here, in the rude, jolting vehicle of a
certain Sternhold-and-Hopkins metre, we often find a strain of
true pathos, and a deep though quaint significance. His prose,
again, is among the worst known to us : degraded with sillir
ness ; diffuse, nay taiitological, yet obscure and vague ; con-
torted into endless involutions ; a misshapen, lumbering,
complected coil, well-nigh inexplicable in its entanglements,
and seldom worth the trouble of unravelling. He does not
move through his subject, and arrange it, and rule over it : for
the most part, he but welters in it, and laboriously tumbles it,
and at last sinks under it.
As a man, the ill-fated W^erner can still less content us.
His feverish, inconstant and wasted life we have already
looked at. Hitzig, his determined well-wisher, admits that in
practice he was selfish, wearying out his best friends by the
most barefaced importunities ; a man of no dignity ; avaricious,
greedy, sensual, at times obscene ; in discourse, with all his
humor and heartiness, apt to be intolerably long-winded ; and
of a maladroitness, a blank ineptitude, which exposed him to
incessant ridicule and manifold mystifications from people of
I the world. Nevertheless, under all this rubbish, contends the
friendly Biographer, there dwelt, for those who could look
more narrowly, a spirit, marred indeed in its beauty, and lan-
guishing in painful conscious oppression, yet never wholly for-
getful of its original nobleness. Werner's soul was made for
affection ; and often as, under his too rude collisions with ex-
ternal things, it was struck into harshness and dissonance,
there was a tone which spoke of melody, even in its jarrings.
A kind, a sad and heartfelt remembrance of his friends seems
134 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
never to have quitted him : to the last he ceased not from
warm love to men at large ; nay to awaken in them, with such
knowledge as he had, a sense for what was best and highest,
may be said to have formed the earnest, though weak and un-
stable aim of his whole existence. The truth is, his defects
as a writer were also his defects as a man: he was feeble, and
without volition ; in life, as in poetry, his endowments fell into^
confusion ; his character relaxed itself on all sides into inco-
herent expansion ; his activity became gigantic endeavor, fol-
lowed by most dwarfish performance.
The grand incident of his life, his adoption of the Eoman
Catholic religion, is one on which we need not heap farther
censure ; for already, as appears to us, it is rather liable to be
too harshly than too leniently dealt with. There is a feeling
in the popular mind, which, in well-meant hatred of incou'
sistency, perhaps in general too sweepingly condemns such
changes. Werner, it should be recollected, had at all periods
of his life a religion ; nay he hungered and thirsted after truth
in this matter, as after the highest good of man ; a fact which
of itself must, in this respect, set him far above the most con-
sistent of mere unbelievers, — in whose barren and callous soul
consistency perhaps is no such brilliant virtue. We pardon
genial weather for its changes ; but the steadiest of all climates
is that of Greenland.
Farther, we must say that, strange as it may seem, in Wer-
ner's whole conduct, both before and after his conversion, there
is not visible the slightest trace of insincerity. On the whole,
there are fewer genuine renegades than men are apt to imagine.
Surel}', indeed, that must be a nature of extreme baseness, who
feeds that, in worldly good, he can gain by such a step. Is the
contempt, the execration of all that have known and loved
us, and of millions that have never known us, to be weighed
against a mess of pottage, or a piece of money ? We hope
there are not many, even in the rank of sharpers, that would
think so. lUit for Werner there was no gain in any way ; nay
rather certainty of loss. He enjoyed or sought no patronage ;
with his own resources he was already independent though
poor, and on a footing of good esteem with all that was most
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 135
estimable in his country. His little pension, conferred on hira,
at a prior date, by a Catholic Prince, was not continued after
his conversion, except by the Duke of Weimar, a Protestant.
He became a mark for calumny ; the defenceless butt at which
every callow witling made his proof-shot ; his character was
more deformed and mangled than that of any other man. What
had he to gain ? Insult and persecution ; and with these, as
candor bids us believe, the approving voice of his own con-
science. To judge from his writings, he was far from repent-
ing of the change he had made ; his Catholic faith evidently
stands in his own mind as the first blessing of his life, and
he clings to it as the anchor of his soul. Scarcely more than
once (in the Preface to his Mutter der Makkabiier) does he
allude to the legions of falsehoods that were in circulation
against him ; and it is in a spirit which, without entirely con-
cealing the querulousness of nature, nowise fails in the meek-
ness and endurance which became him as a Christian. Here
is a fragment of another Paper, published since his death, as
it was meant to be ; which exhibits him in a still clearer light.
The reader may contemn, or, what will be better, pity and
sympathize with him ; but the structure of this strange piece
surely bespeaks anything but insincerity. We translate it
with all its breaks and fantastic crotchets, as it stands be-
fore us : —
" Testamentary Inscription, from Friedrich Ludwig Zach-
arias Werner, a son," «&c. — (here follows a statement of his
parentage and birth, with vacant spaces for the date of his
death), — " of the following lines, submitted to all such as have
more or less felt any friendly interest in his unworthy person,
with the request to take warning by his example, and chari-
tably to remember the poor soul of the writer before God, in
prayer and good deeds.
"Begun at Florence, on the 24th of September, about eight
in the evening, amid the still distant sound of approaching
thunder. Concluded, when and where God will !
136 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
" Motto, Device and Watcliword in Death : Bemittuntur ei
peccata multa, quoniam dilexit multum ! J ! Lucas, caput vii.
V. 47.
" N.B. Most humbly and earnestly, and in the name of God,
does the Author of this Writing beg, of such honest persons
as may find it, to submit the same in any suitable way to
public examination.
" Fecisti nos, Domine, ad Te ; et irrequietum est cor nostrum,
donee requiescat in Te. S. Augustinus.
" Per multa dispergitur, et hie illucque qucerit (cor) ubi requi-
escere possit, et nihil invenit quod ei sufficiat, donee ad ipsum
(sc. Deurti) redeat. S. Bernardus.
"In the name of God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Amen !
"The thunder came hither, and is still rolling, though now
at a distance. — The name of the Lord be praised ! Hallelujah !
I BEGIX : —
" This Paper must needs be brief ; because the appointed
term for my life itself may already be near at hand. There
are not wanting examples of important and unimportant men,
Avho have left behind them in writing the defence, or even
sometimes the accusation, of their earthly life. Without esti-
mating such procedure, I am not minded to imitate it. With
trembling I reflect that I myself shall first learn in its whole
terrific compass what properly I was, when these lines shall
be read by men ; that is to say, in a point of Time which for
me will be no Time ; in a condition wherein all experience will
for me be too late !
Rex tremendce majestatis,
Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
Salva me, fans pietatis ! ! !
But if I do, till that day when All shall be laid open, draw a
veil over my past life, it is not merely out of false shame that
I so order it j for though not free from this vice also, I would
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 137
willingly make known my guilt to all and every one "whom my
voice might reach, could I hope, by such confession, to atone
for what I have done ; or thereby to save a single soul froni
perdition. There are two motives, however, which forbid me
to make such an open personal revelation after death : the one,
because the unclosing of a pestilential grave may be dangerous
to the health of the uninfected looker-on ; the other, because
in my Writings (which may God forgive me !), amid a wilder-
ness of poisonous weeds and garbage, there may also be here
and there a medicinal herb lying scattered, from which poojr
patients, to whom it might be useful, would start back with
shuddering, did they know the pestiferous soil on which it
grew.
" So much, however, in regard to those good creatures as they
call themselves, namely to those feeble weaklings who brag of
what they designate their good hearts, — so much must I say
before God, that such a heart alone, when it is not checked and
regulated by forethought and steadfastness, is not only in-
capable of saving its possessor from destruction, but is rather
certain to hurry him, full speed, into that abyss, where I have
been, whence I — perhaps ? ! ! ! — by God's grace am snatched,
and from which may God mercifully preserve every reader of
these lines." *
All this is melancholy enough ; but it is not like the writing
of a hypocrite or repentant apostate. To Protestantism, above
all things, Werner shows no thought of returning. In allusion
to a rumor, which had spread, of his having given up Catholi-
cism, he says (in the Preface already quoted) : —
" A stupid falsehood I must reckon it ; since, according to
my deepest conviction, it is as impossible that a soul in Bliss
sliould return back into the Grave, as that a man who, like me,
after a life of error and search has found the priceless jewel of
Truth, should, I will not say, give up the same, but hesitate
to sacrifice for it blood and life, nay many things perhaps
far dearer, with joyful heart, when the one good cause \%
concerned."
1 Werner's Letzte Lebenatagen (quoted by Hitzig, p. 80).
138 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
And elsewhere in a private letter : —
" I not only assure thee, but I beg of thee to assure all men,
if God should ever so withdraw the light of his grace from me,
that I cease to be a Catholic, I would a thousand times sooner
join myself to Judaism, or to the Bramins on the Ganges : but
to that shallowest, driest, most contradictory, inanest Inanity .
of Protestantism, never, never, never ! "
Here, perhaps, there is a touch of priestly, of almost femi-
nine vehemence ; for it is to a Protestant and an old friend
that he writes : but the conclusion of his Preface shows him
in a better light. Speaking of Second Parts, and regretting
that so many of his works were unfinished, he adds : —
" But what specially comforts me is the prospect of — our
general Second Part, where, even in the first Scene, this con-
solation, that there all our works will be known, may not
indeed prove solacing for us all; but where, through the
strength of Him that alone completes all works, it will be
granted to those whom He has saved, not only to know each
other, but even to know Him, as by Him they are known ! —
With my trust in Christ, whom I have not yet won, I regard,
with the Teacher of the Gentiles, all things but dross that I
may win him ; and to Him, cordially and lovingly do I, in
life or at death, commit you all, my beloved Friends and my
beloved Enemies ! "
On the whole, we cannot think it doubtful that Werner's
belief was real and heartfelt. But how then, our wondering
readers may inquire, if his belief was real and not pretended,
how then did he believe ? He, who scoffs in infidel style at
the truths of Protestantism, by what alchemy did he succeed
in tempering into credibility the harder and bulkier dogmas
of Popery ? Of Popery, too, the frauds and gross corruptions
of which he has so fiercely exposed in his Martin Luther ; and
this, moreover, without cancelling, or even softening his vitu-
perations, long after his conversion, in the very last edition of
that drama ? To this question, we are far from pretending to
have any answer that altogether satisfies ourselves ; much less
that shall altogether satisfy others. Meanwhile, there are two
considerations which throw light on the difficulty for us :
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 139
these, as some step, or at least, attempt towards a solution of
it, we shall not withhold.
The first lies in Werner's individual character and mode of
life. Not only was he born a mystic, not only had he lived
from of old amid freemasonry, and all manner of cabalistic and
other traditionary chimeras ; he was also, and had long been,
what is emphatically called dissolute ; a word which has now
lost somewhat of its original force ; but which, as applied here,
is still more just and significant in its etymological than in its
common acceptation. He was a man dissolute ; that is, by a
long course of vicious indulgences, enervated and loosened
asunder. Everywhere in Werner's life and actions we discern
a mind relaxed from its proper tension ; no longer capable of
effort and toilsome resolute vigilance ; but floating almost pas-
sively with the current of its impulses, in languid, imaginative,
Asiatic reverie. That such a man should discriminate, with
sharp fearless logic, between beloved errors and unwelcome
truths, was not to be expected. His belief is likely to have
been persuasion rather than conviction, both as it related to
Eeligion, and to other subjects. What, or how much a man
in this way may bring himself to believe, with such force and
distinctness as he honestly and usually calls belief, there is no
predicting.
But another consideration, which we think should nowise be
omitted, is the general state of religious opinion in Germany,
especially among such minds as Werner was most apt to take
for his exemplars. To this complex and highly interesting
subject we can, for the present, do nothing more than allude.
So much, however, we may say : It is a common theory among
the Germans, that every Creed, every Form of worship, is a
form- merely; the mortal and ever-changing body, in which the
immortal and unchanging spirit of Eeligion is, with more or less
completeness, expressed to the material eye, and made mani-
fest and influential among the doings of men. It is thus, for
instance, that Johannes Miiller, in his Universal History, pro-
fesses to consider the Mosaic Law, the creed of Mahomet, nay
Luther's Reformation ; and, in short, all other systems of
Faith ; which he scruples not to designate, without special
140 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
praise or censure, simply as Vorstellungsarten, '^ Modes of Rep^
resentation." We could report equally singular things of
Schelling and others, belonging to the philosophic class ; nay
of Herder, a Protestant clergyman, and even bearing high au-
thority in the Church. Now, it is clear, in a country where
such opinions are openly and generally professed, a change of
religious creed must be comparatively a slight matter. Con.-
versions to Catholicism are accordingly by uo means unknown
among the Germans : Friedrich Schlegel, and the younger
Count von Stolberg, men, as we should think, of vigorous intelr
lect, and of character above suspicion, were colleagues, or rather
precursors, of Werner in this adventure ; and, indeed, formed
part of his acquaintance at Vienna. It is but, they would per-
haps say, as if a melodist, inspired with harmony of inward
music, should choose this instrument in preference to that, for
giving voice to it : the inward inspiration is the grand concern ;
and to express it, the " deep, majestic, solemn organ " of the
Unchangeable Church may be better fitted than the "scran-
nel pipe " of a withered, trivial, Arian Protestantism. That
Werner, still more that Schlegel and Stolberg could, on the
strength of such hypotheses, put off or put on their religious
creed, like a new suit of apparel, we are far from asserting;
they are men of earnest hearts, and seem to have a deep fee^
ing of devotion : but it should be remembered, that what forms
the groundwork of their religion is professedly not Demonstra-r
tion but Faith ; and so pliant a theory could not but help to
soften the transition from the former to the latter. 'Jhat some
such principle, in one shape or another, lurked in Werner's
mind, we think we can perceive from several indications ;
among others, from the Prologue to his last tragedy, where,
mysteriously enough, under the emblem of a Phoeiiix, he seems
to be shadowing forth the history of his own Faith ; and rep-
resents himself even then as merely "climbing the tree, where
the pinions of his Phoenix last vanished ; " but not hoping to
regain that blissful vision, till his eyes shall have been opened
by death.
On the whole, we must not pretend to understand Werner,
or expound him with scientific rigor ; acting maoy times with
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WERNER. 141
only half consciousness, he was always, in some degree, an
enigma to himself, and may well be obscured to us. Above
all, there are mysteries and unsounded abysses in every human
heart ; and that is but a questionable philosophy which under-
takes so readily to explain them. Religious belief especially,
at least when it seems heartfelt and well-intentioned, is no
subject for harsh or even irreverent investigation. He is a
wise man that, having such a belief, knows and sees clearly
the grounds of it in himself : and those, we imagine, who have
explored with strictest scrutiny the secret of their own bosoms
will be least apt to rush with intolerant violence into that of
other men's.
" The good Werner," says Jean Paul, " fell, like our mote
vigorous Hoifmann, into the poetical fermenting-vat (GaJir-
hottich) of our time, where all Literatures, Freedoms, Tastes
and Untastes are foaming through each other; and where all
is to be found, excepting truth, diligence and the polish of the
file. Both would have come forth clearer had they studied
in Lessing's day." ^ We cannot justify Werner : yet let him
be condemned with pity ! And well were it could each of us
apply to himself those words, which Hitzig, in his friendly
indignation, would " thunder in the ears " of many a German
gainsayer: Take thou the beam out of thine own eye; then shalt
thou see clearly to take the mote out of thy brother's.
1 Letter to Hitzig, in Jean P<xul« Leben, by Doring.
GOETHE'S HELENA.^
[1828.]
NovALis has rather tauntingly asserted of Goethe, that the
grand law of his being is to conclude whatsoever he under-
takes ; that, let him engage in any task, no matter what its
difficulties or how small its worth, he cannot quit it till he has
mastered its whole secret, finished it, and made the result of
it his own. This, surely, whatever Novalis might think, is a
quality of which it is far safer to have too much than too
little : and if, in a friendlier spirit, we admit that it does strik-
ingly belong to Goethe, these his present occupations will not
seem out of harmony with the rest of his life ; but rather
it may be regarded as a singular constancy of fortune, which
now allows him, after completing so many single enterprises,
to adjust deliberately the details and combination of the
whole ; and thus, in perfecting his individual works, to put
the last hand to the highest of all his works, his own literary
character, and leave the impress of it to posterity in that form
and accompaniment which he himself reckons fittest. Yov the
last two years, as many of our readers may know, the vener-
able Poet has been employed in a patient and thorough revisal
of all his Writings ; an edition of which, designated as the
"complete and final" one, was commenced in 1827, under ex-
ternal encouragements of the most flattering sort, and with
arrangements for private co-operation, which, as we learn, have
secured the constant progress of the work " against every
accident." The first Lieferung, of five volumes, is now in our
hands ; a second of like extent, we understand to be already
^ FoREiGX Review, No. 2. — Goethes SUmmlliche. Werlce. Vollsldndige
Ausf/dbe letzter Hand. (Goethe's Collective Works. Complete Edition, with
liis filial Corrections.) — First Portion, vol. i.-v. IGmo and 8vo. Cotta;
Stuttgard and Tubingen, 1827.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 143
on its way hither; and thus by regular "Deliveries," from
half-year to half-year, the whole Forty Volumes are to be com-
pleted in 1831.
To the lover of German literature, or of literature in general,
this undertaking will not be indiiferent : considering, as he
must do, the works of Goethe to be among the most important
which Germany for some centuries has sent forth, he will value
their correctness and completeness for its own sake ; and not
the less, as forming the conclusion of a long process to which
the last step was still wanting ; whereby he may not only
enjoy the result, but instruct himself by following so great a
master through the changes which led to it. We can now add,
that, to the mere book-collector also, the business promises to
be satisfactory. This Edition, avoiding any attempt at splen-
dor or unnecessary decoration, ranks, nevertheless, in regard
to accuracy, convenience, and true simple elegance, among the
best specimens of German typography. The cost too seems
moderate ; so that, on every account, we doubt not but these
tasteful volumes will spread far and wide in their own country,
and by and by, we may hope, be met with here in many a
British library.
Hitherto, in this First Portion, we have found little or no
alteration of what was already known ; but, in return, some
changes of arrangement ; and, what is more important, some
additions of heretofore unpublished poems ; in particular, a
piece entitled ^^ Helena, a classico-romantic Phantasmagoria"
which occupies some eighty pages of Volume Fourth. It is to
this piece that we now propose directing the attention of our
readers. Such of these as have studied Helena for themselves,
must have felt how little calculated it is, either intrinsically
or by its extrinsic relations and allusions, to be rendered very
interesting or even very intelligible to the English public,
and may incline to augur ill of our enterprise. Indeed, to our
own eyes it already looks dubious enough. But the dainty
little '• Phantasmagoria,'" it would appear, has become a sub-
ject of diligent and truly wonderful speculation to our German
neighbors : of which also some vague rumors seem now to have
reached this country ; and these likely enough to awaken on
144 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
all hands a curiosity,* which, whether intelligent or idle, it
were a kind of good deed to allay. In a Journal of this sort,
what little light on such a matter is at our disposal may
naturally be looked for.
Helena, like inany of Goethe's works, by no means carries
its significance written on its forehead, so that he who runs
may read; but, on the contrary, it is enveloped in a certain
mystery, under coy disguises, which, to hasty readers, may be
not only offensively obscure, but altogether provoking and
impenetrable. Neither is this any new thing with Goethe.
Often has he produced compositions, both in prose and verse,
which bring critic and commentator into straits, or even to a
total nonplus. Some we have wholly parabolic ; some half-
literal, half-parabolic ; these latter are occasionally studied,
by dull heads, in the literal sense alone ; and not only studied,
but condemned : for, in truth, the outward meaning seems
unsatisfactory enough, were it not that ever and anon we are
reminded of a cunning, manifold meaning which lies hidden
under it ; and incited by capricious beckonings to evolve this,
fnore and more completely, from its quaint concealment.
Did we believe that Goethe adopted this mode of writing as
a vulgar lure, to confei' on his poems the interest which might
belong to so many charades, we should hold it a very poor pro-
ceeding. Of this most readers of Goethe will know that he
is incapable. Such juggleries, and uncertain anglings for dis-
tinction, are a class of accomplishments to which he has never
made any pretension. The truth is, this style has, in many
cases, its own appropriateness. Certainly, in all matters of
Business and Science, in all expositions of fact or argument,
clearness and ready comprehensibility are a great, often an in-
dispensable object. Nor is there any man better aware of this
principle than Goethe, or who more rigorously adheres to it,
or more happily exemplifies it, wherever it seems applicable.
But in this, as in many other respects. Science and Poetry,
having separate purposes, may have each its several law. If
an artist has conceived his subject in the secret shrine of his
1 See, for instance, the Alheiiftum, No. 7, wliere an article stands headed
with these words: Faust, Helen of Tkoy, and Lord Byron.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 145
own mind, and knows, with a knowledge beyond all power of
cavil, that it is true and pure, he may choose his own manner
of exhibiting it, and will generally be the fittest to choose it
well. One degree of light, he may find, will beseem one de-
lineation ; quite a different degree of light another. The face
of Agamemnon was not painted but hidden in the old picture :
the Veiled Figure at Sais was the most expressive in the Tem-
ple. In fact, the grand point is to have a meaning, a genuine,
deep and noble one ; the proper form for embodying this, the
form best suited to the subject and to the author, will gather
round it almost of its own accord. We profess ourselves
unfriendly to no mode of communicating Truth ; which we
rejoice to meet with in all shapes, from that of the child's
Catechism to the deepest poetical Allegory. Nay the Allegory
itself may sometimes be the truest part of the matter. John
Bunyan, we hope, is nowise our best theologian ; neither, un-
happily, is theology our most attractive science ; yet which of
our compends and treatises, nay which of our romances and
poems, lives in such mild sunshine as the good old Pilgrim's
Progress in the memory of so many men ?
Under Goethe's management, this style of composition has
often a singular charm. The reader is kept on the alert, ever
conscious of his own active co-operation ; light breaks on him,
and clearer and clearer vision, by degrees ; till at last the
whole lovely Shape comes forth, definite, it may be, and bright
with heavenly radiance, or fading, on this side and that, into
vague expressive myster}- ; but true in both cases, and beauti-
ful with nameless enchantments, as the poet's own eye may
have beheld it. We love it the more for the labor it has given
us : we almost feel as if we ourselves had assisted in its
creation. And herein lies the highest merit of a piece, and
the proper art of reading it. We have not read an author till
we have seen his object, whatever it may be, as he saw it.
Is it a matter of reasoning, and has he reasoned stupidly and
falsely ? We should understand the circumstances which, to
his mind, made it seem true, or persuaded him to write it,
knowing that it was not so. In any other way we do him
injustice if we judge him. Is it of poetry ? His words are so
VOL. XIII. 10
146 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
many symbols, to which we ourselves must furnish the inter-
pretation ; or they remain, as in all prosaic minds the words
of poetry ever do, a dead letter : indications they are, barren
in themselves, but, by following which, we also may reach, or
approach, that Hill of Vision where the poet stood, beholding
the glorious scene which it is the purport of his poem to show
others.
A reposing state, in which the Hill were brought under us,
not we obliged to mount it, might indeed for the present be
more convenient; but, in the end, it could not be equally
satisfying. Continuance of passive pleasure, it should never
be forgotten, is here, as under all conditions of mortal exist-
ence, an impossibility. Everywhere in life, the true question
is, not what we gain, but what we do : so also in intellectual
matters, in conversation, in reading, which is more precise and
careful conversation, it is not what we receive, but what we
are made to give, that chiefly contents and profits us. True,
the mass of readers will object ; because, like the mass of
men, they are too indolent. But if any one affect, not the
active and watchful, but the passive and somnolent line of
study, are there not writers expressly fashioned for him,
enough and to spare ? It is but the smaller number of books
that become more instructive by a second perusal : the great
majority are as perfectly plain as perfect triteness can make
them. Yet, if time is precious, no book that will not improve
by repeated readings deserves to be read at all. And were
there an artist of a right spirit ; a man of wisdom, conscious
of his high vocation, of whom we could know beforehand that
he had not written without purpose and earnest meditation,
that he knew what he had written, and had embodied in it,
more or less, the creations of a deep and noble soul, — should
we not draw near to him reverently, as disciples to a master ;
and what task could there be more profitable than to read him
as we have described, to study him even to his minutest mean-
ings ? For, were not this to think as he had thought, to see
with his gifted eyes, to make the very mood and feeling of his
groat and rich mind the mood also of our poor and little one ?
It is under the consciousness of some such mutual relation
GOETHE'S HELENA. ' 147
that Goethe writes, and that his countrymen now reckon
themselves bound to read him : a relation singular, we might
say solitary, in the present time ; but which it is ever neces-
sary to bear in mind in estimating his literary procedure.
To justify it in this particular, much more might be said,
were that our chief business at present. But what mainly
concerns us here, is to know that such, justified or not, is
the poet's manner of writing ; which also must prescribe for
us a correspondent manner of studying him, if we study him
at all. For the rest, on this latter point he nowhere ex-
presses any undue anxiety. His works have invariably been
sent forth without preface, without note or comment of any
kind; but left, sometimes plain and direct, sometimes dim
and typical, in what degree of clearness or obscurity he him-
self may have judged best, to be scanned, and glossed, and
censured, and distorted, as might please the innumerable mul-
titude of critics ; to whose verdicts he has been, for a great
part of his life, accused of listening with unwarrantable com-
posure. Helena is no exception to that practice, but rather
among the strong instances of it. This Interlude to Faust
presents itself abruptly, under a character not a little enig-
matic ; so that, at first view, we know not well what to make
of it ; and only after repeated perusals, will the scattered
glimmerings of significance begin to coalesce into continuous
light, and the whole, in any measure, rise before us with that
greater or less degree of coherence which it may have had in
the mind of the poet. Nay, after all, no perfect clearness
may be attained, but only various approximations to it ; hints
and half glances of a meaning, Avhich is still shrouded in
vagueness; nay, to the just picturing of which this very
vagueness vras essential. For the whole piece has a dream-
like character; and in these cases, no prudent soothsayer
will be altogether confident. To our readers we must now
endeavor, so far as possible, to show both the dream and its
interpretation : the former as it stands written before us ; the
latter from our own private conjecture alone ; for of those
strange German comments we yet know nothing except by
the faintest hearsay.
148 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Helena forms part of a continuation to Faust ; but, happily
for our present undertaking, its connection with the latter
work is much looser than might have been expected. We
say happily; because Faust, though considerably talked of
in England, appears still to be nowise known. We have
made it our duty to inspect the English Translation of Faust,
as well as the Extracts which accompany Eetzsch's Outlines ;
and various disquisitions and animadversions, vituperative or
laudatory, grounded on these two works ; but unfortunately
have found there no cause to alter the above persuasion.
Faust is emphatically a work of Art; a work matured in
the mysterious depths of a vast and wonderful mind ; and
bodied forth with that truth and curious felicity of composi-
tion, in which this man is generally admitted to have no liv-
ing rival. To reconstruct such a work in another language ;
to show it in its hard yet graceful strength ; with those slight
witching traits of pathos or of sarcasm, those glimpses of
solemnity or terror, and so many reflexes and evanescent
echoes of meaning, which connect it in strange union with
the whole Infinite of thought, — were business for a man of
different powers than has yet attempted German translation
among us. In fact, Faust is to be .read not once but many
times, if we would understand it : every line, every word has
its purport; and only in such minute inspection will the
essential significance of the poem disyjlay itself. Perhaps
it is even chiefly by following these fainter traces and tokens
that the true point of vision for the whole is discovered to us ;
that we get to stand at last in the proper scene of Faust ; a
wild and wondrous region, where in pale light the primeval
Shapes of Chaos — as it were, the Foundations of Being it-
self— seem to loom forth, dim and huge, in the vague Im-
mensity around us ; and the life and nature of man, with its
brief interests, its misery and sin, its mad passion and poor
frivolity, struts and frets its hour, encompassed and over-
looked by that stupendous All, of which it forms an indis-
soluble though so mean a fraction. He who would study all
this must for a long time, we are afraid, be content to study
it iu the oriirinal.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 149
But our English criticisms of Faust have been of a still
more unedifying sort. Let any man fancy the (Edipus Tyran-
7ms discovered for the first time ; translated from an unknown
Greek manuscript, by some ready-writing manufacturer; and
" brought out " at Drury Lane, with new music, made as
"apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring out of one
vessel into another " ! Then read the theatrical report in the
Morning Papers, and the Magazines of next month. Was not
the whole affair rather " heavy " ? How indifferent did the
audience sit ; how little use was made of tlie handkerchief,
except by such as took snuff! Did not OEdipus somewhat re-
mind us of a blubbering school-boy, and Jocasta of a decayed
milliner ? Confess that the plot was monstrous ; nay, con-
sidering the marriage-law of England, utterly immoral. On
the whole, what a singular deficiency of taste must this Sopho-
cles have labored under ! But probably he was excluded from
the " society of the influential classes ; " for, after all, the man
is not without indications of genius : had %oe had the training
of him — And so on, through all the variations of the critical
cornpipe.
So might it have fared with the ancient Grecian ; for so has
it fared with the only modern that writes in a Grecian spirit.
This treatment of Faust may deserve to be mentioned, for
various reasons ; not to be lamented over, because, as in much
more important instances, it is inevitable, and lies in the na-
ture of the case. Besides, a better state of things is evidently
enough coming round. By and by, the labors, poetical and
intellectual, of the Germans, as of other nations, will appear
before us in their true shape ; and Faust, among the rest, will
have justice done it. For ourselves, it were unwise presump-
tion, at any time, to pretend opening the full poetical signifi-
cance of Faust; nor is this the place for making such an
attempt. Present purposes will be answered if we can point
out some general features and bearings of the piece ; such as
to exhibit its relations with Helena ; by what contrivances
this latter has been intercalated into it, and how far the
strange picture and the strange framing it is enclosed in
correspond.
loO CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
The story of Faust forms one of the most remarkable pro-
ductions of the Middle Ages ; or rather, it is the most striking
embodiment of a highly remarkable belief, which originated or
prevailed in those ages. Considered strictly, it may take the
rank of a Christian mythus, in the same sense as the story of
Prometheus, of Titan, and the like, are Pagan ones ; and to
our keener inspection, it will disclose a no less impressive or
characteristic aspect of the same human nature, — here bright,
joyful, self-contident, smiling even in its sternness ; there
deep, meditative, awe-struck, austere, — in which both they
«and it took their rise. To us, in these days, it is not easy to
estimate how this story of Faust, invested with its magic and
infernal horrors, must have harrowed up the souls of a rude
and earnest people, in an age when its dialect was not yet
obsolete, and such contracts with the principle of Evil were
thought not only credible in general, but possible to every
individual auditor who here shuddered at the mention of them.
The day of Magic is gone by ; Witchcraft has been put a stop
to by act of parliament. But the mysterious relations which
it emblemed still continue ; the Soul of Man still fights with
the dark influences of Ignorance, Misery and Sin ; still lacer-
ates itself, like a captive bird, against the iron limits which
Necessity has drawn round it ; still follows False Shows, seek-
ing peace and good on paths where no peace or good is to be
found. In this sense, Faust may still be considered as true;
nay as a truth of the most impressive sort, and one which will
always remain true.
To body forth in modern symbols a feeling so old and deep-
rooted in our whole European way of thought, were a task
not unworthy of the highest poetical genius. In Germany,
accordingly, it has several times been attempted, and with
very various success. Klinger has produced a Eomance of
Faust, full of rugged sense, and here and there not without
considerable strength of delineation ; yet, on the whole, of an
essentially unpoetical character ; dead, or living with only a
mechanical life ; coarse, almost gross, and to our minds far too
redolent of pitch and bitumen. Maler Midler's Faust, which
is a Drama, must be regarded as a much more genial perform-
GOETHE'S HELENA. 151
ance, so far as it goes : the secondary characters, the Jews and
rakish Students, often remind us of our own Fords and Mar-
lowes. His main persons, however, Faust and the Devil, are
but inadequately conceived; Faust is little more than self-
willed, supercilious, and, alas, insolvent ; the Devils, above all,
are savage, long-winded and insufferably noisy. Besides, the
piece has been left in a fragmentary state ; it can nowise pass
as the best work of Muller's.^ Klingemann's Faust, which
also is (or lately was) a Drama, we have never seen ; and have
only heard of it as of a tawdry and hollow article, suited for
immediate use, and immediate oblivion.
Goethe, we believe, was the first who tried this subject;
and is, on all hands, considered as by far the most successful.
His manner of treating it appears to us, so far as we can
understand it, peculiarly just and happy. He retains the su-
pernatural vesture of the story, but retains it with the con-
sciousness, on his and our part, that it is a chimera. His
art-magic comes forth in doubtful twilight ; vague in its outline ;
1 Friedrich Miiller (more commonly called Maler, or Painter Miiller) is
here, so far as we know, named for the first time to English readers. Never-
theless, in any solid study of German literature this author must take prece-
dence of many hundreds whose reputation has travelled faster. But Miiller
has been unfortunate in his own country, as well as here. At an early age,
nifeting with no success as a poet, he quitted that art for painting ; aud re-
tired, perhaps in disgust, into Italy ; where also but little preferment seems to
have awaited him. His Avritings, after almost half a century of neglect, were
at length brought into sight and general estimation by Ludwig Tieck; at a
time wlien the author might indeed say, that he was "old and could not enjoy
it, solitary and could not impart it," but not, unhappily, that he was " known
and did not want it," for his fine genius had yet made for itself no free way
amid so many obstructions, and still continued unrewarded and unrecognized-
His paintings, chiefly of still-life and animals, are said to possess a true though
no very extraordinary merit : but of his poetry we will venture to assert that
it bespeaks a genuine feeling and talent, nay rises at times even into the higher
regions of Art. His Adam's Awakeninrj, his Satyr Mopsns, his Nusskfmcn
(Nutshelling), informed as they are with simple kindly strength, with dear
vision, and love of nature, are incomparably the best German, or indeed, mod-
ern Idyls ; his Genoveva will stand reading even with that of Tieck. These
things are now acknowledged among the Germans; but to Miiller tlie ac-
knowledgment is of no avail. He died some two years ago at Rome, where
he seems to have subsisted latterly as a sort of a picture-cicerone.
152 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
interwoven everywhere with light sarcasm ; nowise as a real
Object, but as a real Shadow of an Object, which is also real,
yet lies beyond our horizon, and except in its shadows, cannot
itself be seen. Nothing were simpler than to look in this new
poem for a new " Satan's Invisible World displayed," or any
effort to excite the sceptical minds of these days by goblins,
wizards and other infernal ware. Such enterprises belong to
artists of a different species ; Goethe's Devil is a cultivated
personage, and acquainted with the modern sciences ; sneers
at witchcraft and the black-art, even while employing them, as
heartily as any member of the French Institute ; for he is a
jihilosophe., and doubts most things, nay half disbelieves even
his own existence. It is not without a cunning effort that all
this is managed ; but managed, in a considerable degree, it is ;
for a world of magic is opened to us which, we might almost
say, we feel at once to be true and not true.
In fact, Mephistopheles comes before us, not arrayed in the
terrors of Cocytus and Phlegethon, but in the natural indelible
deformity of Wickedness ; he is the Devil, not of Superstition,
but of Knowledge. Here is no cloven foot, or horns and tail:
he himself informs us that, during the late march of intellect,
the very Devil has participated in the spirit of the age, and
laid these appendages aside. Doubtless, Mephistopheles '*■ has
the manners of a gentleman ; " he " knows the world; " nothing
can exceed the easy tact with which he manages himself; his
v.it and sarcasm are unlimited ; the cool heartfelt contempt
with which he despises all things, human and divine, might
make the fortune of half a dozen " fellows about town." Yet
withal he is a devil in very deed ; a genuine Son of Night. He
calls himself the Denier, and this truly is his name ; for, as
Voltaire did with historical doubts, so does he with all moral
appearances; settles them with a iV'e/i croyez rien. The
shrewd, all-informed intellect he has, is an attorney intellect;
it can contradict, but it cannot affirm. With lynx vision, he
descries at a glance the ridiculous, the unsuitable, the bad ;
but for the solemn, the noble, the worthy, he is blind as liis
ancient Mother. Thus does he go along, qualifying, confuting,
despising ; on all hands detecting the false, but without force
GOETHE'S HELENA. ICS
to bring forth, or even to discern, any glimpse of the true.
Poor Devil ! what truth should there be for him ? To see
Falsehood is his only Truth : falsehood and evil are the rule,
truth and good the exception which confirms it. He can
believe in nothing, but in his own self-conceit, and in the
indestructible baseness, folly and hypocrisy of men. For him,
virtue is some bubble of the blood : " it stands written on his
face that he never loved a living soul.'^ ^ay, he cannot even
hate: at Faust himself he has no grudge; he merely tempts
him by way of experiment, and to pass the time scientifically.
Such a combination of perfect Understanding with perfect
Selfishness, of logical Life with moral Death ; so universal
a denier, both in heart and head, — is undoubtedly a child of
Darkness, an emissary of the primeval Nothing: and coming
forward, as he does, like a person of breeding, and without any
flavor of brimstone, may stand here, in his merely spiritual
deformity, at once potent, dangerous and contemptible, as the
best and only genuine Devil of these latter times.
In strong contrast with this impersonation of modern
worldly-mindedness stands Faust himself, by nature the an-
tagonist of it, but destined also to be its victim. If Mephisto-
pheles represent the spirit of Denial, Faust may represent that
of Inquiry and Endeavor : the two are, by necessity, in conflict;
the light and the darkness of man's life and mind. Intrinsi-
cally, Faust is a noble being, though no wise one. His desires
are towards the high and true ; nay with a whirlwind impetu-
osity he rushes forth over the Universe to grasp all excellence ;
his heart yearns towards the infinite and the invisible : only
that he knows not the conditions under which alone this is to
be attained. Confiding in his feeling of himself, he has started
with the tacit persuasion, so natural to all men, that he at least,
however it may fare with others, shall and must be haj^py ;
a deep-seated, though only half-conscious conviction lurks in
him, that wherever he is not successful, fortune lias dealt with
him unjustbj. His purposes are fair, nay generous : why should
he not prosper in them ? For in all his lofty aspirings, his
strivings after truth and more than human greatness of mind,
it has never struck him to inquire how he, the striver, was
154 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
warranted for such enterprises : with what faculty Nature had
equipped him ; within what limits she had hemmed him in ;
by what right he pretended to be happy, or could, some short
space ago, have pretended to be at all. Experience, indeed,
will teach him, for " Experience is the best of schoolmasters ;
only the school-fees are heavy." As yet too, disappointment,
which fronts him on every hand, rather maddens than in-
structs. Faust has spent his youth and manhood, not as
others do, in the sunny crowded paths of proiBt, or among the
rosy bowers of pleasure, but darkly and alone in the search of
Truth ; is it fit that Truth should now hide herself, and his
sleepless pilgrimage towards Knowledge and Vision end in the
pale shadow of Doubt ? To his dream of a glorious higher
happiness, all earthly happiness has been sacrificed ; friendship,
love, the social rewards of ambition were cheerfully cast aside,
for his eye and his heart were bent on a region of clear and
supreme good ; and now, in its stead, he finds isolation, silenco
and despair. What solace remains ? Virtue once promised to
be her own reward ; but because she does not pay him in the
current coin of worldly enjoyment, he reckons her too a delu-
sion ; and, like Brutus, reproaches as a shadow, what he once
worshipped as a substance. Whither shall he now tend ? For
his loadstars have gone out one by one ; and as the darkness
fell, the strong steady wind has changed into a fierce and aim-
less tornado. Faust calls himself a monster, " without object,
yet without rest." The vehement, keen and stormful nature
of the man is stung into fury, as he thinks of all he has en-
dured and lost ; he broods in gloomy meditation, and, like
Bellerophon, wanders apart, " eating his own heart ; " or,
bursting into fiery paroxysms, curses man's whole existence
as a mockery ; curses hope and faith, and joy and care, and
what is worst, " curses patience more than all the rest." Had
his weak arm the power, he could smite the Universe asunder,
as at the crack of Doom, and hurl his own vexed being along
with it into the silence of Annihilation.
Thus Faust is a man who has quitted the ways of vulgar
men, without light to guide him on a better way. No longer
restricted by the sympathies, the common interests and com-
GOETHE'S HELENA. 155
mon persuasions by which the mass of mortals, each individu-
ally ignorant, nay, it may be, stolid and altogether blind as to
the proper aim of life, are yet held together, and, like stones
in the channel of a torrent, by their very multitude and mutual
collision, are made to move with some regularity, — he is still
but a slave ; the slave of impulses, which are stronger, not
truer or better, and the more unsafe that they are solitary.
He sees the vulgar of mankind happy ; but happy only in
their baseness. Himself he feels to be peculiar; the victim
of a strange, an unexampled destiny ; not as other men, he
is " with them, not of them." There is misery here, nay, as
Goethe has elsewhere wisely remarked, the beginning of mad-
ness itself. It is only in the sentiment of companionship that
men feel safe and assured : to all doubts and mysterious " ques-
tionings of destiny," their sole satisfying answer is. Others do
and suffer the like. Were it not for this, the dullest day-
drudge of Mammon might think himself into unspeakable
abysses of despair ; for he too is " fearfully and wonderfully
made ; " Infinitude and Incomprehensibility surround him on
this hand and that ; and the vague spectre Death, silent and
sure as Time, is advancing at all moments to sweep him away
forever. But he answers. Others do and suffer the like ; and
plods along without misgivings. Were there but One Man in
the world, he would be a terror to himself ; and the highest
man not less so than the lowest. Now it is as this One Man
that Faust regards himself : he is divided from his fellows ;
cannot answer with them. Others do the like ; and yet, why or
how he specially is to do or suffer, will nowhere reveal itself.
For he is still " in the gall of bitterness ; " Pride, and an entire
uncompromising though secret love of Self, are still the main-
springs of his conduct. Knowledge with him is precious only
because it is power ; even virtue he would love chiefly as a finer
sort of sensuality, and because it was his virtue. A ravenous
hunger for enjoyment haunts him everywhere ; the stinted
allotments of earthly life are as a mockery to him : to the iron
law of Force he will not yield, for his heart, though torn, is
yet unweakened, and till Humility shall open his eyes, the soft
law of Wisdom will be hidden from him.
156 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
To invest a man of this character with supernatural powers
is but enabling him to repeat his error on a larger scale, to
play the same false game with a deeper and more ruinous stake.
Go where he may, he will ''find himself again in a condi-
tional world ; " widen his sphere as he pleases, he will find it
again encircled by the empire of Necessity ; the gay island of
Existence is again but a fraction of the ancient realm of Night.
Were he all-wise and all-powerful, perhaps he might be con-
tented and virtuous ; scarcely otherwise. The poorest human
soul is infinite in wishes, and the infinite Universe was not
made for one, but for all. Vain were it for Faust, by heaping
height on height, to struggle towards infinitude ; while to that
law of Self-denial, by which alone man's narrow destiny may
become an infinitude within itself, he is still a stranger. Such,
however, is his attempt; not indeed incited by hope, but
goaded on by despair, he unites himself with the Fiend, as
with a stronger though a wicked agency ; reckless of all
issues, if so were that, by these means, the craving of his
heart might be stayed, and the dark secret of Destiny un-
ravelled or forgotten.
It is this conflicting union of the higher nature of the soul
with the lower elements of human life ; of Faust, the son of
Liglit and Free-will, with the infiuences of Doubt, Denial and
Obstruction, or Mephistopheles, who is the symbol and spokes-
man of these, that the poet has here proposed to delineate. A
high problem, and of which the solution is yet far from com-
pleted ; nay perhaps, in a poetical sense, is not, strictly speak-
ing, capable of completion. For it is to be remarked that, in
this contract with the Prince of Darkness, little or no mention
or allusion is made to a Future Life ; whereby it might seem
is if the action was not intended, in the manner of the old
Li^gend, to terminate in Faust's perdition ; but rather as if an
altogether different end must be provided for hira. Faust, in-
deed, wild and wilful as he is, cannot be regarded as a wicked,
much less as an utterly reprobate man : we do not reckon hira
ill-intentioned, but misguided and miserable ; he falls into
crime, not by purpose, but by accident and blindness. To send
him to the Pit of Woe, to render such a character the eternal
GOETHE'S HELENA. 157
slave of Mephistopheles, would look like making darkness tri-
umphant over light, blind force over erring reason ; or at best,
were cutting the Gordian knot, not loosing it. If we mis-
take not, Goethe's Faust will have a finer moral than the old
nursery-tale, or the other plays and tales that have been
founded on it. Our seared and blighted yet still noble Faust
will not end in the madness of horror, but in Peace grounded
on better Knowledge. Whence that Knowledge is to come,
what higher and freer world of Art or Religion may be hover-
ing in the mind of the Poet, we will not try to surmise ; per-
haps in bright aerial emblematic glimpses, he may yet show it
us, transient and afar off, yet clear with orient beauty, as a
Land of Wonders and new Poetic Heaven.
With regard to that part of the Work already finished, we
must here say little more. Faust, as it yet stands, is, indeed,
only a stating of the difficulty ; but a stating of it wisely, truly
and with deepest poetic emphasis. Por how many living
hearts, even now imprisoned in the perplexities of Doubt, do
these wild piercing tones of Paust, his withering agonies and
fiery desperation, " speak the word they have long been wait-
ing to hear " ! A nameless pain had long brooded over the
soul : here, by some light touch, it starts into form and voice ;
we see it and know it, and see that another also knew it.
This Faust is as a mystic Oracle for the mind ; a Dodona
grove, where the oaks and fountains prophesy to us of our
destiny, and murmur unearthly secrets.
How all this is managed, and the Poem so curiously fash-
ioned ; how the clearest insight is combined with the keenest
feeling, and the boldest and wildest imagination ; by what soft
and skilful finishing these so heterogeneous elements are
blended in fine harmony, and the dark world of spirits, with
its merely metaphysical entities, plays like a checkering of
strange mysterious shadows among the palpable objects of
material life ; and the whole, firm in its details and sharp and
solid as reality, yet hangs before us melting on all sides into
air, and free and light as the baseless fabric of a vis^ion; all
this the reader can learn fully nowhere but, by long study, in
the Work itself. The general scope and spirit of it we have
138 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
now endeavored to sketch ; the few incidents on which, with
the aid of much dialogue and exposition, these have been
brought out, are perhaps already known to most readers, and,
at all events, need not be minutely recapitulated here. Me-
phistopheles has promised to himself that he will lead Faust
" through the bustling inanity of life," but that its pleasures
shall tempt and not satisfy him ; " food shall hover before his
eager lips, but he shall beg for nourishment in vain." Hitherto
they have travelled but a short way together ; yet so far, the
Denier has kept his engagement well. Faust, endowed with
all earthly and many more than earthly advantages, is still no
nearer contentment ; nay, after a brief season of marred and
uncertain joy, he finds himself sunk into deeper wretchedness
than ever. Margaret, an innocent girl whom he loves, but has
betrayed, is doomed to die, and already crazed in brain, less
for her own errors than for his : in a scene of true pathos, he
would fain persuade her to escape with him, by the aid of
Mephistopheles, from prison ; but in the instinct of her heart
she finds an invincible aversion to the Fiend: she chooses
death and ignominy rather than life and love, if of his giving.
At her final refusal, Mephistopheles proclaims that " she is
judged," a " voice from Above " that '' she is saved ; " the
action terminates ; Faust and Mephistopheles vanish from our
sight, as into boundless Space.
And now, after so long a preface, we arrive at Helena, the
" Classico-romantic Phantasmagoria," where these Adventur-
ers, strangely altered by travel, and in altogether different
costume, have again risen into sight. Our long preface was
not needless ; for Faust and Helena, though separated by some
wide and marvellous interval, are nowise disconnected. Tlie
characters may have changed by absence ; Faust is no longer
the same bitter and tempestuous man, but appears in chivalrous
composure, with a silent energy, a grave and, as it were, com-
manding ardor. Mephistopheles alone may retain somewhat
of his old spiteful shrewdness : but still the past state of these
personages must illustrate the present; and only by what we
remember of them, can we try to interpret what we see. In
GOETHE'S HELENA. 159
fact, the style of Helena is altogether new ; quiet, simple, joy-
ful ; passing by a short gradation from Classic dignity into
Romantic pomp; it has everywhere a full and sunny tone of
coloring ; resembles not a tragedy, but a gay gorgeous masque.
Neither is Faust's former history alluded to, or any explanation
given us of occurrences that may have intervened. It is a
light scene, divided by chasms and unknown distance from
that other country of gloom. Nevertheless, the latter still
frowns in the background ; nay rises aloft, shutting out farther
view, and our gay vision attains a new significance as it is
painted on that canvas of storm.
We question whether it ever occurred to any English
reader of Faust, that the work needed a continuation, or even
admitted one. To the Germans, however, in their deeper study
of a favorite poem, which also they have full means of study-
ing, this has long been no secret ; and such as have seen with
what zeal most German readers cherish Faust, and how the
younger of them will recite whole scenes of it with a vehe-
mence resembling that of Gil Bias and his Figures Hibernoises,
in the streets of Oviedo, may estimate the interest excited in
that country by the following Notice from the Author, pub-
lished last year in his Kunst tend Alterthum.
"Helena. Interlude in Faust.
"Faust's character, in the elevation to which latter refine-
ment, working on the old rude Tradition, has raised it, repre-
sents a man who, feeling impatient and imprisoned within the
limits of mere earthly existence, regards the possession of the
highest knowledge, the enjoyment of the fairest blessings, as
insufficient even in the slightest degree to satisfy his longing :
a spirit, accordingly, which struggling out on all sides, ever
returns the more unhappy.
" This form of mind is so accordant with our modern dispo-
sition, that various persons of ability have been induced to
undertake the treatment of such a subject. My manner of
attempting it obtained approval : distinguished men considered
the matter, and commented on my performance ; all Avhich
I thankfully observed. At the same time I could not but
160 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
"wonder that none of those who undertook a continuation and
completion of my Fragment had lighted on the thought, which
seemed so obvious, that the composition of a Second Part must
necessarily elevate itself altogether away from the hampered
sphere of the First, and conduct a man of such a nature into
higher regions, under worthier circumstances.
"How I, for my part, had determined to essay this, lay
silently before my own mind, from time to time exciting me to
some progress ; while from all and each I carefully guarded my
secret, still in hope of bringing the work to the wished-for
issue. Now, however, I must no longer keep back; or, in
publishing my collective Endeavors, conceal any farther secret
from the world; to which, on the contrary, I feel myself
bound to submit my whole labors, even though in a fragmen-
tary state.
" Accordingly I have resolved that the above-named Piece,
a smaller drama, complete within itself, but pertaining to the
Second Part of Faust, shall be forthwith presented in the First
Portion of my Works.
" The wide chasm between that well-known dolorous conclu-
sion of the First Part, and the entrance of an antique Grecian
Heroine, is not yet overarched ; meanwhile, as a preamble,
my readers will accept what follows : —
" The old Legend tells us, and the Puppet-play fails not to
introduce the scene, that Faust, in his imperious pride of heart,
required from Mephistopheles the love of the fair Helena of
Greece ; in which demand the other, after some reluctance,
gratified him. Not to overlook so important a concern in our
work was a duty for us : and how we have endeavored to dis-
charge it, will be seen in this Interlude. But what may have
furnished the proximate occasion of such an occurrence, and
how, after manifold hindrances, our old magical Craftsman can
have found means to bring back the individual Helena, in
person, out of Orcus into Life, must, in tliis stage of the buci-
ness, remain undiscovered. For the present, it is enough if
our reader will admit that the real Helena may step forth,
on antique tragedy-cothurnus, before her primitive abode in
Sparta. We then request him to observe in what way and
GOETHE'S HELENA. 161
manner Faust will presume to court favor from this royal
all-famous Beauty of the world."
To manage so unexampled a courtship will be admitted to
be no easy task ; for the mad hero's prayer must here be ful-
filled to its largest extent, before the business can proceed a
step ; and the gods, it is certain, are not in the habit of anni-
hilating time and space, even to make " two lovers happy."
Our Marlowe was not ignorant of this mysterious liaison of
Faust's : however, he slurs it over briefly, and without fronting
the difficulty : Helena merely flits across the scene as an airy
pageant, without speech or personality, and makes the love-
sick philosopher " immortal by a kiss." Probably there are
not many that would grudge Faust such immortality ; we at
least nowise envy him : for who does not see that this, in all
human probability, is no real Helena, but only some hollow
phantasm attired in her shape ; while the true Daughter of
Leda still dwells afar off in the inane kingdoms of Dis, and
heeds not and hears not the most potent invocations of black-
art ? Auotlier matter it is to call forth the frail fair one in
very deed ; not in form only, but in soul and life, the same
Helena whom the Son of Atreus wedded, and for whose sake
Ilion ceased to be. For Faust must behold this Wonder, not
as she seemed, but as she was ; and at his unearthly desire the
Past shall become Present ; and the antique Time must be new-
created, and give back its persons and circumstances, though
so long since reingulfed in the silence of the blank bygone
Eternity ! However, Mephistopheles is a cunning genius ; and
will not start at common obstacles. Perhaps, indeed, he is
Metaphysician enough to know that Time and Space are but
quiddities, not entities ; forms of the human soul. Laws of
Thought, which to us appear independent existences, but,
out of our brain, have no existence whatever : in which case
the whole nodus may be more of a logical cobweb than any
actual material perplexity. Let us see how he unravels it, or
cuts it.
The scene is Greece ; not our poor oppressed Ottoman
Morea, but the old heroic Hellas ; for the sun again shines
TOL. XIII. 11
162 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
on Sparta, and " Tyndarus' high House " stands here brighl^
massive and entire, among its mountains, as when Menelaus
revisited it, wearied with his ten years of warfare and eight
of sea-roving. Helena appears in front of the Palace, with
a Chorus of captive Trojan maidens. These are but Shades,
we know, summoned from the deep realms of Hades, and em-
bodied for the nonce : but the Conjurer has so managed it, that
they themselves have no consciousness of this their true and
highly precarious state of existence : the intermediate three
thousand years have been obliterated, or compressed into a
point ; and these fair figitres, on revisiting the upper air, en-
tertain not the slightest suspicion that they had ever left it,
or, indeed, that anything special had happened; save only
that they had just disembarked from the Spartan ships, and
been sent forward by Menelaus to provide for his reception,
which is shortly to follow. All these indispensable prelimi-
naries, it would appear, Mephistopheles has arranged with
considerable success. Of the poor Shades, and their entire
ignorance, he is so sure, that he would not scruple to cross-
question them on this very point, so ticklish for his whole
enterprise; nay, cannot forbear, now and then, throwing out
malicious hints to mystify Helena herself, and raise the
strangest doubts as to her personal identity. Thus on one
occasion, as we shall see, he reminds her of a scandal which
had gone abroad of her being a dovhle personage, of her living
with King Proteus in Egypt at the very time when she lived
with Beau Paris in Troy ; and, what is more extraordinary
still, of her having been dead, and married to Achilles after-
wards in the Island of Leuce ! Helena admits that it is the
most inexplicable thing on earth ; can only conjecture that
" she a Vision was joined to him a Vision ; " and then sinks
into a reverie or swoon in tlie arms of the Chorus. In this
way can the nether-world Scapin sport with the perplexed
Beauty ; and by sly practice make her show us the secret,
which is unknown to herself !
For the present, however, there is no thought of such
scruples. Helena and her maidens, far from doubting that
they are real authentic denizens of this world, feel themselves
GOETHE'S HELENA. 163
in a deep embarrassment about its concerns. From the dia-
logue, in long Alexandrines, or choral Recitative, we soon
gather that matters wear a threatening aspect. Helena sa-
lutes her paternal and nuptial mansion in such style as may
beseem an erring wife, returned from so eventful an elope-
ment ; alludes with charitable lenience to her frailty ; which,
indeed, it would seem, was nothing but the merest accident,
for she had simply gone to pay her vows, " according to sacred
wont," in the temple of Cy therea, when the " Phrygian robber "
seized her ; and farther informs us that the Immortals still
foreshow to her a dubious future : —
** For seldom, in our swift ship, did my husband deign
To look on me ; and word of comfort spake he none. . -
As if a-brooding mischief, there he silent sat j
Until, when steered into Eurotas' bending bay,
The first ships with their prows but kissed the land,
He rose, and said, as by the voice of gods inspired :
Here will I that my warriors, troop by troop, disbark ;
I muster them, in battle-order, on the ocean-strand.
But thou, go forward, up Eurotas' sacred bank,
Guiding the steeds along the flower-besprinkled space,
Till thou arrive on the fair plain where Lacedaemon,
Erewhile a broad fruit-bearing field, has piled its roofs
Amid the mountains, and sends up the smoke of hearths.
Then enter thou the high-towered Palace ; call the Maida
I left at parting, and the wise old Stewardess :
With her inspect the Treasures which thy father left,
And I, in war or peace still adding, have heaped up.
Thou findest all in order standing ; for it is
The prince's privilege to see, at his return,
Each household item as it was, and where it was ;
For of himself the slave hath power to alter nought."
It appears, moreover, that Menelaus has given her directions
to prepare for a solemn Sacrifice : the ewers, the pateras, the
altar, the axe, dry wood, are all to be in readiness ; only of
the victim there was no mention ; a circumstance from which
Helena fails not to draw some rather alarming surmises.
However, reflecting that all issues rest with the higher Powers,
and that, in any case, irresolution and procrastination will
164 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
avail her nothing, she at length determines on this grand
enterprise of entering the palace, to make a general review ;
and enters accordingly. But long before any such business
could have been finished, she hastily returns, with a frustrated,
nay terrified aspect ; much to the astonishment of her Chorus,
who pressingly inquire the cause.
HELENA, wJw has left the door-leaves open, agitated.
Beseems not that Jove's daughter shrink with common fright.
Nor by the brief cold touch of Fear be chilled and stunned.
Yet the Horror, which ascending, in the womb of Night,
From deeps of Chaos, rolls itself together many-shaped,
Like glowing Clouds, from out the mountain's fire-throat.
In threatening ghastliness, may shake even heroes' hearts.
So have the Stygian here to-day appointed me
A welcome to my native Mansion, such that fain
From the oft-trod, long-wished-for threshold, like a guest
That has took leave, I would withdraw my steps for aye.
But no ! Retreated have I to the light, nor shall
Ye farther force me, angry Powers, be who ye may.
New expiations viU I use ; then purified,
The blaze of the Hearth may greet the Mistress as the Lord.
PANTHALIS THE CHORAGE.*
Discover, noble queen, to \18 thy handmaidens.
That wait by thee in love, what misery has befallen.
HELENA.
What I have seen, ye too with your own eyes shall see,
If Night have not already suck'd her Phantoms back
To the abysses of her wonder-bearing breast.
Yet, would ye know this thing, I tell it you in words.
When bent on present duty, yet with anxit)us thought,
I solemnly sot foot in these high royal Halls,
The silent, vacant passages astounded me;
For tread of hasty footsteps nowhere met the ear,
Nor bustle as of busy menial- work the eye.
No maid comes forth to me, no Stewardess, such as
Still wont with friendly welcome to salute all guests.
1 Leader of the Chorus.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 16^
But as, alone advancing, I approach the Hearth,
There, by the ashy remnant of dim outbumt coals,
Sits, crouching on the ground, up-muffled, some huge Crone;
Not as in sleep she sat, but as in drowsy muse.
With ordering voice I bid her rise ; nought doubting 't waa
The Stewardess the King, at parting hence, had left.
But, heedless, shrunk together, sits she motionless ;
And as I chid, at last outstretch'd her lean right arm,
As if she beckoned me from hall and hearth away.
I turn indignant from her, and hasten out forthwith
Towards the steps whereon aloft the Thalamos
Adorned rises ; and near by it the Treasure-room ;
When, lo, the Wonder starts abruptly fn>ni the floor ;
Imperious, barring my advance, displays herself
In haggard stature, hollow bloodshot eyes ; a shape
Of hideous strangeness, to perplex all sight and thought.
But I discourse to the air : for words in vain attempt
To body forth to sight the form that dwells in us.
There see herself! She ventures forward to the light !
Here we are masters till our Lord and King shall come.
The ghastly births of Night, Apollo, beauty's friend,
Disperses back to their abysses, or subdues.
Phorcyas enters on the threshold, between the door-posts.
CHORUS.
Much have I seen, and strange, though the ringlets
Youthful and thick still wave round my temples :
Terrors a many, war and its horrors
Witnessed I once in Ilion's night,
When it fell.
Thorough the clanging, cloudy-covered din of
Onrushiug warriors, heard I th' Immortali
Shouting in anger, heard I Bellona's
Iron-toned voice resound from without
City-wards.
Ah ! the City yet stood, with its
Bulwarks ; Ilion safely yet
Towered : but spreading from house orer
House, the flame did begirdle us ;
Sea-like, red, loud and billowy ;
166 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Hither, thither, as tempest-floods,
Over the death-circled City.
Flying, saw I, through heat and through
Gloom and glare of that fire-ocean.
Shapes of Gods in their wrathfulness,
Stalking grim, fierce and terrible,
Giant-high, through the luridly
Flame-dyed dusk of that vapor.
Did I see it, or was it hut
Terror of heart that fashioned
Forms so aff'righting ? Know can I
Never : hut here that I view this
Horrible Thing with my own eyes,
This of a surety believe I :
Yea, I could clutch 't in my fingers,
Did not, from Shape so dangerous,
Fear at a distance keep me.
Which of old Phorcys'
Daughters then art thou f
For I compare thee to
That generation.
Art thou belike of the Graige,
Gray-bom, one eye and one tooth
Using alternate.
Child or descendant f
Darest thou. Haggard,
Close by such beauty,
'Fore the divine glance of
Phoebus disphvy thee f
But display as it pleases thee ;
For the ugly he heedcth not,
As his bright eye yet never did
Look on a shadow.
But us mortals, alas for it !
Law of Destiny burdens us
With the unspeakable eye-sorrow
Which such a sight, unblessed, detestable,
Doth in lovers of beauty awaken.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 167
Nay then, hear, since thou shamelessly
Com'st forth fronting us, hear only
Curses, hear all manner of threatenings,
Out of the scornful lips of the happier
That were made by the Deities.
PH0RCYA8.
Old is the saw, but high and true remains its sense,
That Shame and Beauty ne'er, together hand in hand,
Were seen pursue their journey over the earth's green path.
Deep-rooted dwells an ancient hatred in these two ;
So that wherever, on their way, one haps to meet
The other, each on its adversary turns its back ;
Then hastens forth the faster on its separate road ;
Shame all in sorrow. Beauty pert and light of mood ;
Till the hollow night of Orcus catches it at length,
If age and wrinkles have not tamed it long before.
So you, ye wantons, wafted hither from strange lands,
I find in tumult, like the cranes' hoarse jingling flight.
That over our heads, in long-drawn cloud, sends down
Its creaking gabble, and tempts the silent wanderer that he look
Aloft at them a moment : but they go their way,
And he goes his ; so also will it be with us.
Who then are ye, that here, in Bacchanalian wise,
Like drunk ones, ye dare uproar at this Palace-gate I
Who then are ye, that at the Stewardess of the King's House
Ye howl, as at the moon the crabbed brood of dogs ?
Think ye 'tis hid from me what manner of thing ye aret
Ye war-begotten, figlit-bred, feather-headed crew !
Lascivious crew, seducing as seduced, that waste,
In rioting, alike the soldier's and the burgher's strength. I
Here seeing you gathered, seems as a cicada-swarm
Had lighted, covering the herbage of the fields.
Consumers ye of other's thrift, ye greedy-mouthed
Quick squanderers of fruits men gain by tedious toil ;
Cracked market-ware, stol'n, bought, and bartered troop of slaves !
We have thought it right to give so much of these singular
expositions and altercations, in the words, as far as might be,
of the parties themselves ; happy could we, in any measure,
168 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
have transfused the broad, yet rich and chaste simplicity of
these long iambics ; or imitated the tone, as we have done the
metre, of that choral song ; its rude earnestness, and tortuous,
awkward-looking, artless strength, as we have done its dactyls
and anapoests. The task was no easy one ; and we remain, as
might have been expected, little contented with our efforts ;
having, indeed, nothing to boast of, except a sincere fidelity
to the original. If the reader, through such distortion, can
obtain any glimpse of Helena itself, he will not only pardon
us, but thank us. To our own minds, at least, there is every-
where a strange, piquant, quite peculiar charm in these imitar
tions of the old Grecian style : a dash of the ridiculous, if we
might say so, is blended with the sublime, yet blended with it
softly, and only to temper its austerity ; for often, so graphic
is the delineation, we could almost feel as if a vista were
opened through the long gloomy distance of ages, and we, with
our modern eyes and modern levity, beheld afar off, in clear
light, the very figures of that old grave time ; saw them again
living in their old antiquai'ian costume and environment, and
heard them audibly discourse in a dialect which had long been
dead.
Of all this no man is more master than Goethe : as a
modern-antique, his Iphi genie must be considered unrivalled
in poetry. A similar thoroughly classical spirit will be found
in this First Part of Helena ; yet the manner of the two pieces
is essentially different. Here, we should say, we are more
reminded of Sophocles, perhaps of yEschylus, than of Euripi-
des : it is more rugged, copious, energetic, inartificial ; a still
more ancient style. IIow very primitive, for instance, are
Helena and Phorcyas in thoir whole deportment here ! How
frank and downright "in speecli ; above all, how minute and
specific ; no glimpse of " i)hiloso})hical culture ; " no such
thing as a "general idea;" thus, every different object seems
a new unknown one, and requires to be separately stated. In
like manner, what can be more honest and edifying than the
chant of the Chorus ? With what inimitable naivete they recur
to the sack of Troy, and endeavor to convince themselves that
they do actually see this " horrible Thing ; " then lament the
GOETHE'S HELENA. 169
law of Destiny which dooms them to such " unspeakable eye-
sorrow ; " and, finally, break forth into sheer cursing ; to all
which Phorcyas answers in the like free and plain-spoken
fashion.
But to our story. This hard-tempered and so dreadfully
ugly old lady, the reader cannot help suspecting, at first sight,
to be some cousin-german of Mephistopheles, or indeed that
great Actor of all Work himself ; which latter suspicion the
devilish nature of the beldame, by degrees, confirms into a
moral certainty. There is a sarcastic malice in the " wise old
Stewardess " which cannot be mistaken. Meanwhile the Chorus
and the beldame indulge still farther in mutual abuse ; she
upbraiding them with their giddiness and wanton disposition ;
they chanting unabatedly her extreme deficiency in personal
charms. Plelena, however, interposes ; and the old Gorgon,
pretending that she has not till now recognized the stranger
to be her Mistress, smooths herself into gentleness, affects the
greatest humility, and even appeals to her for protection
against the insolence of these young ones. But wicked Phor-
cyas is only waiting her opportunity ; still neither unwilling
to wound, nor afraid to strike. Helena, to expel some un-
pleasant vapors of doubt, is reviewing her past history, in
concert with Phorcyas ; and observes, that the latter had been
appointed Stewardess by JMenelaus, on his return from his
Cretan expedition to Sparta. Xo sooner is Sparta mentioned,
than the crone, with an officious air of helping out the story,
adds : —
Which thou forsookest, Ilion's tower-encircled town
Preferring, and the unexhausted joys of Love.
HELENA.
Remind me not of joys ; an ail-too heavy woe's
Infinitude soon followed, crushing breast and heart.
PHORCYAS.
But I have heard thou livest on earth a double life ;
In nion seen, and seen the while in Egypt too.
170 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
HELENA.
Confound not so the weakness of my weary sense :
Here even, who or what I am, I know it not.
PHORCYA8.
Then I have heard how, from the hollow Realm of Shades,
Achilles too did fervently unite himself to thee ;
Thy earlier love reclaiming, spite of all Fate's laws.
HELENA.
To him the Vision, I a Vision joined myself:
It was a dream, the very words may teach us this.
But I am faint; and to myself a Vision grow.
[Sinks into the arms of one division of the Chorus.
CHORUS.
Silence ! silence !
Evil-eyed, evil-tongued, thou !
Thnmgh so shrivelled-up, one-tooth'd a
Mouth, what good can come from that
Throat of horrors detestable —
— In which style they continue musically rating her, till
" Helena has recovered, and again stands in the middle of the
chorus ; " when Phorcyas, with the most wheedling air, hastens
to greet her, in a new sort of verse, as if nothing whatever
had happened : —
PHORCYAS.
Issues forth from passing cloud the sun of this hright day :
If when veil'd she so could charm us, now her beams in splendor
blind.
As the world doth look before thee, in such gentle wise thou look'st.
Let them call me so unlovely, what is lovely know I well.
HELENA.
Come so wavering from the Void which in that faintnesa circled me,
Glad I were to rest again a space; sfi weary are my limbs.
Yet it well becometh queens, all mortals it becometh well,
To possess their hearts in patience, and await what can betide.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 171
PH0RCYA8.
Whilst thou standest in thy greatness, in thy beauty here,
Says thy look that thou commandest : what command'st thou f Speak
it out.
HELENA.
To conclude your quarrel's idle loitering he prepared :
Haste, arrange the Sacrifice the King commanded me.
PHOKCYAS.
All is ready in the Palace, bowl and tripod, sharp-ground axe;
For besprinkling, for befuming : now the Victim let us see.
HELENA.
This the King appointed not.
PH0RCYA8.
Spoke not of this ? 0 word of woe I
HELENA.
What strange sorrow overpowers thee ?
PH0RCYA8.
Queen, 't is thou he meant.
HELENA.
II
PHORCYAS.
And these.
CHORUS.
0 woe ! 0 woe !
PHORCYAS.
Thou fallest by the axe's stroke.
HELENA.
Horrible, yet look'd for : hapless I !
PHORCYAS.
Inevitable seems it me.
CHORUS.
Ah, and us t What will become of ub t
172 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
PHORCYAS.
She dies a noble death :
Ye, on the high Beam within that bears the rafters and the roof,
As in birding-time so many woodlarks, in a row, shall sprawL
[Helena and Chorus stand astounded and terror-struck;
in expressive, well-concerted grouping.
Poor spectres ! — AU like frozen statues there ye stand,
In fright to leave the Day which not belongs to you.
No man or spectre, more than you, is fond to quit
The Upper Liglit ; yet rescue, respite finds not one :
All know it, all believe it, few delight in it.
Enough, 't is over with you ! And so let 's to work !
How the cursed old beldame enjoys the agony of these poor
Shades ; nay, we suspect, she is laughing in her sleeve at the
very Classicism of this Drama, which she herself has contrived,
and is even now helping to enact ! Observe, she has quitted
her octameter trochaics again, and taken to plain blank verse ;
a sign, perhaps, that she is getting weary of the whole Clas-
sical concern ! But however this may be, she now claps her
hands ; whereupon certain distorted dwarf figures appear at
the door, and, with great speed and agility, at her order, bring
forth the sacrificial apparatus ; on which she fails not to des-
cant demonstratively, explaining the purpose of the several
articles as they are successively fitted up before her. Here
is the " gold-horned altar," the " axe glittering over its silver
edge ; " then there must be " water-urns to wash the black
blood's defilement," and a " precious mat " to kneel on, for the
victim is to be beheaded queenlike. On all hands, mortal
horror ! But Phorcyas hints darkly that there is still a way
of escape left ; this, of course, every one is in deepest eager-
ness to learn. Here, one would think, she might for once
come to the point without digression : but Phorcyas has her
own way of stating a fact. She thus commences : —
PHORCYAS.
Whoso, collecting store of wealth, at home abides
To parget in due season bis high dwelling's walls,
GOETHE'S HELENA. 17ft
And prudent guard his roof from inroad of the rain,
With him, through long still years of life, it shall be well.
But he who lightly, in his folly, bent to rove,
O'ersteps with wand'ring foot his threshold's sacred line,
Will find, at his return, the ancient place indeed
Still there, but else all alter'd, if not overthrown.
HELENA.
Why these trite saws ? Thou wert to teach us, not reprove.
PHORCYAS.
Historical it is, is nowise a reproof.
Sea-roving, steer'd King Menelaus brisk from bay to bay ;
Descended on all ports and isles, a plundering foe.
And still came back with booty, which yet moulders here.
Then by the walls of Ilion spent he ten long years ;
How many in his homeward voyage were hard to know.
But all this while how stands it here with Tyndarus'
High house ? How stands it with his own domains around f
HELENA.
Is love of railing, then, so interwoven with thee.
That thus, except to chide, thou can'st not move thy lips?
PHORCYAS.
So many years forsaken stood the mountain glen.
Which, north from Sparta, towards the higher laud ascends
Behind Taygetus ; where, as yet a merry brook,
Eurotas gurgles on, and then, along our Vale,
In sep'rate streams abroad outflowing feeds your Swans.
There, backwards in the rocky hills, a daring race
Have fix'd themselves, forth issuing from Cimmerian Night:
An inexpugnable stronghold have piled aloft.
From which they harry land and people as they please.
HELENA.
How could they ? All impossible it seems to me.
PHORCYAS.
Enough of time they had : 't is haply twenty years.
HELENA.
Is One the Master ? Are there Robbers many ; leagued ?
174 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
PHORCYAS.
Not Robbers these : yet many, and the Master One.
Of him 1 say no ill, though hither too he came.
What might not he have took ? yet did content himself
With some small Present, so he called it, Tribute not.
HELENA.
How looks he f
PHORCYAS.
Nowise ill ! To me he pleasant look'd.
A jocund, gallant, hardy, handsome man it is,
And ratiomil in speech, as of the Greeks are few.
We call the folk Barbarian ; yet I question much
If one there be so cruel, as at Ilion
Full many of our best heroes man-devouring were.
I do respect his greatness, and confide in him.
And for his Tower ! this with your own eyes ye should see :
Another thing it is than clumsy boulder-work,
Such as our Fathers, nothing scrupling, huddled up,
Cyclopean, and like Cyclops-builders, one rude crag
On other rude crags tumbling : in that Tow'r of theirs
'T is plumb and level all, and done by sf^uare and rule.
Look on it from without ! Heav'nward it soars on high,
So straight, so tight of joint, and mirror-smooth as steel:
To clamber there — Nay, even your very Thought sUdes down, —
And then, within, such courts, broad spaces, all around.
With masonry encompass'd of every sort and use :
There have ye arches, archlets, pillars, pillarlets,
Balconies, galleries, for looking out and in,
And coats of arms.
CHORUS.
Of arms ? What mean'st thou T
PHORCYAS.
Ajax bore
A twisted Snake on his Shield, as ye yourselves have seen.
The Seven also before Thebes bore carved work
Each on his Shield ; devices rich and full of sense :
There saw ye moon and stars of the nightly heaven's vault,
And goddesses, and heroes, ladders, torclies, swords,
And dangerous tools, such as in stonn o'erfall good towns.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 175
Escutcheons of like sort our heroes also bear :
There see ye lions, eagles, claws besides, and billa,
Then buflfalo-homs, and wings, and roses, peacock-tails ;
And bandelets, gold and black and silver, blue and red.
Such like are there hung up in Halls, row after row ;
In halls, so large, so lofty, boundless as the World ;
There might ye dance !
CHORUS.
Ha I Tell us, are there dancers there ?
PHORCYAS.
The best on earth ! A golden-hair'd, fresh, younker band,
They breathe of youth ; Paris alone so breath'd when to
Our Queen he came too near.
HELEKA.
Thou quite dost lose
The tenor of thy story : say me thy last word.
PHORCYAS.
Thyself wilt say it : say in earnest, audibly, Yes !
Next moment, I surround thee with that Tow'r.
The step is questionable : for is not this Phorcyas a person
of the most suspicious character ; or rather, is it not certain
that she is a Turk in grain, and will, almost of a surety, go
how it may, turn good into bad ? And yet, what is to be
done ? A trumpet, said to be that of Menelaus, sounds in
the distance ; at which the Chorus shrink together in in-
creased terror. Phorcyas coldly reminds them of Deiphobus
with his slit nose, as a small token of Menelaus's turn of
thinking on these matters ; supposes, however, that there is
now nothing for it but to wait the issue, and die with propri-
ety. Helena has no wish to die, either with propriety or
impropriety ; she pronounces, though with a faltering resolve,
the definitive Yes. A burst of joy breaks from the Chorus ;
thick fog rises all round ; in the midst of whicli, as we learn
from their wild tremulous chant, they feel themselves hurried
through the air : Eurotas is swept from sight, and the cry of
176 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
its Swans fades ominously away in the distance ; for now, as
we suppose, "Tyndarus' high House," with all its appen-
dages, is rushing back into the depths of the Past ; old Lace-
dcemon has again become new Misitra ; only Taygetus, with
another name, remains unchanged : and the King of Eivers
feeds among his sedges quite a different race of Swans from
those of Leda ! The mist is passing away, but yet, to the
horror of the Chorus, no clear daylight returns. Dim masses
rise round them : Phorcyas has vanished. Is it a castle ? Is
it a cavern ? They find themselves in the " Interior Court
of the Tower, surrounded with rich fantastic buildings of the
Middle Ages ! "
If, hitherto, we have moved along, with considerable con-
venience, over ground singular enough indeed, yet, the nature
of it once understood, affording firm footing and no unpleas-
ant scenery, we come now to a strange mixed element, in
which it seems as if neither walking, swimming, nor even
flying, could rightly avail us. We have cheerfully admitted,
and honestly believed, that Helena and her Chorus were
Shades ; but now they appear to be changing into mere Ideas,
mere Metaphors, or poetic Thoughts ! Faust too — for he, as
every one sees, must be lord of this Fortress ' — is a much-
altered man since we last met him. Nay sometimes we could
fancy he were only acting a part on this occasion ; were a
mere mummer, representing not so much his own natural 'per-
sonality., as some shadow and impersonation of his history ;
not so much his own Faustship, as the tradition of Faust's
adventures, and the Genius of the People among whom this
took its rise. For, indeed, he has strange gifts of flying
through the air, and living, in ajiparent friendship and con-
tentment, with mere Eidolons ; and, being excessively re-
served withal, he becomes not a little enigmatic. In fact,
our whole " Interlude " changes its character at this point :
the Greek style passes abruptly into the Spanish ; at one
bound we have left the Seven before Thebes, and got into
the Vida es Suefio. The action, too, becomes more and more
typical ; or rather, we should say, half-typical ; for it will
GOETHE'S HELENA. 177
neither hold rightly together as allegory nor as matter of
fact.
Thus do we see ourselves hesitating on the verge of a
wondrous region, " neither sea nor good dry land ; " full of
shapes and musical tones, but all dim, fluctuating, unsubstan-
tial, chaotic. Danger there is that the critic may require
"both oar and sail ; " nay, it will be well if, like that
other great Traveller, he meet not some vast vacuity, where,
all unawares,
" Fluttering his pennons vain, plumb down he drop
Ten thousand fathom deep . . . . "
and so keep falling till
" The strong rebuff of some tumultuoas cloud.
Instinct with fire and nitre, hurry him
As many miles aloft . . . . "
— Meaning, probably, that he is to be "blown up" by non-
plused and justly exasperated Review-reviewers! — Neverthe-
less, unappalled by these possibilities, we venture forwai'd
into this impalpable Limbo ; and must endeavor to render
such account of the " sensible species " and " ghosts of defunct
bodies " we may meet there, as shall be moderately satisfac-
tory to the reader.
In the little Notice from the Author, quoted above, we were
bid specially observe in what way and manner Faust would
presume to court this World-beauty. We must say, his style
of gallantry seems to us of the most chivalrous and high-
flown description, if indeed it is not a little euphuistic. In
their own eyes, Helena and her Chorus, encircled in this
Gothic court, appear, for some minutes, no better than cap-
tives ; but, suddenly issuing from galleries and portals, and
descending the stairs in stately procession, are seen a numer-
ous suite of Pages, whose gay habiliments and red downy
cheeks are greatly admired by the Chorus : these bear with
them a throne and canopy, with footstools and cushions, and
every other necessary apparatus of royalty ; the portable ma-
chine, as we gather from the Chorus, is soon put together ;
and Helena, being reverently beckoned into the same, is thus
VOL. XIII. 12
178 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
forthwith constituted Sovereign of the whole Establishment.
To herself such royalty still seems a little dubious; but no
sooner have the Pages, in long train, fairly descended, than
"Faust appears above, on the stairs, in knightly court-dress
of the Middle Ages, and with deliberate dignity comes down,"
astonishing the poor "feather-headed" Chorus with the grace-
fulness of his deportment and his more than human beauty.
He leads with him a culprit in fetters ; and, by way of intro-
duction, explains to Helena that this man, Lynceus, has de-
served death by his misconduct ; but that to her, as Queen of
the Castle, must appertain the right of dooming or of pardon-
ing him. The crime of Lynceus is, indeed, of an extraordi-
nary nature : he was Warder of the tower ; but now, though
gifted, as his name imports, with the keenest vision, he has
failed in warning Faust that so august a visitor was approach-
ing, and thus occasioned the most dreadful breach of polite-
ness. Lynceus pleads guilty : quick-sighted as a lynx, in
usual cases, he has been blinded with excess of light, in this
instance. While looking towards the orient at the "course
of morning," he noticed a " sun rise wonderfully in the
south," and, all his senses taken captive by such surprising
beauty, he no longer knew his right hand from his left, or
could move a limb, or utter a word, to announce her arrival.
Under these peculiar circumstances, Helena sees room for
extending the royal prerogative ; and after expressing un-
feigned regret at this so fatal influence of her charms over
the whole male sex, dismisses the Warder with a reprieve.
We must beg our readers to keep an eye on this Innamorato ;
for there may be meaning in him. Here is the pleading,
which produced so fine an effect, given in his own words :
Let me kneel and let me view her,
Let me live, or lot me die,
Slave to this high woman, truer
Than a bondsman boni, am I.
Watching o'er the course of morning,
Eiistward, as I mark it run,
Rose there, all the sky adorning,
Stranjjoly in the south a sun.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 179
Draws my look towards those places,
Not the valley, not the height,
Not the earth's or heaven's spaces ;
She alone the queen of light.
Eyesight truly hath been lent me,
Like the lynx on highest tree;
Boots not ; for amaze hath shent me :
Do I dream, or do I see ?
Knew I aught ; or could I ever
Think of tow'r or bolted gate f
Vapors waver, vapors sever,
Such a goddess comes in state !
Eye and heart I must surrender
Drown'd as in a radiant sea ;
That high creature with her splendor
Blinding aU hath blinded me.
I forgot the warder's duty ;
Trumpet, challenge, word of call :
Chain me, threaten : sure this Beauty
Stills thy anger, saves her thrall.
Save him accordingly she did : but no sooner is he dismissed,
and Faust has made a remark on the multitude of " arrows "
which she is darting forth on all sides, than Lynceus returns
in a still madder humor. "Ee-enter Lynceus with a Chest,
and Men carrying other Chests behind him."
LYNCEUS.
Thou see'st me, Queen, again advance.
The wealthy begs of thee one glance;
He look'd at thee, and feels e'er since
As beggar poor, and rich as prince.
What was I erst? What am I grown?
What have I meant, or done, or known ?
What boots the sharpest force of eyes ?
Back from thy throne it baffled flies.
180 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
From Eastward tnarcliing came we on,
And soon the West was lost and won:
A long broad army forth we pass'd,
The foremost knew not of the last.
The first did fall, the second stood,
The third hew'd in with falchion good;
And still the next had prowess more,
Forgot the thousands slain before.
We stormed along, we rushed apace.
The masters we from place to place ;
And where I lordly ruled to-day,
To-morrow another did rob and slay.
We look'd ; our choice was quickly made ;
This snatch'd with him the fairest maid,
That seiz'd the steer for burden bent,
The horses all and sundry went.
But I did love apart to spy
The rarest things could meet the eye:
Whate'er in others' hands I saw,
That was for me but chaff and straw.
For treasures did I keep a look,
My keen eyes pierc'd to every nook ;
Into all pockets I could see.
Transparent each strong-box to me.
And heaps of Gold I gained this way,
And precious Stones of clearest ray : —
Now where 's the Diamond meet to shine f
'T is meet alone for breast like thine.
So let the Pearl from depths of sea,
In curious stringlets wave on thee :
The Ruby for some covert seeks,
'T is paled by redness of thy cheeks.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 181
And so the richest treasure 's brought
Before thy throne, as best it ought;
Beneath thy feet here let me lay
The fruit of many a bloody fray.
So many chests we now do bear;
More chests I have, and finer ware :
Think me but to be near thee worth,
Whole treasure-vaults I empty forth.
For scarcely art thou hither sent,
All hearts and wills to thee are bent;
Our riches, reason, strength we must
Before the loveliest lay as dust.
All this I reckon'd great, and mine,
Now small I reckon it, and thine.
I thought it worthy, high and good ;
'T is nought, poor and misunderstood.
So dwindles what my glory was,
A heap of mown and withered grass :
What worth it had, and now does lack.
Oh, with one kind look, give it back I
FAUST.
Away ! away ! take back the bold-earn'd load,
Not blam'd indeed, but also not rewarded.
Hers is already whatsoe'er our Tower
Of costliness conceals. Go heap me treasures
On treasures, yet with order: let the blaze
Of pomp unspeakable appear ; the ceilings
Gem-fretted, shine like skies ; a Paradise
Of lifeless life create. Before her feet
Unfolding quick, let flow'ry carpet roll
Itself from flow'ry carpet, that her step
May light on softness, and her eye meet nought
But splendor blinding only not the Gods,
182 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
LYNCEUS.
Small is what our Lord doth say J
Servants do it ; 't is but play :
For o'er all we do or dream
Will this Beauty reign supreme.
Is not all our host grown tame I
Every sword is blunt and lame.
To a fonn of sucli a mould
Sun himself is dull and cold
To the richness of that face ;
What is beauty, what is grace,
Loveliness we saw or thought ?
All is empty, all is nought.
And herewith exit Lynceus, and we see no more of him!
We have said that we thought there might be method in this
madness. In fact, the allegorical, or at least fantastic and
figurative, character of the whole action is growing more and
more decided every moment. Helena, we must conjecture, is,
in the course of this her real historical intrigue with Faust,
to present, at the same time, some dim a4umbration of Grecian
Art, and its flight to the Northern Nations, when driven by
stress of War from its own country. Faust's Tower will, in
this case, afford not only a convenient station for lifting black-
mail over the neighboring district, but a cunning, though
vague and fluctuating, emblem of the Product of Teutonic
Mind ; the Science, Art, Institutions of the Northmen, of whose
Spirit and Genius he himself may in some degree become the
representative. In this way the extravagant homage and ad-
miration paid to Helena are not without their meaning. The
manner of her arrival, enveloped as she was in thick clouds,
and frightened onwards by hostile trumpets, may also have
more or less propriety. And who is Lynceus, tlie mad Watch-
man ? We cannot but suspect him of being a Schoolman
Philosopher, or School Philosoi)hy itself, in disguise ; and that
this wonderful " march " of his has a covert allusion to the
great " march of intellect," which did march in those old ages,
though only " at ordinary time." We observe, the military,
GOETHE'S HELENA. 183
one after the other, all fell; for discoverers, like other men,
must die ; but " still the next had prowess more," and forgot
the thousands that had sunk in clearing the way for him.
However, Lynceus, in his love of plunder, did not take ^'the
fairest maid," nor " the steer " fit for burden, but rather jewels
and other rare articles of value ; in which quest his high
power of eyesight proved of great service to him. Better had
it been, perhaps, to have done as others did, and seized " the
fairest maid," or even the " steer " fit for burden, or one of
the " horses " which were in such request : for, when he
quitted practical Science and the philosophy of Life, and
addicted himself to curious subtleties and Metaphysical crotch-
ets, what did it avail him ? At the first glance of the Grecian
beauty, he found that it was "nought, poor and misunder-
stood." His extraordinary obscuration of vision on Helena's
approach ; his narrow escape from death, on that account, at
the hands of Faust ; his pardon by the fair Greek : his subse-
quent magnanimous offer to her, and discourse with his master
on the subject, — might give rise to various considerations.
But we must not loiter, questioning the strange Shadows
of that strange country, who, besides, are apt to mystify
one. Our nearest business is to get across it : we again pro-
ceed.
Whoever or whatever Faust and Helena may be, they are
evidently fast rising into high favor with each other; as in-
deed, from so generous a gallant, and so fair a dame, was to
be anticipated. She invites him to sit with her on the throne,
so instantaneously acquired by force of her charms ; to which
graceful proposal he, after kissing her hand in knightly wise,
fails not to accede. The courtship now advances apace.
Helena admires the dialect of Lynceus, and how " one word
seemed to kiss the other," — for the Warder, as we saw, speaks
in doggerel ; and she cannot but wish that she also had some
such talent. Faust assures her that nothing is more easy than
this same practice of rhyme : it is but speaking right from the
heart, and the rest follows of course. Withal he proposes that
they should make a trial of it themselves. The experiment
succeeds to mutual satisfaction : for not only can they two
184 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
build the lofty rhyme in concert, with all convenience, but, in
the course of a page or two of such crambo, many love-tokens
come to light ; nay we find by the Chorus that the wooing
has well-nigh reached a happy end : at least, the two are
" sitting near and nearer each other, — shoulder on shoulder,
knee by knee, hand in hand, they are swaying over the
throne's up-cushioned lordliness ; " which, surely, are promis-
ing symptoms.
Such ill-timed dalliance is abruptly disturbed by the entrance
of Phorcyas, now, as ever, a messenger of evil, with malignant
tidings that Menelaiis is at hand, with his whole force, to
storm the Castle, and ferociously avenge his new injuries. An
immense "explosion of signals from the towers, of trumpets,
clarions, military music, and the march of numerous armies,"
confirms the news. Faust, however, treats the matter coolly ;
chides the vmceremonious trepidation of Phorcyas, and sum-
mons his men of war ; who accordingly enter, steel-clad, in
military pomp, and quitting their battalions, gather round him
to take his orders. In a wild Pindaric ode, delivered with
due emphasis, he directs them not so much how they are to
conquer Menelaus, whom doubtless he knows to be a sort of
dream, as how they are respectively to manage and partition
the Country they shall hereby acquire. Germanus is to have
the " bays of Corinth ; " while " Achaia, with its hundred
dells," is recommended to the care of Goth ; the host of the
Franks must go towards Elis ; Messene is to be the Saxon's
share ; and Normann is to clear the seas, and make Argolis
great. Sparta, however, is to continue the territor}^ of Helena,
and be queen and patroness of these inferior Dukedoms. In
all this, are we to trace some faint changeful shadow of the
National Character, and respective Intellectual Performance
of the several European tribes ? Or, perhaps, of the real
History of the Middle Ages ; the irru])tion of the northern
swarms, issuing, like Faust and his air-warriors, "from Cim-
merian Night," and spreading over so many fair regions ?
Perhaps of both, and of more ; perhaps properly of neither :
for the whole has a chameleon character, changing hue as we
lock on it. However, be this as it may, the Chorus cannot
GOETHE'S HELENA. 185
sufnciently admire Faust's strategic faculty ; and the troops
march off, without speech indeed, but evidently in the highest
spirits. He himself concludes with another rapid dithyrambic,
describing the Peninsula of Greece, or rather, perhaps, typi-
cally the Eegion of true Poesy, " kissed by the sea- waters," and
" knit to the last mountain-branch " of the fii'm land. There
is a wild glowing fire in these two odes ; a musical indistinct-
ness, yet enveloping a rugged, keen sense, which, were the gift
of rhyme so common as Faust thinks it, we should have plea-
sure in presenting to our readers. Again and again we think
of Calderon and his Life a Dream.
Faust, as he resumes his seat by Helena, observes that " she
is sprung from the highest gods, and belongs to the first world
alone." It is not meet that bolted towers should encircle her ;
and near by Sparta, over the hills, " Arcadia blooms in eternal
strength of youth, a blissful abode for them two." " Let
tlu'ones pass into groves : Arcadian-free be such felicity ! "
Xo sooner said than done. Our Fortress, we suppose, rushes
asmider like a Palace of Air, for the scene altogether changes.
A series of Grottoes now are shut in by close Bowers. Shady
Grove, to the foot of the Rocks ichich encircle the place. Faust
and Helena are not seen. The Chorus, scattered around, lie
slee2nng."
In Arcadia, the business grows wilder than ever. Phorcyas,
who has now become wonderfully civil, and, notwithstanding
her ugliness, stands on the best footing with the poor light-
headed cicada-swarm of a Chorus, aAvakes them to hear and
see the wonders that have happened so shortly. It appears
too, that there are certain " Bearded Ones " (we suspect,
Devils) waiting with anxiety, " sitting watchful there below,"
to see the issue of this extraordinaiy transaction ; but of these
Phorcyas gives her silly women no hint whatever. She tells
them, in glib phrase, what great things are in the wind. Faust
and Helena have been happier than mortals in these grottoes.
Phorcyas, who was in waiting, gradually glided aAvay, seeking
" roots, moss and rinds," on household duty bent, and so " they
two remained alone."
186 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
CHORUS.
Talk 'st as if within those grottoes lay whole tracts of country,
Wood and meadow, rivers, lakes : what tales thou palm'st on us !
PHORCYAS.
Sure enough, ye foolish creatures ! These are unexplored recesses ;
Hall runs out on hall, spaces there on spaces : these I musing traced.
But at once re-echoes from within a peal of laughter :
Peeping in, what is it ? Leaps a boy from Mother's breast to Father's,
From the Father to the Mother : such a fondling, such a dandling,
Foolish Love's caressing, teasing; cry of jest, and shriek of pleasure,
In their turn do stun me quite.
Naked, without wings a Genius, Faun in humor without coarseness,
Springs he sportful on the ground ; but the ground reverberating.
Darts him up to airy heights ; and at the third, the second gambol.
Touches he the vaulted Roof.
Frightened cries the Mother : Bound away, away, and as thou pleasest.
But, my Son, beware of Flying ; wings nor power of flight are thine.
And tlie Father thus advises : In the Earth resides the virtue
Which so fast doth send thee upwards; touch but with thy toe the sur-
face,
Like the Earth-born, old Antseus, straightway thou art strong again.
And so skips he hither, thither, on these jagged rocks ; from summit
Still to summit, all about, like stricken ball rebounding, springs.
But at once in cleft of some rude cavern sinking has he vanished,
And so seems it we have lost him. Mother mourning. Father cheers
her;
Shrug my shoulders I^ and look ai)out me. But again, behold what
vision !
Are there treasures lying here concealed ? There he is again, and gar-
ments
Glittering, flowor-bestripcd has on.
Tassfls waver from liis arms, about liis bosom flutter breast-knots.
In his hand the golden Lyre ; wholly like a little Phoebus,
Steps he light of heart upon the beetling clifl"s : astonished stand we,
And the Parents, in their rapture, fly into each other's arms.
For what glittering 's that about his head? Were hard to aay what
glitters.
Whether Jewels and g<ild, or Flame of all-subduing strength of soul.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 187
And with such a bearing moves he, in himself this boy announces
Future Master of all Beauty, whom the Melodies Eternal
Do inform through every fibre ; and forthwith so shall ye hear him,
And forthwith so shall ye see him, to your uttermost amazement.
The Chorus suggest, in their simplicity, that this elastic
little urchin may have some relationship to the " Son of
Maia," who, in old times, whisked himself so nimbly out of
his swaddling-clothes, and stole the " Sea-ruler's trident " and
" Hephsestos' tongs," and various other articles, before he was
well span-long. But Phorcyas declares all this to be super-
annuated fable, unfit for modern uses. And now " a beautiful
purely melodious mu^ic of stringed instruments resounds from
the Cave. All listen, and soon appear deeply moved. It con-
finues playing in full tone ; " while Euphorion, in person,
makes his appearance, "in the costume above described;" larger
of stature, but no less frolicsome and tuneful.
Our readers are aware that this Euphorion, the offspring of
Northern Character wedded to Grecian Culture, frisks it here
not without reference to Modern Poesy, which had a birth so
precisely similar. Sorry are we that we cannot follow him
through these fine warblings and trippings on the light fan-
tastic toe : to our ears there is a quick, pure, small-toned
music in them, as perhaps of elfin bells when the Queen of
Faery rides by moonlight. It is, in truth, a graceful emble-
matic dance, this little life of Euphorion ; full of meanings
and half-meanings. The history of Poetry, traits of individual
Poets ; the Troubadours, the Three Italians ; glimpses of all
things, full vision of nothing ! — Euphorion grows rapidly,
and passes from one pursuit to another. Quitting his boyish
gambols, he takes to dancing and romping with the Chorus ;
and this in a style of tumult which rather dissatisfies FauFt.
The wildest and coyest of these damsels he seizes with avowed
intent of snatching a kiss ; but, alas, she resists, and, still
more singular, "fashes tip in fame into the air;" inviting
him, perhaps in mockery, to follow her, and "catch his van-
ished purpose." Euphorion shakes off the remnants of the
flame, and now, in a wilder humor, mounts on the crags, begins
to talk of courage and battle ; higher and higher he rises, till
188 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
the Chorus see him on the topmost cliff, shining " in harness
as for victory : " and yet, though at such a distance, they still
hear his tones, neither is his figure diminished in their eyes ;
which indeed, as they observe, always is, and should be, the
case with " sacred Poesy," though it mounts heavenward, far-
ther and farther, till it " glitter like the fairest star." But
Euphorion's life-dance is near ending. From his high peak,
he catches the sound of war, and fires at it, and longs to mix
in it, let Chorus and Mother and Father say what they wilL
EUPIIORION.
And hear ye thunders on the ocean,
And thunders roll from tower and wall j
And host with host, in fierce commotion,
See mixing at the trumpet's call.
And to die in strife
Is the law of life,
That is certain once for all.
HELENA, FAUST, and CHORUS.
What a horror ! spoken madly !
Wilt thou die ? Then what must 1 1
EUPHORION.
Shall I view it, safe and gladly f
No ! to share it will I hie.
HELENA, FAUST, and CHORUS.
Fatal are such haughty things;
War is for the stout.
EUPHORION.
Ha ! — and a pair of wings
Folds itself out !
Thither ! I must ! I must I
'T is my hest to fly!
[He casts himself into the air ; his Garments support him
for a moment J his head radiates, a Train of Light fol-
lows him.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 189
CHORUS.
Icarus ! earth and dust !
Oh, woe ! thou mount'st too high.
[A beautiful Youth rushes down at the feet of the Parents ;
you fancy you recognize in the dead a well-known form ; ^
but the bodily part instantly disappears : the gold Crown-
let mounts like a comet to the sky ; Coat, Mantle and Lyre
are left lying.
HELENA and FAUST.
Joy soon changes to woe,
And mirth to heaviest moan.
euphoeion's voice (from beneath).
Let me not to realms below
Descend, 0 mother, alone !
The prayer is soon granted. The Chorus chant a dirge over
the remains, and then : —
HELENA (to FAUST).
A sad old saying proves itself again in me,
Good hap with beauty hath no long abode.
So with Love's band is Life's asunder rent :
Lamenting both, I clasp thee in my arms
Once more, and bid thee painfully farewell.
Persephoneia, take my boy, and with him me.
[She embraces Faust ; her Body melts away ; Garment and
Veil remain in his arms.
' Tt is perhaps in reference to this phrase that certain sagacious critics
among the Germans have hit upon the wonderful discovery of Eupliorion
being — Lord Byron ! A fact, if it is one, which curiously verifies the author's
prediction in this passage. But un]iap])ily, wliile we fancy we recognize in
the dead a well-known form, " the bodily part instantly disappears ; " and the
keenest critic finds that he can see no deeper into a millstone than another
man. Some allusion to our English Poet there is, or may be, here and in the
page that precedes and the page that follows ; but Eupliorion is no image of
any person ; least of all, one would think, of George Lord Byron.
190 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
PHORCYAS (to FAUST).
Hold fast what now alone remains to thee.
That Garment quit not. They are tugging there,
These Demons at the skirt of it ; would fain
To the Nether Kingdoms take it down. Hold fiaat I
The goddess it is not, whom thou hast lost,
Yet godlike is it. See thou use aright
The priceless high bequest, and soar aloft ;
'T wiU lift thee away above the common world,
Far up to Ether, so thou canst endure.
We meet again, far, very far from hence.
[Helena's Garments unfold into Clouds, encircle Faust, raise
him aloft, and float away with him. Phorcyas picks up
Euphoriants Coat, Mantle, aud Lyre from the ground,
comes forward into the Proscenium, holds these Bewains
aloft, and says : —
Well, fairly found be happily won !
'T is true, the Flame is lost and gone :
But well for us we have still this stuff!
A gala-dress to dub our poets of merit,
And make guild-brethren snarl and cuff;
And can't they borrow the Body and Spirit T
At least, I '11 lend them Clothes enough.
[Sits down in the Proscenium at the foot of a pillar.
The rest of the personages are now speedily disposed of.
Panthalis, the Leader of the Chorus, and the only one of them
who has shown any glimmerings of Reason, or of aught beyond
mere sensitive life, mere love of Pleasure and fear of Pain,
proposes that, being now delivered from the soul-confusing
spell of the "Thessalian Hag," they should forthwith return
to Hades, to bear Helena company. But none will volunteer
with her; so she goes herself. The Chorus have lost their
taste for Asphodel Meadows, and playing so subordinate a
part in Orcus : they prefer abiding in the Light of Day, though,
indeed, under rather peculiar circumstances ; being no longer
" Persons," they say, but a kind of Occult Qualities, as we
conjecture, and Poetic Inspirations, residing in various natu-
ral objects. Thus, one division become a sort of invisible
GOETHE'S HELENA. 191
Hamadryads, and have their being in Trees, and their joy in
the various movements, beauties and products of Trees. A
second change into Echoes ; a third, into the Spirits of Brooks ;
and a fourth take up their abode in Vineyards, and delight in
the manufacture of Wine. No sooner have these several
parties made up their minds, than the Curtain falls ; and
Phorcyas " in the Froscenium rises in gigantic size ; but steps
down from her cothurni, lays her Mask and Veil aside, and
shows herself as Mephistopheles, in order, so far as may be ne-
cessary, to comment on the piece, by way of Epilogice."
Such is Helena, the interlude in Fatist. We have all the
desire in the world to hear Mephisto's Epilogue ; but far be
it from us to take the word out of so gifted a mouth ! In the
way of commentary on Helena, we ourselves have little more
to add. The reader sees, in general, that Faust is to save
himself from the straits and fetters of Worldly Life in the
loftier regions of Art, or in that temper of mind by which
alone those regions can be reached, and permanently dwelt in.
Farther also, that this doctrine is to be stated emblematically
and parabolically ; so that it might seem as if, in Goethe's
hands, the history of Faust, commencing among the realities
of every-day existence, superadding to these certain spiritual
agencies, and passing into a more aerial character as it pro-
ceeds, may fade away, at its termination, into a phantasma-
goric region, where symbol and thing signified are no longer
clearly distinguished ; and thus the final result be curiously
and significantly indicated, rather than directly exhibited.
With regard to the special purport of Euphorion, Lynceus
and the rest, we have nothing more to say at present ; nay
perhaps we may have already said too much. For it must
not be forgotten by the commentator, and will not, of a surety,
be forgotten by Mephistopheles, whenever he may please to
deliver his Epilogue, that Helena is not an Allegory, but a
Phantasmagory ; not a type of one thing, but a vague fluctuat-
ing fitful adumbration of many. This is no Picture painted
on canvas, with mere material colors, and steadfastly abiding
our scrutiny ; but rather it is like the Smoke of a Wizard's
192 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Caldron, in which, as we gaze on its flickering tints and wild
splendors, thousands of strangest shapes unfold themselves,
yet no one will abide with us ; and thus, as Goethe says else-
where, " we are reminded of Nothing and of All."
Properly speaking, Helena is what the Germans call a
Mahrchen (Fabulous Tale), a species of fiction they have
particularly excelled in, and of which Goethe has already
produced more than one distinguished specimen. Some day
we propose to translate, for our readers, that little piece of
his, deserving to be named, as it is, "The Mdhrchen,"' and
which we must agree with a great critic in reckoning the
" Tale of all Tales." As to the composition of this Helena,
-we cannot but perceive it to be deeply studied, appropriate
and successful. It is wonderful with what fidelity the Clas-
sical style is maintained throughout the earlier part of the
Poem ; how skilfully it is at once united to the Romantic
style of the latter part, and made to reappear, at intervals, to
the end. And then the small half-secret touches of sarcasm,
the curious little traits by which we get a peep behind the
curtain ! Figure, for instance, that so transient allusion to
these " Bearded Ones sitting watchful there below," and then
their tugging at Helena's Mantle to pull it down with them.
By such slight hints does Mephistopheles point out our Where-
about ; and ever and anon remind us, that not on the firm
earth, but on the wide and airy Deep has he spread his strange
pavilion, where, in magic light, so many wonders are displayed
to us.
Had we chanced to find that Goethe, in other instances,
had ever written one line without meaning, or many lines
without a deep and true meaning, we should not have thought
this little cloud-picture worthy of such minute development,
or such careful study. In tliat case, too, we sliould never
have seen the true Helena of Goethe, but some false one of
our own too indolent imagination ; for this Drama, as it grows
clearer, grows also more beautiful and complete ; and the third,
tlie fourth perusal of it pleases far better than the first. Few
living artists would deserve such faith from us ; but few also
would so well reward it.
GOETHE'S HELENA. 193
On the general relation of Helena to Faust, and the degree
of fitness of the one for the other, it were premature to speak
more expressly at present. We have learned, on authority
which we may justly reckon the best, that Goethe is even now
engaged in preparing the Second Part of Faust, into which
this Helena passes as a component part. With the third
Lieferung of his Works, we understand, the beginning of that
Second Part is to be published : we shall then, if need be, feel
more qualified to speak.
For the present, therefore, we take leave of Helena and
Faust, and of their Author: but with regard to the latter, our
task is nowise ended; indeed, as yet, hardly begun; for it is
not in the province of the Mdhrchen that G-oethe will ever
become most interesting to English readers. But, like his
own Euphorion, tliough he rises aloft into Ether, he derives,
Antaeus-like, his strength from the Earth. The dullest plodder
has not a more practical understanding, or a sounder or more
quiet character, than this most aerial and imaginative of poets.
We hold Goethe to be the Foreigner, at this era, who, of all
others, the best, and the best by many degrees, deserves our
study and appreciation. What help we individually can give
in such a matter, we shall consider it a duty and a pleasure to
have in readiness. We purpose to return, in our next Number,
to the consideration of his Works and Character in general.
vol,. XIII. 13
GOETHE.^
[1828.]
It is not on this "Second Portion" of Goethe's Works,
■which at any rate contains nothing new to us, that we mean
at present to dwelL In our last Number, we engaged to make
some survey of his writings and character in general; and
must now endeavor, with such insight as we have, to fulfil
that promise.
We have already said that we reckoned this no unimportant
subject ; and few of Goethe's readers can need to be reminded
that it is no easy one. We hope also that our pretensions in
regard to it are not exorbitant; the sum of our aims being
nowise to solve so deep and pregnant an inquiry, but only to
show that an inquiry of such a sort lies ready for solution ;
courts the attention of thinking men among us, nay merits
a thorough investigation, and must sooner or later obtain it.
Goethe's literary history appears to us a matter, beyond most
others, of rich, subtle and manifold significance ; which will
require and reward the best study of the best heads, and to
the right exposition of which not one but many judgments
will be neccssai'y.
However, we need not linger, preluding on our own in-
ability, and magnifying the difiiculties we have so coura-
geously volunteered to front. Considering the highly complex
aspect which such a mind of itself presents to us ; and, still
more, taking into account the state of English opinion in
1 FoREiGK TJeview, No. 3. — Goelhfis Summtlirhe Werhc. VolhtHndi(ie
Ansgabe letzler Ilnnd. (Goethe's Collective Works. Com])lete Edition, with
liis final Correctious.) — Second Portion, vol. vi.-x. Cotta; Stuttgard and
Tiibingou, 1827.
GOETHE. 195
respect of it, there certainly seem few literary questions of
our time so perplexed, dubious, perhaps hazardous, as this
of the character of Goethe; but few also on which a well-
founded, or even a sincere word would be more likely to
profit. For our countrymen, at no time indisposed to foreign
excellence, but at, all times cautious of foreign singularity,
have heard much of Goethe ; but heard, for the most part,
what excited and perplexed rather than instructed them.
Vague rumors of the man have, for more than half a century,
been humming through our ears : from time to time, we have
even seen some distorted, mutilated transcript of his own
thoughts, which, all obscure and hieroglyphical as it might
often seem, failed not to emit here and there a ray of keenest
and purest sense ; travellers also are still running to and fro,
importing the opinions or, at worst, the gossip of foreign
countries : so that, by one means or another, many of us have
come to understand, that considerably the most distinguished
poet and thinker of his age is called Ooethe, and lives at
M'eimar, and must, to all appearance, be an extremely sur-
prising character : but here, unhappily, our knowledge almost
terminates ; and still must Curiosity, must ingenuous love of
Information and mere passive "Wonder alike inquire : What
manner of man is this ? How shall we interpret, how shall
we even see him ? \"\'liat is his spiritual structure, what at
least are the outward form and features of his mind ? Has
he any real poetic worth ; how much to his own people, how
much to us ?
Reviewers, of great and of small character, have manfully
endeavored to satisfy the British world on these points : but
which of us could believe their report ? Did it not rather
become apparent, as we reflected on the matter, that this
Goethe of theirs was not the real man, nay could not be any
real man whatever ? For what, after all, were their portraits
of him but copies, with some retouchings and ornamental
appendages, of our grand English original Picture of the
German generally ? — In itself such a piece of art, as national
portraits, under like circumstances, are wont to be ; and re-
sembling Goethe, as some unusually expressive Sign of the
196 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Saracen's Head may resemble the present Sultan of Constan-
tinople !
Did we imagine that much information, or any very deep
sagacity were required for avoiding such mistakes, it would ill
become us to step forward on this occasion. But surely it is
given to every man, if he will but take heed, to know so much
as whether or not he knows. And nothing can be plainer to
us than that if, in the present business, we can report aught
from our own personal vision and clear hearty belief, it will
be a useful novelty in the discussion of it. Let the reader be
patient with us, then ; and according as he finds that we speak
honestly and earnestly, or loosely and dishonestly, consider our
statement, or dismiss it as unworthy of consideration.
Viewed in his merely external relations, Goethe exhibits an
appearance such as seldom occurs in the history of letters, and
indeed, from tlie nature of the case, can seldom occur. A man
who, in early life, rising almost at a single bound into the
highest rejmtation over all Europe ; b}"" gradual advances, fix-
ing himself more and more firmly in the reverence of his coun-
trymen, ascends silently through many vicissitudes to the
supreme intellectual place among them ; and now, after half
a century, distinguished by convulsions, political, moral and
poetical, still reigns, full of years and honors, with a soft un-
disputed sway ; still laboring in his vocation, still forwarding,
as with kingly benignity, whatever can profit the culture of
his nation : such a man might justly attract our notice, were
it only by the singularity of his fortune. Supremacies of this
sort are rare in modern times ; so universal, and of such con-
tinuance, they are almost unexampled. For the age of the
Prophets and Theologic Doctors has long since passed away;
and now it is by much slighter, by transient and mere earthly
ties, that bodies of men connect themselves with a man. The
wisest, most nielodious voice cannot in these days pass for a
divine one; the word Inspiration still lingers, but only in the
shape of a poetic figure, from which the once earnest, awful and
soul-subduing sense has vanished without return. The polity
of LitcBiiture is called a Ivcpublic ; ofteuer it is an Anarchy,
GOETHE. 197
where, by strengtli or fortune, favorite after favorite rises into
splendor and authority, but like Masaniello, while judging the
people, is on the ninth day deposed and shot. Nay, few such
adventurers can attain even this painful pre-eminence : for at
most, it is clear, any given age can have but one first man ;
many ages have only a crowd of secondary men, each of whom
is first in his own eyes : and seldom, at best, can the " Single
Person " long keep his station at the head of this wild com-
monwealth ; most sovereigns are never universally acknowl-
edged, least of all in their lifetime ; few of the acknowledged
can reign peaceably to the end. •
Of such a perpetual dictatorship Voltaire among the French
gives the last European instance ; but even with him it was per-
haps a much less striking affair. Voltaire reigned over a sect,
less as their lawgiver than as their general ; for he was at
bitter enmity with the great numerical majority of his nation,
by whom his services, far from being acknowledged as bene-
fits, were execrated as abominations. But Goethe's object has,
at all times, been rather to unite than to divide ; and though
he has not scrupled, as occasion served, to speak forth his con-
victions distinctly enougli on many delicate topics, and seems,
in general, to have paid little court to the prejudices or private
feelings of any man or body of men, we see not at present that
his merits are anywhere disputed, his intellectual endeavors
controverted, or his person regarded otherwise than with affec-
tion and respect. In later years, too, the advanced age of the
poet has invested him with another sort of dignity; and the
admiration to which his great qualities give him claim is tem-
pered into a milder, grateful feeling, almost as of sons and
grandsons to their common father. Dissentients, no doubt,
there are and must be ; but, apparently, their cause is not
pleaded in words : no man of the smallest note speaks on that
side ; or at most, such men may question, not the worth of
Goethe, but the cant and idle affectation with which, in many
quarters, this must be promulgated and bepraised. Certainly
there is not, probably there never was. in any European coun-
try, a writer who, with so cunning a style, and so deep, so ab-
struse a sense, ever found so many readers. For, from the
198 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
peasant to the king, from the callow dilettante and innamo-
rato, to the grave transcendental philosopher, men of all degrees
and dispositions are familiar with the writings of Goethe :
each studies them with affection, with a faith which, " where
it cannot unriddle, learns to trust ; " each takes with him what
he is adequate to carry, and departs thankful for his own
allotment. Two of Goethe's intensest admirers are Schelling
of Munich, and a worthy friend of ours in Berlin ; one of
these among the deepest men in Eui-ope, the other among the
shallowest.
All this is, no doubt, singular enough ; and a proper under^
standing of it would throw light on many things. Whatever
we may think of Goethe's ascendency, the existence of it
remains a highly curious fact ; and to trace its history, to dis-
cover by what steps such influence has been attained, and how
so long preserved, were no trivial or unprofitable inquiry. It
would be worth while to see so strange a man for his own sake ;
and here we should see, not only the man himself, and his own
progress and spiritual development, but the progress also of
his nation : and this at no sluggish or even quiet era, but in
times marked by strange revolutions of opinions, by angry
controversies, high enthusiasm, novelty of enterprise, and
doubtless, in many respects, by rapid advancement : for that
the Germans have been, and still are, restlessly struggling for-
ward, with honest unwearied effort, sometimes with enviable
success, no one, who knows them, will deny ; and as little,
that in every province of Literature, of Art and humane ac-
complishment, the influence, often the direct guidance of Goethe
may be recognized. The history of his mind is, in fact, at the
same time, the history of German culture in his day : for
whatever excellence this individual might realize has sooner
or later been acknowledged and appropriated by his country ;
and the title of Mtisagetes, which his admirers give him, is
perhaps, in sober strictness, not unmerited. Be it for good or
for evil, there is certainly no German, since the days of Luther,
whose life can occupy so large a space in the intellectual his-
tory of that people.
In this point of view, were it in no other, Goethe's Dichtung
GOETHE. 199
und Wahrheit, so soon as it is completed, may deserve to be
reckoned one of his most interesting works. We speak not
of its literary merits, though in that respect, too, we must say
that few Autobiographies have come in our way, where so
difficult a matter was so successfully handled ; where perfect
knowledge could be found united so kindly with perfect toler-
ance ; and a personal narrative, moving along in soft clearness,
showed us a man, and the objects that environed him, under
an aspect so verisimilar, yet so lovely, with an air dignified
and earnest, j'et graceful, cheerful, even gay : a story as of a
Patriarch to his children ; such, indeed, as few men can be called
upon to relate, and few, if called upon, could relate so well.
"What would we give for such an Autobiography of Shakspeare,
of Milton, even of Pope or Swift I
The Dlchtung unci Wahrheit has been censured consider-
ably in England ; but not, we are inclined to believe, with any
insight into its proper meaning. The misfortune of the work
among us was, that we did not know the narrator before his
narrative ; and could not judge what sort of narrative he was
bound to give, in these circumstances, or Avhether he was bound
to give any at all. We saw nothing of his situation ; heard
only the sound of his voice ; and hearing it, never doubted but
he must be perorating in official garments from the rostrum,
instead of speaking trustfully by the fireside. For the chief
ground of offence seemed to be, that the story was not noble
enough ; that it entered on details of too poor and private a
nature ; verged here and there towards garrulity ; was not, in
one Avord, written in the style of what we call a gentleman.
Whether it might be written in the style of a man, and how
far these two styles might be compatible, and what might be
their relative worth and preferableness, was a deeper question ;
to which apparently no heed had been given. Yet herein lay
the very cream of the matter ; for Goethe was not writing to
''persons of quality" in England, but to persons of heart and
head in Europe : a somewhat different problem perhaps, and
requiring a somewhat different solution. As to this ignoble-
ness and freedom of detail, especially, we may say, that, to a
German, few accusations could appear more surprising than
200 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
this, which, with us, constitutes the head and front of his
offending. Goethe, in his own country, far from being ac-
cused of undue familiarity towards his readers, had, up to
that date, been laboring under precisely the opposite charge.
It was his stateliness, his reserve, his indifference, his con-
tempt for the public, that were censured. Strange, almost
inexplicable, as many of his works might appear; loud, sor-
rowful, and altogether stolid as might be the criticisms they
underwent, no word of explanation could be wrung from him;
he had never even deigned to write a preface. And in later
and juster days, when the study of Poetry came to be prose-
cuted in another spirit, and it was found that Goethe Avas
standing, not like a culprit to plead for himself before the
liter^xT J plebeians, but like a high teacher and preacher, speak-
ing for truth, to whom both plebeians and patricians were
bound to give all ear, the outward difficulty of interpreting
his works began indeed to vanish ; but enough still remained,
nay increased curiosity had given rise to new dfficulties and
deeper inquiries. Not only what were these works, but how
did they originate, became questions for the critic. Yet
several of Goethe's chief productions, and of his smaller
poems nearly the whole, seemed so intimately interwoven with
his private history, that, without some knowledge of this, no
answer to such questions could be given. Nay commentaries
have been written on sin;-jle pieces of his, endeavoring, by way
of guess, to supply this deficiency.^ We can thus judge
whether, to the Germans, such minuteness of exposition in
Dichtung imd Wahrheit may have seemed a sin. Few readers
of Goethe, we believe, but would wish rather to see it extended
than curtailed.
It is our duty also to remark, if any one be still i;naware of
it, that the Memoirs of Goethe, published some years ago in
London, can have no real concern with this Autobiography,
The rage of hunger is an excnise for much ; otherwise that
German Translator, whom indignant Eeviewers have proved
to know no German, were a highly reprehensible man. His
* See, in particular, Dr. Kanncgiesser Uher Goethes Uarzsreise iin Winter
1820.
GOETHE. 201
work, it appears, is done from the French, and shows sub-
tractions, and what is worse, additions. But the unhappy
Dragoman has already been chastised, perhaps too sharply.
If, warring with the reefs and breakers and cross eddies of
Life, he still hover on this side the shadow of Night, and any
word of ours might reach him, we would rather say : Courage,
Brother ! grow honest, and times will mend !
It woiild appear, then, that for inquiries into Foreign Litera-
ture, for all men anxious to see and understand the European
world as it lies around them, a great problem is presented in
this Goethe ; a singular, highly significant phenomenon, and
now also means more or less complete for ascertaining its
significance. A man of wonderful, nay unexampled reputa-
tion and intellectual influence among forty millions of reflec-
tive, serious and cultivated men, invites us to study him ; and
to determine for ourselves, whether and how far such influence
has been salutary, such reputation merited. That this call
will one day be answered, that Goethe will be seen and judged
of in his real character among us, appears certain enough. His
name, long familiar everywhere, has now awakened the atten-
tion of critics in all European countries to his works : he is
studied wherever true study exists : eagerly studied even in
France ; nay, some considerable knowledge of his nature and
spiritual importance seems already to prevail there. ^
For ourselves, meanwhile, in giving all due weight to so
curious an exhibition of opinion, it is doubtless our part, at
the same time, to beware that we do not give it too much.
This universal sentiment of admiration is wonderful, is in-
teresting enough ; but it must not lead us astray. We Eng-
lish stand as yet without the sphere of it ; neither will we
plunge blindly in, but enter considerately, or, if we see good,
keep aloof from it altogether. Fame, we may understand,
is no sure test of merit, but only a probability of such : it is
an accident, not a property, of a man ; like light, it can give
little or nothing, but at most may show what is given ; often
^ Witness Le Tasse, Drame par Duval, and the Criticisms on it. See also
the Essays in the Globe, Xos. 55, 64 (1826).
202 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
it is but a false glare, dazzling the eyes of the vulgar, lend-
ing by casual extrinsic splendor the brightness and manifold
glance of the diamond to pebbles of no value. A man is in
all cases simply the man, of the same intrinsic worth and
weakness, whether his worth and weakness lie hidden in the
depths of his own consciousness, or be betrumpeted and be-
shouted from end to end of the habitable globe. These are
plain truths, which no one should lose sight of; though,
whether in love or in anger, for praise or for condemnation,
most of us are too apt to forget them. But least of all can
it become the critic to " follow a multitude to do evil," even
when that evil is excess of admiration : on the contrary, it will
behoove him to lift up his voice, how feeble soever, how un-
heeded soever, against the common delusion ; from which, if
he can save, or help to save, any mortal, his endeavors will
have been repaid.
With these things in some measure before us, we must
remind our readers of another influence at work in this affair,
and one acting, as we think, in the contrary direction. That
pitiful enough desire for " originality," which lurks and acts
in all minds, will rather, we imagine, lead the critic of Foreign
Literature to adopt the negative than the affirmative with
regard to Goethe. If a writer indeed feel that he is writing
for England alone, invisibly and inaudibly to the rest of the
Earth, the temptations may be pretty equally balanced ; if he
write for some small conclave, which he mistakenly thinks
the representative of England, they may sway this way or
that, as it chances. But writing in such isolated spirit is no
longer possible. Traffic, with its swift ships, is uniting all
nations into one ; Europe at large is becoming more and more
one public ; and in this public, the voices for Goethe, compared
with those against him, are in the proportion, as we reckon
them, both as to the number and value, of perhaps a hun-
dred to one. We take in, not Germany alone, but France and
Italy ; not the Schlegels and Schellings, but the Manzonis
and De Staels. The bias of originality, therefore, may lie to
the side of censure ; and whoever among us shall step for-
ward, with such knowledge as our common critics have of
GOETHE. 203
Goethe, to enlighten the European public, by contradiction in
this matter, displays a heroism, which, in estimating his other
merits, ought nowise to be forgotten.
Our own view of the case coincides, we confess, in some de-
gree with that of the majority. We reckon that Goethe's fame
has, to a considerable extent, been deserved ; that his influence
has been of high benefit to his own country ; nay more, that
it promises to be of benefit to us, and to all other nations.
The essential grounds of this opinion, which to explain mi-
nutely were a long, indeed boundless task, we may state without
many words. We find, then, in Goethe, an Artist, in the high
and ancient meaning of that term ; in the meaning which it
may have borne long ago among the masters of Italian paint-
ing, and the fathers of Poetry in England ; we say that we
trace in the creations of this man, belonging in every sense to
our own time, some touches of that old, divine spirit, which
had long passed away from among us, nay which, as has often
been laboriously demonstrated, was not to return to this world
any more.
Or perhaps we come nearer our meaning, if we say that in
Goethe we discover by far the most striking instance, in our
time, of a writer who is, in strict speech, what Philosophy can
call a Man. He is neither noble nor plebeian, neither liberal
nor servile, nor infidel nor devotee ; but the best excellence of
all these, joined in pure union ; " a clear and universal 3Ian."
Goethe's poetry is no separate faculty, no mental handicraft ;
but the voice of the whole harmonious manhood : nay it is the
ver}^ harmony, the living and life-giving harmony of that rich
manhood which forms his poetry. All good men may be called
poets in act, or in word ; all good poets are so in both. F)ut
Goethe besides appears to us as a person of that deep endow-
ment, and gifted vision, of that experience also and sympathy
in the ways of all men, which qualify him to stand forth, not
only as the literary ornament, but in many respects too as the
Teacher and exemplar of his age. For, to say nothing of his
natural gifts, he has cultivated himself and his art, he has
studied how to live and to write, with a fidelity, an unwearied
earnestness, of which there is no other living instance ; of
204 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
which, among British poets especially, Wordsworth alone
offers any resemblance. And this in our view is the result:
To our minds, in these soft, melodious imaginations of his,
there is embodied the Wisdom which is proper to this time ;
the beautiful, the religious Wisdom, which may still, with
something of its old impressiveness, speak to the whole soul ;
still, in these hard, unbelieving utilitarian days, reveal to us
glimpses of the Unseen but not unreal World, that so the
Actual and the Ideal may again meet together, and clear
Knowledge be again wedded to Eeligion, in the life and busi-
ness of men.
Such is our conviction or persuasion with regard to the
poetry of Goethe. Could we demonstrate this opinion to be
true, could we even exhibit it with that degree of clearness
and consistency which it has attained in our own thoughts,
Goethe were, on our part, sufficiently recommended to the best
attention of all thinking men. But, uuhappily, it is not a sub-
ject susceptible of demonstration : the merits and character-
istics of a Poet are not to be set forth by logic ; but to be
gathered by personal, and as in this case it must be, by deep and
careful inspection of his works. Nay Goethe's world is every
way so different from ours ; it costs us such effort, we have so
much to remember, and so much to forget, before we can
transfer ourselves in any measure into his peculiar point of
vision, that a right study of him, for an Englishman, even of
ingenuous, open, inquisitive mind, becomes unusually difficult ;
for a fixed, decided, contemptuous Englishman, next to im-
possible. To a reader of the first class, helps may be given,
explanations will remove many a difficulty ; beauties that lay
hidden may be made apparent ; and directions, adapted to his
actual position, will at length guide him into the proper track
for such an inquiry. All this, however, must be a work of
progression and detail. To do our i)art in it, from time to
time, must rank among the best duties of an English Foreign
Eeview. Meanwhile, our present endeavor limits itself within
far narrower bounds. We cannot aim to make Goethe known,
but only to prove that he is wortliy of being known ; at most,
to point out, as it were afar off, the path by which some
GOETHE. 205
knowledge of him may be obtained. A slight glance at his
general literary character and procedure, and one or two of his
chief productions which throw light on these, must for the
present suffice.
A French diplomatic personage, contemplating Goethe's
physiognomy, is said to have observed : VoUa un homme qui
a eu beaucoup de chagrins. A truer version of the matter,
Goethe himself seems to think, would have been : Here is a
man who has struggled toughly ; who has es sich recht sauer
werden lassen. Goethe's life, whether as a writer and thinker,
or as a living active man, has indeed been a life of effort, of
earnest toilsome endeavor after all excellence. Accordingly,
his intellectual progress, his spiritual and moral history, as it
may be gathered from his successive Works, furnishes, with
us, no small portion of the pleasure and profit we derive from
perusing them. Participating deeply in all the influences of
his age, he has from the first, at every new epoch, stood forth
to elucidate the new circumstances of the time; to offer the
instruction, the solace, which that time required. His literary
life divides itself into two portions widel}' different in charac-
ter : the products of the first, once so new and original, have
long, either directly or through the thousand thousand imita-
tions of them, been familiar to us ; with the products of the
second, equally original, and in our day far more precious, we
are yet little acquainted. These two classes of work stand
curiously related with each other ; at first view, in strong con-
tradiction, yet, in truth, connected together by the strictest
sequence. For Goethe has not only suffered and mourned in
bitter agony under the spiritual perplexities of his time ; but
lie has also mastered these, he is above them, and has shown
otlicrs how to rise above them. At one time, Ave found hiiu
ill darkness, and now he is in light; he was once an Unbe-
liever, and now he is a Believer ; and he believes, moreover,
not by denying his unbelief, but by following it out; not by
stopping sliort, still less turning back, in his inquiries. l)ut by
resolutely prosecuting them. This, it appears to us, is a case
of singular interest, and rarely exemplified, if at all, elsewhere.
206 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. .
in these our days. How has this man, to whom the world
once offered nothing but blackness, denial and despair, attained
to that better vision which now shows it to nim not tolerable
only, but full of solemuity and loveliness ? How has the be-
lief of a Saint been united in this high and tme mind with the
clearness of a Sceptic ; the devout spirit of a Fenelon made
to blend in soft harmony with the gayety, the sarcasm, the
shrewdness of a Voltaire ?
Goethe's two earliest works are Gotz von Berlichingen and
the Sorrows of Werter. The boundless influence and popularity
they gained, both at home and abroad, is well known. It was
they that established almost at once his literary fame in his
own country; and even determined his subsequent private
history, for they brought him into contact with the Duke of
Weimar ; in connection with whom, the Poet, engaged in mani-
fold duties, political as well as literary, has lived for fifty-four
years, and still, in honorable retirement, continues to live.^
Their effects over Europe at large were not less striking than
in Germany.
" It would be difficult," observes a writer on this subject,
" to name two books which have exercised a deeper influence
on the subsequent literature of Europe, than these two per-
formances of a yoimg author ; his first-fruits, the produce of
his twenty -fourth year. Werter appeared to seize the hearts
of men in all quarters of the world, and to utter for them the
word which they had long been waiting to hear. As usually
happens, too, this same word, once uttered, was soon abun-
dantly repeated ; spoken in all dialects, and chanted through
all notes of the gamut, till the sound of it had grown a weari-
ness rather than a pleasure. Sceptical sentimentality, view-
hunting, love, friendsliip, suicide, and desperation, became the
staple of literary ware ; and though the epidemic, after a long
course of years, subsided in Germany, it reappeared with vari-
ous modifications in otlier countries, and everywhere abundant
^ Since the above was written, that worthy Prince — worthy, we have
understood, in all respects, exemplary in whatever concerned Literature and
tlie Arts — has been called suddenly away. He died on his road from Berlin,
near Torgau, on the 24th of Juue.
GOETHE. 207
traces of its good and bad effects are still to be discerned.
The fortune of Berlichingen with the Iron Hand, though less
sudden, was by no means less exalted. In his own country,
Gotz, though he now stands solitary and childless, became the
parent of an innumerable progeny of chivalry plays, feudal
delineations, and poetico-antiquarian performances ; which,
though long ago deceased, made noise enough in their day and
generation: and with ourselves, his influence has been per-
haps still more remarkable. Sir Walter Scott's first literary
enterprise was a translation of Giitz von Berlichingen ; and
if genius could be communicated like instruction, we might
call this work of Goethe's the prime cause of Mai'mion
and the Lady of the Lake, with all that has followed from
the same creative hand. Truly, a gi-ain of seed that has
lighted on the right soil ! For if not firmer and fairer, it
has grown to be taller and broader than any other tree ; and
all the nations of the earth are still yearly gathering of its
fruit.
"But, overlooking these spiritual genealogies, which bring
little certainty and little profit, it may be sufficient to observe
of Berlichingen and Werter, that they stand prominent among
the causes, or, at the very least, among the signals of a great
change in modern literature. The former directed men's- atten-
tion with a new force to the picturesque effects of the Past ;
and the latter, for the first time, attempted the more accurate
delineation of a class of feelings deeply important to modern
minds, but for which our elder poetry offered no exponent, and
perhaps could offer none, because the}^ are feelings that arise
from Passion incapable of being converted into Action, and
belong chiefly to an age as indolent, cultivated and unbeliev
ing as our own. This, notwithstanding the dash of falsehood
which may exist in Werter itself, and the boundless delirium
of extravagance which it called forth in others, is a high praise
wliich cannot justly be denied it. The English reader ought
also to understand that our current version of Werter is muti-
lated and inaccurate : it comes to us through the all-subduing
medium of the French, shorn of its caustic strength, with its
melancholy rendered maudlin, its hero reduced from the stately
208 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
gloom of a broken-liearted poet to the tearful wrangling of a
dyspeptic tailor."
To the same dark wayward mood, which, in Werter, pours
itself forth in bitter wailings over human life ; and, in
Berlichingen, appears as a fond and sad looking back into the
Past, belong various other productions of Goethe's ; for ex-
ample, the Mitschuldigen, and the first idea of Faiist, which,
however, was not realized in actual composition till a calmer
period of his history. Of this early harsh and crude yet fervid
and genial period, Werter may stand here as the representa-
tive ; and, viewed in its external and internal relation, will
help to illustrate both the writer and the public he was writing
for.
At the present day, it would be difficult for us, satisfied, nay
sated to nausea, as we have been with the doctrines of Sen-
timentality, to estimate the boundless interest which Werter
must have excited when first given to the world. It was then
new in all senses ; it was wonderful, yet wished for, both in
its own country and in every other. The Literature of Ger-
many had as yet but partially awakened from its long torpor :
deep learning, deep reflection, have at no time been wanting
there ; but the creative spirit had for above a century been
almost extinct. Of late, however, the Eamlers, Eabeners,
Gellerts, had attained to no inconsiderable polish of style ;
Klopstock's Messias had called forth the admiration, and per-
haps still more the pride, of the country, as a piece of art ; a
high enthusiasm was abroad ; Lessing had roused the minds
of men to a deeper and truer interest in Literature, had even
decidedly begun to introduce a heartier, warmer and more ex-
pressive style. The Germans were on the alert ; in expectation,
or at least in full readiness for some far bolder impulse ; wait-
ing for the Poet that might speak to them from the heart to
the heart. It was in Goethe that such a Poet was to be given
them.
Nay the Literature of other countries, placid, self-satisfied
as tliey might seem, was in an equally expectant condition.
Everywhere, as in German}', there was polish and languor,
GOETHE. 209
external glitter and internal vacuity ; it was not fire, but a pic-
ture of fire, at which no soul could be warmed. Literature
had sunk from its former vocation : it no longer held the
mirror up to Nature ; no longer reflected, in many-colored
expressive symbols, the actual passions, the hopes, sorrows,
joys of living men ; but dwelt in a remote conventional world,
in Castles of Otranto, in Eplgoniads and Leonidases, among
clear, metallic heroes, and white, high, stainless beauties,
in whom the drapery and elocution were nowise the least
important qualities. Men thought it right that the heart
should swell into magnanimity with Caractacus and Cato, and
melt into sorrow with many an Eliza and Adelaide ; but the
heart was in no haste either to swell or to melt. Some pulses
of heroical sentiment, a few w?inatural tears might, with con-
scientious readers, be actually squeezed forth on such occa-
sions : but they came only from the surface of the mind ; nay
had the conscientious man considered of the matter, he would
have found that they ought not to have come at all. Our
only English poet of the period was Goldsmith ; a pure, clear,
genuine spirit, had he been of depth or strength sufficient : his
Vicar of Wakefield remains the best of all modern Idyls ; but
it is and was notliing more. And consider our leading writers ;
consider the poetry of Gray, and the prose of Johnson. The
first a laborious mosaic, through the hard stiff lineaments of
which little life or true grace could be expected to look : real
feeling, and all freedom of expressing it, are sacrificed to pomp,
to cold splendor ; for vigor we have a certain mouthing vehe-
mence, too elegant indeed to be tumid, yet essentially foreign
to the heart, and seen to extend no deeper than the mere voice
and gestures. Were it not for his Letters, which are full of
warm exuberant power, we might almost doubt whether Gray
was a man of genius ; nay was a living man at all, and not
rather some thousand-times more cunningly devised poetical
turning-loom, than that of Swift's Philosophers in Laputa.
Johnson's prose is true, indeed, and sound, and full of practical
sense : few men have seen more clearly into the motives, the
interests, the whole walk and conversation of the living busy
world as it lay before him ; but farther than this busy, and,
VOI,. XTIT, 14
210 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
to most of us, rather prosaic world, he seldom looked : his
instruction is for men of business, and in regard to matters of
business alone. Prudence is the highest Virtue he can incul-
cate ; and for that finer portion of our nature, that portion of
it which belongs essentially to Literature strictly so called,
where our highest feelings, our best joys aud keenest sorrows,
our Doubt, our Love, our Religion reside, he has no word to
utter ; no remedy, no counsel to give us in our straits ; or at
most, if, like poor Boswell, the patient is importunate, will
answer : "My dear Sir, endeavor to clear your mind of Cant."
The turn which Philosophical speculation had taken in the
preceding age corresponded with this tendency, and enhanced
its narcotic influences ; or was, indeed, properly speaking, the.
root they had sprung from. Locke, himself a clear, humble-
minded, patient, reverent, nay religious man, had paved tho
way for banishing religion from the world. Mind, by being
modelled in men's imaginations into a Shape, a Visibility ; and
reasoned of as if it had been some composite, divisible and
reunitable substance, some finer chemical salt, or curious piece
of logical joinery, — began to lose its immaterial, mysterious,
divine though invisible character : it was tacitly figured as
something that might, were our organs fine enough, be seen.
Yet who had ever seen it ? Who could ever see it ? Thus
by degrees it passed into a Doubt, a Relation, some faint Pos-
sibility ; and at last into a highly probable Nonentity. Fol-
lowing Locke's footsteps, the French had discovered that " as
the stomach secretes Chyle, so does the brain secrete Thought."
And what then was Religion, what was Poetry, what was all
high and heroic feeling ? Chiefly a delusion ; often a false
and pernicious one. Poetry, indeed, was still to be preserved ;
because Poetry was a useful thing : men needed amusement,
and loved to amuse themselves with Poetry : the playhouse
was a pretty lounge of an evening ; then there were so many
precepts, satirical, didactic, so much more impressive for the
rhyme ; to say nothing of your occasional verses, birthday
odes, epithalamiums, epicediums, by which " the dream of ex-
istence may be so considerably sweetened and embellished."
Nay does not Poetry, acting on, the imaginations of men,
GOETHE. 211
excite theiii to daring purposes ; sometimes, as in the case of
Tyrtseus, to fight better ; in which wise may it not rank as a
useful stimulant to man, along with Opium and Scotch Whiskey,
the manufacture of which is allowed by law ? In Heaven's
name, then, let Poetry be preserved.
With Religion, however, it fared somev^-hat worse. In the
eyes of Voltaire and his disciples. Religion was a superfluity,
indeed a nuisance. Here, it is true, his followers have since
found that he went too far ; that Religion, being a great sanc-
tion to civil morality, is of use for keeping society in order,
at Least the lower classes, who have not the feeling of Honor
in due force ; and therefore, as a considerable help to the
Constable and Hangman, ought decidedly to be kept up. But
such toleration is the fruit only of later days. In those times,
there was no question but how to get rid of it, root and branch,
the sooner the better. A gleam of zeal, nay we will call it,
howevev basely alloyed, a glow of real enthusiasm and love of
truth, may have animated the minds of these men, as they
looked abroad on the pestilent jungle of Sviperstition, and
hoped to clear the earth of it forever. This little glow, so
alloyed, so contaminated with pride and other poor or bad ad-
mixtures, was the last which thinking men were to experience
in Europe for a time. So is it always in regard to Religious
Belief, how degraded and defaced soever : the delight of the
Destroyer and Denier is no pure delight, and must soon pass
away. With bold, with skilful hand, Voltaire set his torch to
the jungle : it blazed aloft to heaven ; and the flame exhila-
rated and comforted the incendiaries ; but unhappily, such com-
fort could not continue. Ere long this flame, with its cheerful
light and heat, was gone : the jungle, it is true, had been con-
sumed: but, with its entanglements, its shelter and its spots
of verdure also ; and the black, chill, ashy swamp, left in its
stead, seemed for a time a greater evil than the other.
In such a state of painful obstruction, extending itself
everywhere over Europe, and already master of Germany, lay
the general mind, when Goethe first appeared in Literature.
Whatever belonged to the finer nature of man had withered
under the Harmattan breath of Doubt, or passed away in the
212 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
conflagration of open Infidelity ; and now, where the Tree of
Life once bloomed and brought fruit of goodliest savor, there
was only barrenness and desolation. To such as could find
sufficient interest in the day-labor and day-wages of earthly
existence ; in the resources of the five bodily Senses, and of
Vanity, the only mental sense which yet flourished, which
flourished indeed with gigantic vigor, matters were still not
so bad. Such men helped themselves forward, as they will
generally do ; and found the world, if not an altogether proper
sphere (for every man, disguise it as he may, has a soul in
Jiim), at least a tolerable enough place : where, by one item
and another, some comfort, or show of comfort, might from
time to time be got up, and these few years, especially since
they were so few, be spent without much murmuring. But to
men afflicted Avith the " malady of Thought," some devoutness
of temper was an inevitable heritage : to such the noisy forum
of the world could appear but an empty, altogether insufiicient
concern; and the whole scene of life had become hopeless
enough. Unhappily, such feelings are yet by no means so
infrequent with ourselves, that we need stop here to depict
them. That state of Unbelief from which the Germans do
seem to be in some measure delivered, still presses with incu-
bus force on the greater part of Europe ; and nation after
nation, each in its own way, feels that the first of all moral
problems is how to cast it off, or how to rise above it. Gov-
ernments naturally attempt the first expedient ; Philosophers,
in general, the second.
The poet, says Schiller, is a citizen not only of his country,
but of his time. Whatever occupies and interests men in gen-
eral, will interest him still more. That nameless Unrest, the
blind struggle of a soul in bondage, that high, sad, longing Dis-
content, which was agitating every bosom, had driven Goethe
almost to despair. All felt it ; he alone could give it voice.
And here lies the secret of his popularity ; in his deep, sus-
ceptive heart, he felt a thousand times more keenly what every
one was feeling; with the creative gift whio.b belonged to him
as a poet, he bodied it forth into visible shape, gave it a local
habitation and a name ; and so made himself the spokesmau
GOETHE. 213
of his generation. Werter is but the cry of that dim, rooted
pain, under which all thoughtful men of a certain age were
languishing: it paints the misery, it passionately utters the
complaint ; and heart and voice, all over Europe, loudly and
at once respond to it. True, it prescribes no remedy ; for that
was a far d liferent, far harder enterprise, to which other years
and a higher culture were required ; but even this utterance
of the pain, even this little, for the present, is ardently grasped
at, and with eager sympathy appropriated in every bosom. If
Byron's life-weariness, his moody melancholy, and mad storm-
ful indignation, borne on the tones of a wild and quite artless
melody, could pierce so deep into many a British heart, now
that the whole matter is no longer new, — is indeed old and
trite, — we may judge with what vehement acceptance this Wer-
ter must have been welcomed, coming as it did like a voice from
unknown regions ; the first thrilling peal of that impassioned
dirge, which, in country after country, men's ears have listened
to, till they were deaf to all else. For Werter, infusing itself
into the core . and whole spirit of Literature, gave birth to a
race of Sentimentalists, who have raged and wailed in every
part of the world; till better light dawned on them, or at
worst, exhausted Nature laid herself to sleep, and it was dis-
covered that lamenting was an unproductive labor. These
funereal choristers, in Germany a loud, haggard, tumultuous,
as well as tearful class, were named the Kraftmdnner, or
Power-men ; but have all long since, like sick children, cried
themselves to rest.
Byron was our English Sentimentalist and Power-man ;
the strongest of his kind in Europe ; the wildest, the gloomi-
est, and it may be hoped the last. For what good is it to
"whine, put finger i' the eye, and sob," in such a case ? Still
more, to snarl and snap in malignant wise, '' like dog distract,
or monkey sick " ? Why should we quarrel with our exist-
ence, here as it lies before us, our field and inheritance, to
make or to mar, for better or for worse ; in which, too, so
many noblest men have, ever from the beginning, warring
with the very evils we war with, both made and been what
will be venerated to all time ?
214 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
" What shapest thou here at the World ? 'T is shapen long ago ;
The Maker shaped it, he thought it best even so.
Thy lot is appointed, go follow its hest ;
Thy journey 's begun, thou must move and not rest;
For sorrow and cure cannot alter thy case.
And running, not raging, will win thee the race."
Meanwhile, of the philosophy which reigns in Werter, and
which it has been our lot to hear so often repeated elsewhere,
we may here produce a short specimen. The following pas-
sage will serve our turn ; and be, if we mistake not, new to
the mere English reader : —
"That the life of "man is but a dream, has come into many
a head ; and with me, too, some feeling of that sort is ever
at work. When I look upon the limits within which man's
powers of action and inquiry are hemmed in ; when I see how
all effort issues simply in procuring supply for wants, which
again have no object but continuing this poor existence of
ours; and then, that all satisfaction on certain points of in-
quiry is but a dreaming resignation, while you paint, with
many-colored figures and gay prospects, the walls you sit
imprisoned by, — all this, Wilhelm, makes me dumb. I return
to my own heart, and find there such a world ! Yet a world,
too, more in forecast and dim desire, than in vision and living
power. And then all swims before my mind's eye ; and so I
smile, and again go dreaming on as others do.
" That children know not what they want, all conscientious
tutors and edncation-philosophers have long been agreed : but
that full-grown men, as well as children, stagger to and fro
along this earth ; like these, not knowing whence they come
or whither they go ; aiming, just as little, after true objects ;
governed jnst as well by biscuit, oakes and birch-rods : this is
what no one likes to believe ; and yet it seems to me, the fact
is lying under our very nose.
" I will confess to tliee, for I know what thou wouldst say
to me on this point, that those are the happiest, who, like
children, live from one day to the other, carrying their dolls
about with them, to dress and undress ; gliding also, with the
highest respect, before the drawer where mamma has locked
GOETHE. 216
the gingerbread; atid, wlien they do get the wished-ior mor-
sel, devouring it with puffed-out cheeks, and crying. More ! —
these are the fortunate of the earth. Well is it likewise with
those who can label their rag-gathering employments, or per-
haps their passions, with pompous titles, and represent them
to mankind as gigantic undertakings for its welfare and salva-
tion. Happy the man who can live in such wise ! But he
who, in his humility, observes where all this issues, who sees
how featly any small thriving citizen can trim his patch of
garden into a Paradise, and with what unbroken heart even
the unhappy crawls along under his burden, and all are alike
ardent to see the light of this sun but one minute longer ; —
yes, he is silent, and he too forms his world out of himself,
and he too is happy because he is a man. And then, hemmed
in as he is, he ever keeps in his heart the sweet feeling
of freedom, and that this dungeon — can be left when he
likes." 1
What Goethe's own temper and habit of thought must have
been, while the materials of such a work were forming them-
selves within his heart, might be in some degree conjectured,
and he has himself informed us. We quote the following
'passage from his Dichtuiig und Wahrheit. The writing of Wer-
ter, it would seem, indicating so gloomy, almost desperate a
state of mind in the author, was at the same time a symptom,
indeed a caiise, of his now having got delivered from such
melancholy. Far from recommending suicide to others, as
Werter has often been accused of doing, it was the first proof
that Goethe himself had abandoned these " hypochondriacal
crotchets : " the imaginary " Sorrows " had helped to free him
from many real ones.
"Such weariness of life," he says, "has its physical and its
spiritual causes ; those we shall leave to the Doctoi', these to
the Moralist, for investigation ; and in this so trite matter,
touch only on the main point, where that phenomenon ex-
presses itself most distinctly. All pleasure in life is founded
on the regular return of external things. The alternations of
day and night, of the seasons, of the blossoms and fruits, and
1 Leiden dcs jungen Wtrther. Am 22 May.
216 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
wliatever else meets us from epoch to epoch with the offer and
command of enjoyment, — these are the essential springs of
earthly existence. The more open we are to sucli enjoyments,
the happier we feel ourselves ; but, should the vicissitude of
these appearances come and go without our taking interest in
it ; should such benignant invitations address themselves to
us in vain, then follows the greatest misery, the heaviest mal-
ady ; one grows to view life as a sickening burden. We have
heard of the Englishman who hanged himself, to be no more
troubled with daily putting off and on his clothes. I knew an
honest gardener, the overseer of some extensive pleasure-
grounds, who once splenetically exclaimed : shall I see these
clouds forever passing, then, from east to west ? It is told of
one of our most distinguished men,^ that he viewed with dis-
satisfaction the spring again growing green, and wished that,
by way of change, it would for once be red. These are spe-
cially the symptoms of life-weariness, which not seldom issues
in suicide, and, at this time, among men of meditative, secluded
character, was more frequent than might be supposed.
"I^othing, however, will sooner induce this feeling of sati-
ety than the return of love. The first love, it is said justly,
is the only one ; for in the second, and by the second, the
highest significance of love is in fact lost. That idea of
infinitude, of everlasting endurance, which supports and bears
it aloft, is destroyed : it seems transient, like all that re-
turns. . . .
" Farther, a young man soon comes to find, if not in him-
self, at least in others, that moral epochs have their course,
as well as the seasons. The favor of the great, the protec-
tion of the powerful, the help of the active, the good-will of
the many, the love of the few, all fluctuates up and down;
so that we cannot hold it fast, any more than we can hold
sun, moon and stars. And yet these things are not mere
natural events : such blessings flee away from us, by our own
blame or that of others, by accident or destiny ; but they do
flee away, they fluctuate, and we are never sure of them.
1 Lessing, we believe : but perhaps it was less the greenness of spring
tliat vexed him than Jacobi's too lyrical admiration of it. — Ed.
GOETHE. 217
'' But what most pains the young man of sensibility is, the
incessant return of our faults : for how long is it before we
learn, that, in cultivating our virtues, we nourish our faults
along with them ! The former rest on the latter, as on their
roots ; and these ramify themselves in secret as strongly and
as wide, as those others in the Open light. Now, as we for
most part practise our virtues with forethought and will, but
by our faults are overtaken unexpectedly, the former seldom
give us much joy, the latter are continually giving us sorrow
and distress. Indeed, here lies the subtlest difficulty in Self-
knowledge, the difficulty which almost renders it impossible.
But figure, in addition to all this, the heat of youthful blood,
an imagination easily fascinated and paralyzed by individual
objects ; farther, the wavering commotions of the day ; and
yoLi will find that an impatient striving to free one's self from
such a pressure was no unnatural state.
" However, these gloomy contemplations, which, if a man
yield to them, will lead him to boundless lengths, could not
have so decidedly developed themselves in our young German
minds, had not some outward cause excited and forwarded us
in this sorrowful employment. Such a cause existed for us
in the Literature, especially the Poetical Literature, of Eng-
land, the great qualities of which are accompanied by a cer-
tain earnest melancholy, which it imparts to every one that
occupies himself with it.
" In such an element, with such an environment of circum-
stances, with studies and tastes of this sort ; harassed by un-
satisfied desires, externally nowhere called forth to important
action ; with the sole prospect of dragging on a languid,
spiritless, mere civic life, — we had recurred, in our discon-
solate pride, to the thought that life, when it no longer suited
one, might be cast aside at pleasure ; and had helped our-
selves hereby, stintedly enough, over the crosses and tediums
of the time. These sentiments were so universal, that Werter,
on this very account, could produce the greatest effect ; strik-
ing in everywhere with the dominant humor, and representing
the interior of a sickly youthful heart, in a visible and palpable
218 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
shape. How accurately the English have known this sorrow,
migfht be seen from these few significant lines, written before
the appearance of Werter : —
' To griefs congenial prone,
More wounds than nature gave he knew,
While misery's form his fancy drew
In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own.' ^
" Self-murder is an occurrence in men's affairs which, how
much soever it may have already been discussed and com-
mented upon, excites an interest in every mortal; and, at
every new era, must be discussed again. Montesquieu con-
fers on his heroes and great men the right of putting them-
selves to death when they see good ; observing, that it must
stand at the will of every one to conclude the Fifth Act of
his Tragedy whenever he thinks best. Here, however, our
business lies not with persons who, in activity, have led an
important life, who have spent their days for some mighty
empire, or for the cause of freedom ; and whom one may for-
bear to censure, when, seeing the high ideal purpose which
had inspired them vanish from the earth, they meditate pur-
suing it to that other undiscovered country. Our business
here is Avith persons to whom, properly from want of activity,
and in the peacefulest condition imaginable, life has neverthe-
less, by their exorbitant requisitions on themselves, become a
burden. As I myself was in this predicament, and know best
what pain I suffered in it, what efforts it cost me to escape
from it, I shall not hide the speculations I, from time to time,
considerately prosecuted, as to the various modes of death one
had to choose from.
"It is something so unnatural for a man to break loose
from himself, not only to hurt, but to annihilate himself, that
he for the most part catches at means of a mechanical sort for
putting his purpose in execution. When Ajax falls on his
sword, it is the weight of his body that performs this service
for him. When the warrior adjures his armor-bearer to slay
him, rather than that he come into the hands of the enemy, this
is likewise an external force which he secures for himself ; only
* So in the original
GOETHE. 219
a moral instead of a physical one. Women seek in the water
a cooling for their desperation ; and the highly mechanical
means of pistol-shooting insures a quick act with the smallest
effort. Hanging is a death one mentions unwillingly, because
it is an ignoble one. In England it may happen more readily
than elsewhere, because from youth upwards you there see
that punishment frequent without being specially ignomini-
ous. By poison, by opening of veins, men aim but at parting
slowly from life ; and the most refined, the speediest, the
most painless death, by means of an asp, was worthy of a
Queen, who had spent her life in pomp and luxurious plea-
sure. All these, however, are extei"nal helps ; are enemies,
with which a man, that he may fight against himself, makes
league.
"When I considered these various methods, and farther,
looked abroad over history, I could find among all suicides
no one that had gone about this deed with such greatness and
freedom of spirit as the Emperor Otho. This man, beaten
indeed as a general, yet nowise reduced to extremities, deter-
mines, for the good of the Empire, which already in some
measure belonged to him, and for the saving of so many
thousands, to leave the world. With his friends he passes
a gay festive night, and next morning it is found that with
his own hand he has plunged a sharp dagger into his heart.
This sole act seemed to me worthy of imitation ; and I con-
vinced myself that whoever could not proceed herein as Otho
had done, was not entitled to resolve on renouncing life. By
this conviction, I saved myself from the purpose, or indeed
more properly speaking, from the whim, of suicide, which in
those fair peaceful times had insinuated itself into the mind
of indolent youth. Among a considerable collection of arms,
I possessed a costly well-ground dagger. This I laid down
nightly beside my bed ; and before extinguishing the light,
I tried whether I could succeed in sending the sharp point
an inch or two deep into my breast. But as I truly never
could succeed, I at last took to laughing at myself; threw
away all these hypochondriacal crotchets, and determined to
live. To do this with cheerfulness, however, I required to
220 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
have some poetical task given me, wherein all that I had felt,
thought or dreamed on this weighty business might be spoken
forth. With such view, I endeavored to collect the elements
which for a year or two had been floating about in me; I
represented to myself the circumstances which had most
oppressed and aflQicted me . but nothing of all this would
take form ; there was wanting an incident, a fable, in which
I might embody it.
" All at once I hear tidings of Jerusalem's death ; and
directly following the general rumor, came the most precise
and circumstantial description of the business ; and in this
instant the plan of Werter was invented: the whole shot
together from all sides, and became a solid mass ; as the water
in the vessel, which already stood on the point of freezing,
is by the slightest motion changed at once into firm ice." ^
A wide and everyway most important interval divides
Werter, Avith its sceptical philosophy and " hypochondriacal
crotchets," from Goethe's next Novel, Wilhelm Meister's Ap-
prenticeship, published some twenty years afterwards. This
work belongs, in all senses, to the second and sounder period
of Goethe's life, and may indeed serve as the fullest, if per-
haps not the purest, impress of it; being written with due
forethought, at various times, during a period of no less than
ten years. Considered as a piece of Art, there were much to
be said on Meister ; all which, however, lies beyond our pres-
ent purpose. We are here looking at the work chiefly as a
document for the writer's history ; and in this point of view
it certainly seems, as contrasted with its more popular pre-
cursor, to deserve our best attention : for tlie problem which
had been stated in Werter, with despair of its solution, is here
solved. The lofty enthusiasm, which, wandering wildly over
the universe, found no resting place, has here reached its
appointed home : and lives in harmony with what long ap-
peared to threaten it with annihilation. Anarchy has now
become Peace ; the once gloomy and perturbed spirit is now
serene, cheerfully vigorous, and rich in good fruits. Neither,
which is most important of all, has this Peace been attained
1 Dichtungund Wahrheit, b. iii. s. 200-213.
GOETHE. 221
by a surrender to Necessity, or any compact with Delusion ;
a seeming blessing, such as years and dispiritment will of
themselves bring to most men, and which is indeed no bless-
ing, since even continued battle is better than destruction or
captivity; and peace of this sort is like that of Galgacus's
Komans, who *' called it peace when they had made a desert."
Here the ardent high-aspiring youth has grown into the calm-
est man, yet with increase and not loss of ardor, and with
aspirations higher as well as clearer. For he has conquered
his unbelief ; the Ideal has been built on the Actual ; no
longer floats vaguely in darkness and regions of dreams, but
rests in light, on the firm ground of human interest and busi-
ness, as in its true scene, on its true basis.
It is wonderful to see with what softness the scepticism of
Jarno, the commercial spirit of Werner, the reposing polished
manhood of Lothario and the Uncle, the unearthly enthusiasm
of the Harper, the gay animal vivacity of Philina, the mystic,
ethereal, almost spiritual nature of Mignon, are blended to-
gether in this work; how justice is done to each, how each
lives freely in his proper element, in his proper form ; and
how, as Wilhelm himself, the mild-hearted, all-hoping, all-
believing AYilhelm, struggles forward towards his world of
Art through these curiously complected influences, all this
unites itself into a multifarious, yet so harmonious Whole ;
as into a clear poetic mirror, where man's life and business
in this age, his passions and purposes, the highest equally
with the lowest, are imaged back to us in beautiful signifi-
cance. Poetry and Prose are no longer at variance ; for the
poet's eyes are opened : he sees the changes of many-colored
existence, and sees the loveliness and deep purport which lies
hidden under the very meanest of them ; hidden to the vulgar
sight, but clear to the poet's ; because the '^ open secret " is
no longer a secret to him, and he knows that the Universe
is full of goodness ; that whatever has being has beauty.
Apart from its literary merits or demerits, such is the tem-
per of mind we trace in Goethe's Meister, and, more or less
expressively exhibited, in all his later Avorks. We reckon
it a rare phenomenon this temper ; and worthy, in our times,
222 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
if it do exist, of best study from all inquiring men. How
has such a temper been attained in this so lofty and impetu-
ous mind, once too, dark, desolate and full of doubt, more
than any other ? How may we, each of us in his several
sphere, attain it, or strengthen it, for ourselves ? These are
questions, this last is a question, in which no one is uncon-
cerned.
To answer these questions, to begin the answer of them,
would lead us very far beyond our present limits. It is not,
as we believe, without long, sedulous study, without learning
much and unlearning much, that, for any man, the answer
of such questions is even to be hoped. Meanwhile, as regards
Goethe, there is one feature of the business which, to us,
throws considerable light on his moral persuasions, and will
not, in investigating the secret of them, be overlooked. We
allude to the spirit in which he cultivates his Art ; the noble,
disinterested, almost religious love with which he looks on
Art in general, and strives towards it as towards the sure,
highest, nay only good. We extract one passage from Wtl-
helm Meister : it may pass for a piece of fine declamation, but
not in that light do we offer it here. Strange, unaccountable
as the thing may seem, we have actually evidence before our
mind that Goethe believes in such doctrines, nay has in some
sort lived and endeavored to direct his conduct by them.
" ' Look at men,' continues Wilhelm, ' how they struggle
after happiness and satisfaction ! Their wishes, their toil,
their gold, are ever hunting restlessly ; and after what ?
After that which the Poet has received from nature ; the
right enjoyment of the world ; the feeling of himself in
others ; the harmonious conjunction of many things that will
seldom go together.
" ' What is it that keeps men in continual discontent and
agitation ? It is that they cannot make realities correspond
with their conceptions, that enjoyment steals away from among
their hands, that the wished-for comes too late, and nothing
reached and acquired produces on the heart the effect which
their longing for it at a distance led them to anticipate. Now
fate has exalted the Poet above all this, as if he were a god.
GOETHE. 223
He views the conflicting tumult of the passions ; sees families
and kingdoms raging in aimless commotion; sees those per-
plexed enigmas of misunderstanding, which often a single
syllable would explain, occasioning convulsions unutterably
baleful. He has a fellow-feeling of bhe mournful and the
joyful in the fate of all mortals. When the man of the
world is devoting his days to wasting melancholy for some
deep disappointment ; or, in the ebullience of joy, is going
out to meet his happy destiny, the lightly moved and all-
conceiving spirit of the Poet steps forth, like the sun from
night to day, and with soft transition tunes his harp to joy
or woe. From his heart, its native soil, springs the fair flower
of Wisdom ; and if others while waking dream, and are pained
with fantastic delusions from their every sense, he passes the
dream of life like one awake, and the strangest event is to
him nothing, save a part of the past and of the future. And
thus the Poet is a teacher, a prophet, a friend of gods and
men. How ! Thou wouldst have him descend from his height
to some paltry occupation ? He who is fashioned, like a bird,
to hover round the world, to nestle on the lofty summits, to
feed on flowers and fruits, exchanging gayly one bough for
another, he ought also to work at the plough like an ox ; like
a dog to train himself to the harness and draught ; ' or perhaps,
tied up in a chain, to guard a farm-yard b}" his barking ? '
" Werner, it may well be supposed, had listened with the
greatest surprise. 'All true,' he rejoined, 'if men were but
made like birds ; and, though they neither span nor weaved,
could spend peaceful days in perpetual enjoyment : if, at the
approach of winter, they could as easily betake themselves to
distant regions ; could retire before scarcity, and fortify them-
selves against frost.'
" * Poets have lived so,' exclaimed Wilhelm, ' in times when
true nobleness was better reverenced ; and so should they ever
live. Sufficiently provided for within, they had need of little
from without ; the gift of imparting lofty emotions, and glo-
rious images to men, in melodies and words that charmed the
ear, and fixed themselves inseparably on whatever they might
touch, of old enraptured the world, and served the gifted as
224 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
a rich inheritance. At the courts of kings, at the tables of
the great, under the windows of the fair, the sound of them
■was heard, while the ear and the soul were shut for all be-
side; and men felt, as we do when delight comes over us,
and we pause with rapture if, among the dingles we are
crossing, the voice of the nightingale starts out, touching
and strong. They found a home in every habitation of the
world, and the lowliness of their condition but exalted them
the more. The hero listened to their songs, and the Con-
queror of the Earth did reverence to a Poet ; for he felt that,
without poets, his own wild and vast existence would pass
away like a whirlwind, and be forgotten forever. The lover
wished that he could feel his longings and his joys so variedly
and so harmoniously as the Poet's inspired lips had skill to
show them fortlj ; and even the rich man could not of him-
self discern such costliness in his idol grandeurs, as when
they were presented to him shining in the splendor of the
Poet's spirit, sensible to all worth, and ennobling all. Nay,
if thou wilt have it, who but the Poet was it that first formed
Gods for us ; that exalted us to them, and brought them down
to us ? '" 1
For a man of Goethe's talent to write many such pieces of
rhetoric, setting forth the dignity of poets, and their innate
independence on external circumstances, could be no very
hard task ; accordingly, we find such sentiments again and
again expressed, sometimes with still more gracefulness, still
clearer emphasis, in his various writings. But to adopt these
sentiments into his sober practical persuasion ; in any measure
to feel and believe that such was still, and must always be,
the high vocation of the poet ; on this ground of universal
humanity, of ancient and now almost forgotten nobleness, to
take his stand, even in these trivial, jeering, withered, un-
believing days ; and through all their complex, dispiriting,
mean, yet tumultuous influences, to "make his light shine
before men," that it might beautify even our " rag-gathering
age" with some beams of that mild, divine splendor, which
had long left us, the very possibility of which was denied:
^ WiUielm Meister's Apprenticeship, book ii. chap. 2.
GOETHE. 225
heartily and in earnest to meditate all this, was no common
proceeding ; to bring it into practice, especially in such a life
as his has been, was among the highest and hardest enter-
prises which any man whatever could engage in. We reckon
this a greater novelty, than all the novelties which as a mere
writer he ever put forth, whether for praise or censure. We
have taken it upon us to say that if such is, in any sense, the
state of the case with regard to Goethe, he deserves not mere
approval as a pleasing poet and sweet singer ; but deep, grate-
ful study, observance, imitation, as a Moralist and Philosopher.
If there be any probability that such is the state of the case, we
cannot but reckon it a matter well worthy of being inquired
into. And it is for this only that we are here pleading and
arguing.
On the literary merit and meaning of Wilhelm Meister we
have already said that we must not enter at present. The
book has been translated into English : it underwent the usual
judgment from our Reviews and Magazines ; was to some a
stone of stumbling, to others foolishness, to most an object
of wonder. On the whole, it passed smoothly through the
critical Assaying-house ; for the Assayers have Christian dis-
positions, and very little time ; so Meister was ranked, with-
out umbrage, among the legal coin of the Minerva Press ; and
allowed to circulate as copper currency among the rest. That
in so quick a process, a German Friedrich d^or might not slip
through unnoticed among new and equally brilliant British
brass Farthings, there is no warranting. For our critics can
now criticise improwptu, which, though far the readiest, is no-
wise the surest plan. Meister is the mature product of the
first genius of our times ; and must, one would think, be
different, in various respects, from the immature products
of geniuses who are far from the first, and whose works
spring from the brain in as many weeks as Goethe's cost
him years.
Nevertheless, we quarrel with no man's verdict ; for Time,
which tries all things, will try this also, and bring to light the
truth, both as regards criticism and thing criticised ; or sink
both into final darkness, which likewise will be the truth as
VOL. XIII. 15
226 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
regards them. But there is one censure which we must ad-
vert to for a moment, so singular does it seem to us. Meister,
it appears, is a "vulgar" work; no "gentleman," we hear in
certain circles, could have written it ; few real gentlemen, it
is insinuated, can like to read it; no real lady, unless pos-
sessed of considerable courage, should profess having read
it at all. Of Goethe's " gentility " we shall leave all men to
speak that have any, even the faintest knowledge of him ; and
with regard to the gentility of his readers, state only the fol-
lowing fact. Most of us have heard of the late Queen of
Prussia, and know whether or not she was genteel enough,
and of real ladyhood : nay, if we must prove everything, her
character can be read in the Life of Napoleon, by Sir Walter
Scott, who passes for a judge of those matters. And yet
this is what we find written in the Kimst und Alterthum for
1824:1 —
" Books too have their past happiness, which no chance can
take away : —
' Wer nie sein Brod mit Thr linen ass,
Wer nichl die kummervdlen Ndchte
Avf seinem Bette weinend sass,
Der kennt each nicht, ihr hinimliscken MUchie.'*
" These heart-broken lines a highly noble-minded, venerated
Queen repeated in the crudest exile, when cast forth to bound-
less misery. She made herself familiar with the Book in
which these words, with many other painful experiences, are
communicated, and drew from it a melancholy consolation.
This influence, stretching of itself into boundless time, what
is there that can obliterate ? "
Here are strange diversities of taste ; " national discrepan-
cies " enough, had we time to investigate them ! Nevertheless,
wishing each party to retain his own special persuasions, so
1 Band v. s. 8.
' Who never ate his bread in sorrow,
Who never spent the darl<soine hours
Weeping and watching for the morrow,
He knows you not, je unseen Powers.
Wilhelm Meister, book ii. chap. 13.
GOETHE. 227
far as they are honest, and adapted to his intellectual posi-
tion, national or individual, we cannot but believe that there
is an inward and essential Truth in Art ; a Truth far deeper
than the dictates of mere Mode, and which, could we pierce
through these dictates, would be true for all nations and all
men. To arrive at this Truth, distant from every one at first,
approachable by most, attainable by some small number, is
the end and aim of all real study of Poetry. For such a pur-
pose, among others, the comparison of English with foreign
judgment, on works that will bear judging, forms no unprofit-
able help. Some day, we may translate Friedrich Schlegel's
Essay on Mekter, by way of contrast to our English animad-
versions on that subject. Schlegel's praise, whatever ours
might do, rises sufficiently high : neither does he seem, during
twenty years, to have repented of what he said ; for we
observe in the edition of his works, at present publishing, he
repeats the whole Character, and even appends to it, in a
separate sketch, some new assurances and elucidations.
It may deserve to be mentioned here that Meister, at its
first appearance in Germany, was received very much as it
has been in England. Goethe's known character, indeed, pre-
cluded indifference there ; but otherwise it was much the
same. The whole guild of criticism was thrown into perplex-
ity, into sorrow ; everywhere was dissatisfaction open or con-
cealed. Official duty impelling them to speak, some said one
thing, some another ; all felt in secret that they knew not
what to say. Till the appearance of Schlegel's Character, no
Avord, that we have seen, of the smallest chance to be decisive,
or indeed to last beyond the day, had been uttered regarding
it. Some regretted that the fire of Werter was so wonderfully
abated; whisj^erings there might be about "lowness," "heavi-
ness ; " some spake forth boldly in behalf of suffering " virtue."
Novalis was not among the speakers, but he censured the work
in secret, and this for a reason which to us will seem the
strangest; for its being, as we should say, a Benthamite work !
Many are the bitter aphorisms we find, among his Fragments,
directed against Meister for its prosaic, mechanical, economi-
cal, cold-hearted, altogether Utilitarian character. We Eng-
228 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
lish, again, call Goethe a mystic : so difficult is it to please all
parties ! But the good, deep, noble Novalis made the fairest
amends; for notwithstanding all this, Tieck tells us, if we
remember rightly, he continually returned to Meister, and
could not but peruse and reperuse it.
On a somewhat different ground proceeded quite another
sort of assault from one Pustkucher of Quedlinburg. Herr
Pustkucher felt afflicted, it would seem, at the want of Patri-
otism and Religion too manifest in Meister; and determined
to take what vengeance he could. By way of sequel to the
Apprenticeship, Goethe had announced his Wilhelm Meisters
Wanderjahre,'^ as in a state of preparation ; but the book still
lingered : whereupon, in the interim, forth comes this Pustku-
cher with a Pseudo- Wanderjahre of his own ; satirizing, accord-
ing to ability, the spirit and principles of the Apprenticeship.
We have seen an epigram on Pustkucher and his Wanderjahre,
attributed, with what justice we know not, to Goethe himself:
■whether it is his or not, it is written in his name ; and seems
to express accurately enough for such a purpose the relation
between the parties, — in language which we had rather not
translate : —
" Will derm von Quedlinburg aus
Ein neuer Wanderer trulien ?
Hat dorh die Walljisch seine Laus,
Muss auch die meine haien."
So much for Pustkucher, and the rest. The true Wander-
jahre has at length appeared : the first volume has been before
the world since 1821. This Fragment, for it still continues
such, is in our view one of the most perfect pieces of composi-
tion that Goethe has ever produced. We have heard something
of his being at present engaged in extending or completing it :
1 " Wanderjahre denotes the period which a German artisan is, by law or
usage, obliged to pass in travelling, to perfect himself in his craft, after the
conclusion of his Lehrjaltre (Api)renticesliip), and before his Mastership can
begin. In many guilds this custom is as old as their existence, and continues
still to he indispensable : it is said to have originated in tlie frequent journeys
of the German Emperors to It.Tly, and the consc([uent improvement observed
in such workmen among their menials as had attended them thither. Most
of the guilds are what is called fjesrhenklen, that is, presenting, having presents
to give to needy wandering brothers."
GOETHE. 229
what the whole may in his hands become, we are anxious to
see ; but the Wanderjahre, even in its actual state, can hardly
be called unfinished, as a piece of writing ; it coheres so beauti-
fully within itself ; and yet we see not whence the wondrous
landscape came, or whither it is stretching ; but it hangs before
us as a fairy region, hiding its borders on this side in light
sunny clouds, fading away on that into the infinite azure :
already, we might almost say, it gives us the notion of a cottv-
pleted fragment, or the state in which a fragment, not meant
for completion, might be left.
But apart from its environment, and considered merely in
itself, this Wanderjahre seems to us a most estimable work.
There is, in truth, a singular gracefulness in it ; a high, me-
lodious Wisdom ; so light is it, yet so earnest ; so calm, so gay,
yet so strong and deep : for the purest spirit of all Art rests
over it and breathes through it ; " mild Wisdom is wedded in
living union to Harmony divine ; " the Thought of the Sage is
melted, we might say, and incorporated in the liquid music of
the Poet. " It is called a Romance," observes the English
Translator ; " but it treats not of romance characters or sub-
jects ; it has less relation to Fielding's Tom Jones than to
Spenser's Faery Queen P We have not forgotten what is due
to Spenser ; yet, perhaps, beside his immortal allegory this
Wanderjahre may, in fact, not unfairly be named ; and with
this advantage, that it is an allegory not of the Seventeenth
century, but of the jSTineteenth ; a picture full of expressive-
ness, of what men are striving for, and ought to strive for, in
these actual days. " The scene," we are farther told, *' is not
laid on this firm earth ; but in a fair Utopia of Art and Science
and free Activity; the figures, light and aeriform, come un-
looked for, and melt away abruptly, like the pageants of Pros-
pero in his Enchanted Island." We venture to add, that, like
Prospero's Island, this too is drawn from the inward depths,
the purest sphere of poetic inspiration : ever, as we read it,
the images of old Italian Art flit before us ; the gay tints of
Titian ; the quaint grace of Domeniehino ; sometimes the clear
yet unfathomable depth of Rafaelle ; and whatever else we
have known or dreamed of in that rich old genial world.
230 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
As it is Goethe's moral sentiments, and culture as a man,
that we have made our chief object in this survey, we would
fain give some adequate specimen of the Watiderjahre, where,
as appears to us, these are to be traced in their last degree of
clearness and completeness. But to do this, to find a specimen
that should be adequate, were difficult, or rather impossible.
How shall we divide what is in itself one and indivisible ?
How shall the fraction of a complex picture give us any idea
of the so beautiful whole ? Nevertheless, we shall refer our
readers to the Tenth and Eleventh Chapters of the Wander-
jahre ; where, in poetic and symbolic style, they will find a
sketch of the nature, objects and present ground of Eeligious
Belief, which, if they have ever reflected duly on that matter,
will hardly fail to interest them. They will find these chap-
ters, if we mistake not, worthy of deep consideration ; for this
is the merit of Goethe : his maxims will bear study ; nay they
require it, and improve by it more and more. They come from
tlie depths of his mind, and are not in their place till they
have reached the depths of ours. The wisest man, we believe,
may see in them a reflex of his own wisdom : but to him who
is still learning, they become as seeds of knowledge ; they take
root in the mind, and ramify, as we meditate them, into a
whole garden of thought. The sketch we mentioned is far too
long for being extracted here : however, we give some scattered
portions of it, which the reader will accept with fair allowance.
As the wild suicidal Night-thoughts of Werter formed our first
extract, this by way of counterpart may be the last. We must
fancy Wilhelm in the " Pedagogic province," proceeding to-
wards the " Chief, or the Three," with intent to place his
son under their charge, in that wonderful region, " where he
was to see so many singularities."
" Wilhelm had already noticed that in the cut and color of
the young p-^ople's clothes a variety prevailed, which gave the
whole tiny population a peculiar aspect : he was about to ques-
tion his attendant on this point, when a still stranger observa-
tion forced itself upon him : all the children, how employed
soever, laid down their work, and turned, with singular yet
diverse gestures, towards the party riding past them j or rather,
GOETHE. 231
as it was easy to infer, towards the Overseer, who was in it.
The youngest laid their arms crosswise over their breasts, and
looked cheerfully up to the sky ; those of middle size held
their hands on their backs, and looked smiling on the ground;
the eldest stood with a frank and spirited air, — their arras
stretched down, they turned their heads to the right, and
formed themselves into a line ; whereas the others kept sepa-
rate, each where he chanced to be.
" The riders having stopped and dismounted here, as several
children, in their various modes, were standing forth to be
inspected by the Overseer, Wilhelm asked the meaning of
these gestures ; but Felix struck in and cried gayly : * What
posture am I to take, then ? ' ' Without doubt,' said the Over-
seer, ' the first posture : the arms over the breast, the face
earnest and cheerful towards the sky.' Felix obeyed, but soon
cried : ' This is not much to my taste ; I see nothing up there :
does it last long ? But yes ! ' exclaimed he joyfully, ' yonder
ai-e a pair of falcons flying from the west to the east : that is
a good sign too ? ' — 'As thou takest it, as thou behavest,'
said the other : ' Now mingle among them as they mingle.'
He gave a signal, and the children left their postures, and
again betook them to work or sport as before."
Wilhelm a second time "asks the meaning of these ges-
tures ; " but the Overseer is not at liberty to throw much
light on the matter ; mentions only that they are symbolical,
" nowise mere grimaces, but have a moral purport, which per-
haps the Chief or the Three may farther explain to him."
The children themselves, it would seem, only know it in part ;
" secrecy having many advantages ; for when you tell a man
at once and straightforward the purpose of any object, he
fancies there is nothing in it." By and by, however, having
left Felix by the way, and parted with the Overseer, Wilhelm
arrives at the abode of the Three, " who preside over sacred
things," and from whom farther satisfaction is to be looked
for.
" Wilhelm had now reached the gate of a wooded vale, sur-
rounded with high walls : on a certain sign, the little door
opened; and a man of earnest, imposing look received our
232 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Traveller. The latter found himself in a large beautifully
umbrageous space, decked with the richest foliage, shaded
with trees and bushes of all sorts; while stately walls and
magnificent buildings were discerned only in glimpses through
this thick natural boscage. A friendly reception from the
Three, who by and by appeared, at last turned into a general
conversation, the substance of which we now present in an
abbreviated shape.
" ' Since you intrust your son to us,' said they, ' it is fair that
we admit you to a closer view of our procedure. Of what is ex-
ternal you have seen much that does not bear its meaning on
its front. What part of this do you wish to have explained ? '
" ' Dignified yet singular gestures of salutation I have no-
ticed ; the import of which I would gladly learn : with you,
doubtless, the exterior has a reference to the interior, and in-
versely ; let me know what this reference is.'
" ' Well-formed healthy children,' replied the Three, ' bring
nmch into the world along with them ; Nature has given to
each whatever he requires for time and duration; to unfold
this is our duty ; often it unfolds itself better of its own ac-
cord. One thing there is, however, which no child brings into
the world with him ; and yet it is on this one thing that all
depends for making man in every point a man. If you can
discover it yourself, speak it out.' Wilhelm thought a little
while, then shook his head.
" The Three, after a suitable pause, exclaimed, ' Keverence ! '
Wilhelm seemed to hesitate. ' Eeverence ! ' cried they, a sec-
ond time. ' All want it, perhaps yourself.'
" ' Three kinds of gestures you have seen ; and we inculcate
a threefold reverence, which when commingled and formed
into one whole, attains its full force and effect. The first is
Eeverence for what is Above us. That posture, the arms
crossed over the breast, the look turned joyfully towards heav-
en ; that is what we have enjoined on young children ; requir-
ing from them thereby a testimony that there is a God above,
who images and reveals himself in parents, teachers, superiors.
Then comes the second ; Reverence for what is Under us.
Those hands folded over the back, and as it were tied together ;
GOETHE. 233
that down-turned smiling look, announce that -we are to regard
the earth with attention and cheerfulness : from the bounty of
the earth we are nourished ; the earth affords unutterable joys ;
but disproportionate sorrows she also brings us. Should one
of our children do himself external hurt, blamably or blame-
lessly; should others hurt him accidentally or purposely; should
dead involuntary matter do him hurt ; then let him well con-
sider it ; for such dangers will attend him all his days. But
from this posture we delay not to free our pupil, the instant
we become convinced that the instruction connected with it
has produced sufficient influence on him. Then, on the con-
trary, we bid him gather courage, and, turning to his comrades,
range himself along with them. Now, at last, he stands forth,
frank and bold ; not selfishly isolated ; only in combination
with his equals does he front the world. Farther we have
nothing to add.'
" ' I see a glimpse of it ! ' said Wilhelm. ' Are not the mass
of men so marred and stinted, because they take pleasure only
in the element of evil-wishing and evil-speaking ? Whoever
gives himself to this, soon comes to be indifferent towards
God, contemptuous towards the world, spiteful towards his
equals ; and the true, genuine, indispensable sentiment of self-
estimation corrupts into self-conceit and presumption. Allow
me, however,' continued he, 'to state one difficulty. You
say that reverence is not natural to man : now has not the
reverence or fear of rude people for violent convulsions of
nature, or other inexplicable mysteriously foreboding occur-
rences, been heretofore regarded as the germ out of which
a higher feeling, a purer sentiment, was by degrees to be de-
veloped ? '
"'iSTature is indeed adequate to fear,' replied they, '.but
to reverence not adequate. Men fear a known or unknown
powerful being ; the strong seeks to conquer it, the weak to
avoid it ; both endeavor to get quit of it, and feel themselves
happy when for a short season they have put it aside, and
their nature has in some degree restored itself to freedom and
independence. The natural man repeats this operation mil-
lions of times in the course of his life ; from fear he struggles
2S4 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
to freedom ; from freedom he is driven back to fear, and so
makes no advancement. To fear is easy, but grievous ; to rev-
erence is difncult, but satisfactory. Man does not willingly
submit himself to reverence, or rather he never so submits
himself : it is a higher sense which must be communicated to
his nature ; which only in some favored individuals unfolds
itself spontaneously, who on this account too have of old been
looked upon as Saints and Gods. Here lies the worth, here
lies the business of all true Religions, whereof there are like-
wise only three, according to the objects towards which they
direct our devotion.'
" The men paused ; Wilhelm reflected for a time in silence ;
but feeling in himself no pretension to unfold these strange
words, he requested the Sages to proceed with their exposi-
tion. They immediately complied. ' No Religion that grounds
itself on fear,' said they, *is regarded among us. With the
reverence to which a man should give dominion in his mind,
he can, in paying honor, keep his own honor; he is not dis-
united with himself as in the former case. The Religion
which depends on Reverence for what is Above us, we denomi-
nate the Ethnic ; it is the Religion of the Nations, and the
first happy deliverance from a degrading fear : all Heathen
religions, as we call them, are of this sort, whatsoever names
they may bear. The Second Religion, which founds itself on
Reverence for what is Around us, we denominate the Philo-
sophical ; for the Philosopher stations himself in the middle,
and must draw down to him all that is higher, and up to him
all that is lower, and only in this medium condition does he
merit the title of Wise. Here as he surveys with clear sight
his relation to his equals, and therefore to the whole human
race, his relation likewise to all other earthly circumstances
and arrangements necessary or accidental, he alone, in a cos-
mic sense, lives in Truth. But now we have to speak of the
Third Religion, grounded on Reverence for what is Under us :
tliis we name the Christian ; as in the Christian Religion such
a temper is the most distinctly manifested: it is a last step to
which mankind were fitted and destined to attain. But what
a task was it, not only to be patient with the Earth, and let it
GOETHE. 235
lie beneath us, we appealing to a higher birthplace ; but also
to recognize humility and poverty, mockery and despite, dis-
grace and wretchedness, suffering and death, to recognize these
things as divine ; nay, even on sin and crime to look not as
hindrances, but to honor and love them as furtherances, of
what is holy. Of this, indeed, we find some traces in all ages :
but the trace is not the goal ; and this being now attained, the
human species cannot retrogi-ade; and we may say that the
Christian Religion, having once appeared, cannot again vanisli ;
having once assumed its divine shape, can be subject to no
dissolution.'
" ' To which of these Religions do you specially adhere ? '
inquired Wilhelm.
"*To all the three,' replied they; 'for in their union they
produce what may properly be called the true Religion. Out
of those three Reverences springs the highest Reverence, Rev-
erence for Oneself, and these again unfold themselves from
this ; so that man attains the highest elevation of which he is
capable, that of being justified in reckoning himself the Best
that God and Nature have produced ; nay, of being able to
continue on this lofty eminence, without being again by self-
conceit and presumption drawn down from it into the vulgar
level.' "
The Three undertake to admit him into the interior of their
Sanctuary; whither, accordingly, he, "at the hand of the
Eldest," proceeds on the morrow. Sorry are we that we can-
not follow them into the " octagonal hall," so full of paintings,
and the "gallery open on one side, and stretching round a
spacious, gay, flowery garden." It is a beautiful figurative
representation, by pictures and symbols of Art, of the First
and the Second Religions, the Ethnic and the Philosophical ;
for the former of which the pictures have been composed from
the Old Testament ; for the latter from the New. We can
only make room for some small portions.
" ' I observe,' said Wilhelm, ' you have done the Israelites
the honor to select their history as the groundwork of this
delineation, or rather you have made it the leading object
there.'
236 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
" ' As you see/ replied the Eldest ; ' for you will remark, that
on the socles and friezes we have introduced another series of
transactions and occurrences, not so much of a synchronistic
as of a symphronistic kind ; since, among all nations, we dis-
cover records of a similar import, and grounded on the same
facts. Thus you perceive here, while, in the main field of the
picture, Abraham receives a visit from his gods in the form
of fair youths, Apollo among the herdsmen of Admetus is
painted above on the frieze. From which we may learn, that
the gods, when they appear to men, are commonly unrecog-
nized of them.'
" The friends walked on. Wilhelra, for the most part, met
with well-known objects; but they were here exhibited in a
livelier, more expressive manner, than he had been used to see
them. On some few matters he requested explanation, and
at last could not help returning to his former question :
'Why the Israelitish history had been chosen in preference
to all others ? '
" The Eldest answered : ' Among all Heathen religions, for
such also is the Israelitish, this has the most distinguished
advantages ; of which I shall mention only a few. At the
Ethnic judgment-seat ; at the judgment-seat of the God of
Nations, it is not asked whether this is the best, the most ex-
cellent nation ; but whether it lasts, whether it has continued.
The Israelitish people never was good for much, as its own
leaders, judges, rulers, prophets, have a thousand times re-
proachfully declared ; it j^ossesses few virtues, and most of the
faults of other nations : but in cohesion, steadfastness, valor,
and when all this would not serve, in obstinate toughness, it has
no match. It is the most perseverant nation in the world ; it
is, it was and it will be, to glorify the name of Jehovah through
all ages. We have set it uj), therefore, as the pattern figure ; as
the main figure to which the others only serve as a frame.'
"'It becomes not me to dis[)ute with you,' said Wilhelm,
' since you have instruction to impart. Open to me, therefore,
the other advantages of this people, or rather of its history, of
its religion.'
" ' One chief advantage/ said the other, * is its excellent col*
GOETHE. 237
lection of Sacred Books. These stand so happily combined
together, that even out of the most diverse elements, the feel-
ing of a whole still rises before us. They are complete enough
to satisfy ; fragmentary enough to excite ; barbarous enough
to rouse ; tender enough to appease ; and for how many other
contradicting merits might not these Books, might not this
one Book, be praised ? '
" Thus wandering on, they had now reached the gloomy and
perplexed periods of the History, the destruction of the City
and the Temple, the murder, exile, slavery of whole masses of
this stiff-necked people. Its subsequent fortunes were deline-
ated in a cunning allegorical way ; a real historical delineation
of them would have lain without the limits of true Art.
" At this point, the gallery abruptly terminated in a closed
door, and Wilhelm was surprised to see himself already at
the end. 'In your historical series,' said he, 'I find a chasm.
You have destroyed the Temple of Jerusalem, and dispersed
the people ; yet you have not introduced the divine Man who
taught there shortly before ; to whom, shortly before, they
would give no ear.'
" ' To have done this, as you require it, would have been an
error. The life of that divine Man, Avhom you allude to,
stands in no connection with the general history of the world
in his time. It was a private life, his teaching was a teaching
for individuals. What has publicly befallen vast masses of
people, and the minor parts which compose them, belongs to
the general History of the World, to the general Religion of
the World ; the Religion we have named the First. What in-
wardly befalls individuals belongs to the Second Religion, the
Philosophical : such a Religion was it that Christ taught and
practised, so long as he went about on Earth. For this reason,
the external here closes, and I now open to you the internal.'
" A door went back, and they entered a similar gallery ;
wdiere Wilhelm soon recognized a corresponding series of Pic-
tures from the New Testament. They seemed as if by another
hand than the first : all was softer ; forms, movements, accompa-
niments, light and coloring."
238 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Into this second gallery, with its strange doctrine about
" Miracles and Parables," the characteristic of the Philosophi-
cal Eeligion, we cannot enter for the present, yet must give
one hurried glance. Wilhelra expresses some surprise that
these delineations terminate " with the Supper, with the scene
where the Master and his Disciples part." He inquires for
the remaining portion of the history.
" ♦ In all sorts of instruction,' said the Eldest, ' in all sorts
of communication, we are fond of separating whatever it is
possible to separate ; for by this means alone can the notion
of importance and peculiar significance arise in the young
mind. Actual experience of itself mingles and mixes all
things together : here, accordingly, we have entirely disjoined
that sublime Man's life from its termination. In life, he ap-
pears as a true Philosopher, — let not the expression stagger
you, — as a Wise Man in the highest sense. He stands firm
to his point ; he goes on his way inflexibly, and while he ex-
alts the lower to himself, while he makes the ignorant, the
poor, the sick, partakers of his wisdom, of his riches, of his
strength, he, on the other hand, in no wise conceals his divine
origin ; he dares to equal himself with God, nay to declare
that he himself is God. In this manner he is wont, from
youth upwards, to astound his familiar friends ; of these he
gains a part to his own cause ; irritates the rest against him ;
and shows to all men, who are aiming at a certain elevation
in doctrine and life, what they have to look for from the
world. And thus, for the noble portion of mankind, his walk
and conversation are even more instructive and profitable than
his death : for to those trials every one is called, to this trial
but a few. Now, omitting all that results from this considera-
tion, do but look at the touching scene of the Last Supper.
Here the Wise Man, as it ever is, leaves those that are his own
utterly orphaned behind him ; and while he is careful for the
Good, he feeds along with them a traitor, by whom he and the
Better are to be destroyed.' "
This seems to us to have " a deep, still meaning ; " and the
longer and closer we examine it, the more it pleases us. Wil-
helm is not admitted into the shrine of the Third Religion,
GOETHE. 239
the Christian, or that of which Christ's sufferings and death
were the symbol, as his walk and conversation had been the
symbol of the Second, or Philosophical Eeligion. " That last
Religion," it is said, —
" ' That last Religion, which arises from the Reverence of
what is Beneath us j that veneration of the contradictory, the
hated, the avoided, we give to each of our pupils, in small
portions, by way of outfit, along with him into the world,
merely that he may know where more is to be had, should
such a want spring up within him. I invite you to return
hither at the end of a year, to attend our general Festival, and
see how far your son is advanced : then shall you be admitted
into the Sanctuary of Sorrow.'
" ' Permit me one question,' said Wilhelm : ' as you have set
up the life of this divine Man for a pattern and example, have
you likewise selected his sufferings, his death, as a model of
exalted patience ? '
" ' Undoubtedly we have,' replied the Eldest. ' Of this we
make no secret ; but we draw a veil over those sufferings, even
because we reverence them so highly. We hold it a damnable
audacity to bring forth that torturing Cross, and the Holy
One who suffers on it, or to expose them to the light of the
Sun, which hid its face when a reckless world forced such a
sight on it; to take these mysterious secrets, in which the
divine depth of Sorrow lies hid, and play with them, fondle
them, trick them out, and rest not till the most reverend of all
solemnities appears vulgar and paltry. Let so much for the
present suffice — ... The rest we must still owe you for a
twelvemonth. The instruction, which in the interim we give
the children, no stranger is allowed to witness : then, however,
come to us, and jj-ou will hear what our best Speakers think it
serviceable to make public on those matters.' "
Could we hope that, in its present disjointed state, this em-
blematic sketch would rise before the minds of our readers in
any measure as it stood before the mind of the writer ; that,
in considering it, they might seize only an outline of those
many meanings which, at less or greater depth, lie hidden un-
der it, we should anticipate their thanks for having, a first or
240 CKITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
a second time, brought it before them. As it is, believing
that, to open-minded truth-seeking men, the deliberate words
of an open-minded truth-seeking man can in no case be wholly
unintelligible, nor the words of such a man as Goethe indiffer-
ent, we have transcribed it for their perusal. If we induce
them to turn to the original, and study this in its complete-
ness, with so much else that environs it and bears on it, they
will thank us still more. To our own judgment at least, there
is a fine and pure significance in this whole delineation : such
phrases even as the " Sanctuary of Sorrow," the " divine depth
of Sorrow," have of themselves a pathetic wisdom for us ; as
indeed a tone of devoutness, of calm, mild, priest-like dignity
pervades the whole. In a time like ours, it is rare to see, in
the writings of cultivated men, any opinion whatever bearing
any mark of sincerity on such a subject as this : yet it is and
continues the highest subject, and they that are highest are
most fit for studying it, and helping others to study it.
Goethe's Wanderjahre was published in his seventy-second
year ; Werter in his twenty -fifth : thus in passing between
these two works, and over Meisters Lehrjahre, which stands
nearly midway, we have glanced over a space of almost fifty
years, including within them, of covirse, whatever was most
important in his public or private history. By means of these
quotations, so diverse in their tone, we meant to make it visi-
ble that a great change had taken place in the moral disposi-
tion of the man ; a change from inward imprisonment, doubt
and discontent, into freedom, belief and clear activity : such a
change as, in our opinion, must take place, more or less con-
sciously, in every character that, especially in these times, at-
tains to spiritual manhood ; and in characters possessing any
thoughtfulness and sensibility, will seldom take place without
a too painful consciousness, without bitter conflicts, in which
the character itself is too often maimed and impoverished,
and which end too often not in victory, but in defeat, or fatal
compromise with the enemy. Too often, we may well say ;
for though many gird on the harness, few bear it warrior-like ;
still fewer put it off with triumph. Among our own poets,
GOETHE. 241
Byron was almost the only man we saw faithfully and man-
fully struggling, to the end, in this cause ; and he died while
the victory was still doubtful, or at best, only beginning to be
gained. We have already stated our opinion, that Goethe's
success in this matter has been more complete than that of
any other man in his age ; nay that, in the strictest sense, he
may almost be called the only one that has so succeeded. On
this ground, were it on no other, we have ventured to say, that
his spiritual history and procedure must deserve attention ;
that his opinions, his creations, his mode of thought, his whole
picture of the world as it dwells within him, must to his con-
temporaries be an inquiry of no common interest ; of an inter-
est altogether peculiar, and not in this degree exampled in
existing literature. These things can be but imperfectly
stated here, and must be left, not in a state of demonstration,
but, at the utmost, of loose fluctuating probability ; neverthe-
less, if inquired into, they will be found to have a precise
enough meaning, and, as we believe, a highly important one.
For the rest, what sort of mind it is that has passed through
this change, that has gained this victory ; how rich and high
a mind ; how learned by study in all that is wisest, by experi-
ence in all that is most complex, the brightest as well as the
blackest, in man's existence ; gifted with what insight, with what
grace and power of utterance, we shall not for the present at-
tempt discussing. All these the reader will learn, who studies
his writings with such attention as they merit : and by no
other means. Of Goethe's dramatic, lyrical, didactic poems,
in their thousand-fold expressiveness, for they are full of ex-
pressiveness, we can here say nothing. But in every department
of Literature, of Art ancient and modern, in many provinces-
of Science, we shall often meet him ; and hope to have other
occasions of estimating what, in these respects, we and all men
owe him.
Two circumstances, meanwhile, we have remarked, which
to us throw light on the nature of his original faculty for
Poetry, and go far to convince us of the Mastery he has
attained in that art : these we may here state briefly, for the
judgment of such as already know his writings, or the help of
TOL. XIII. 16
242 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
sucli as are beginning to know them. The first is, his sin-
gularly emblematic intellect; his perpetual never-failing ten-
dency to transform into shape, into life, the opinion, the feeling
that may dwell in him ; which, in its widest sense, we reckon
to be essentially the grand problem of the Poet. We do not
mean mere metaphor and rhetorical trope : these are but the
exterior concern, often but the scaffolding of the edifice, which
is to be built up (within our thoughts) by means of them. In
allusions, in similitudes, though no one known to us is hap-
pier, many are more copious, than Goethe. But we find this
faculty of his in the very essence of his intellect ; and trace it
alike in the quiet cunning epigram, the allegory, the quaint
device, reminding us of some Quarles or Bunyan ; and in the
Fausts, the Tassos, the Mignojis, which in their pure and genu-
ine personality, may almost remind us of the Ariels and Ilain-
lets of Shakspeare. Everything has form, everything has
visual existence ; the poet's imagination bodies forth the forms
of things unseen, his pen turns them to shape. This, as a
natural endowment, exists in Goethe, we conceive, to a very
high degree.
The other characteristic of his mind, which proves to us his
acquired mastery in art, as this shows us the extent of his
original capacity for it, is his wonderful variety, nay univer-
sality ; his entire freedom from Mannerism. We read Goethe
for years, before we come to see wherein the distinguishing
peculiarity of his understanding, of his disposition, even of
liis way of writing, consists. It seems quite a simple style
tiiat of his ; remarkable chiefly for its calmness, its perspicuity,
in short its commonness ; and yet it is the most uncommon of
■all styles: we feel as if every one might imitate it, and yet it
is inimitable. As hard is it to discover in his writings, —
though there also, as in every man's writings, the character
of the writer must lie recorded, — what sort of spiritual con-
struction he has, what are his temper, his affections, his indi-
vidual specialities. For all lives freely within him : Philina
and Cliirchen, Mephistopheles and ]Mignon, are alike indifferent,
or alike dear to him ; he is of no sect or caste : he seems not
this man, or that man, but a man. W^e reckon this to be the
GOETHE. 243
characteristic of a Master in Art of any sort ; and true espe-
cially of all great Poets. How true is it of Shakspeare and
Homer ! Who knows, or can figure what the Man Shakspeare
was, by the lirst, by the twentieth, perusal of his works ? He
is a Voice coming to us from the Land of Melody : his old
brick dwelling-place, in the mere earthly burgh of Stratford-
on-Avon, offers us the most inexplicable enigma. And what is
Homer in the Ilias ? He is the witness ; he has seen, and
he reveals it ; we hear and believe, but do not behold him.
Now compare, with these two Poets, any other two ; not of
equal genius, for there are none such, but of equal sincerity,
who wrote as earnestly, and from the heart, like them. Take,
for instance, Jean Paul and Lord Byron. The good Richter
begins to show himself, in his broad, massive, kindly, quaint
significance, before we have read many pages of even his slight-
est work ; and to the last, he paints himself much better than his
subject. Byron may also be said to have painted nothing else
than himself, be his subject what it might. Yet as a test for
the culture of a Poet, in his poetical capacity, for his preten-
sions to mastery and completeness in his art, we cannot but
reckon this among the surest. Tried by this, there is no liv-
ing writer that approaches within many degrees of Goethe.
Thus, it would seem, we consider Goethe to be a richly
educated Poet, no less than a richly educated Man ; a master
both of Humanity and of Poetry ; one to whom Experience
has given true wisdom, and the " Melodies Eternal " a perfect
utterance for his wisdom. Of the particular form which this
humanity, this wisdom has assumed ; of his opinions, character,
personality, — for these, with whatever difficulty, are and must
be decipherable in his writings, — we had much to say : but
;this also we must decline. In the present state of matters, to
speak adequately would be a task too hard for us, and one in
which our readers could afford little help, nay in which many
of them might take little interest. Meanwhile, we have found
a brief cursory sketch on this subject, already written in our
language : some parts of it, by way of preparation, we shall
here transcribe. It is written by a professed admirer of
Goethe ; nay, as might almost seem, by a grateful learner, whom
244 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
he had taught, whom he had helped to lead out of spiritual
obstruction, into peace and light. Making due allowance for
all this, there is little in the paper that we object to.
"In Goethe's mind," observes he, "the first aspect that
strikes us is its calmness, then its beauty ; a deeper inspection
reveals to us its vastness and unmeasured strength. This
man rules, and is not ruled. The stern and fiery energies of-
a most passionate soul lie silent in the centre of his being ; a
trembling sensibility has been inui-ed to stand, without flinch-
ing or murmur, the sharpest trials. Nothing outward, nothing
inward, shall agitate or control him. The brightest and most
capricious fancy, the most piercing and inquisitive intellect,
the wildest and deepest imagination ; the highest thrills of
joy, the bitterest pangs of sorrow : all these are his, he is not
theirs. Wliile he moves every heart from its steadfastness,
his own is firm and still : the words that search into the in-
most recesses of our nature, he pronounces with a tone of
coldness and equanimity ; in the deepest j^athos he weeps not,
or his tears are like water trickling from a rock of adamant.
He is king of himself and of his world ; nor does he rule it
like a vulgar great man, like a Napoleon or Charles the
Twelfth, by the mere brute exertion of his will, grounded on
no principle, or on a false one : his faculties and feelings are
not fettered or prostrated under the iron sway of Passion, but
led and guided in kindly union under the mild sway of Reason ;
as the fierce primeval elements of Chaos were stilled at the
coming of Light, and bound together, under its soft vesture,
into a glorious and beneficent Creation.
" This is the true Rest of man ; the dim aim of every
human soul, the full attainment of only a chosen few. It
comes not unsought to any ; but the wise are wise because
they think no price too high for it. Goethe's inward home
has been reared by slow and laborious efforts ; but it stands
on no hollow or deceitful basis • for his peace is not from
blindness, but from clear vision ; not from uncertain hope of
alteration, but from sure insight into what cannot alter. His
world seems once to have been desolate and baleful as that of
the darkest sceptic : but he has covered it anew with beauty
GOETHE. 2^5
and solemnity, derived from deeper sources, over which Doubt
can have no sway. He has inquired fearlessly, and fearlessly
searched out and denied the False ; but he has not forgotten,
wliat is equally essential and infinitely harder, to search out
and admit the True. His heart is still full of warmth, though
his head is clear and cold ; the world for him is still full of
grandeur, though he clothes it with no false colors ; his fellow-
creatures are still objects of reverence and love, though their
basenesses are plainer to no eye than to his. To reconcile
these contradictions is the task of all good men, each for him-
self, in his own way and manner ; a task which, in our age, is
encompassed with difficulties peculiar to the time ; and which
Goethe seems to have accomplished with a success that few
can rival. A mind so in unity with itself, even though it
were a poor and small one, would arrest our attention, and
win some kind regard from us ; but when this mind ranks
among the strongest and most complicated of the species,
it becomes a sight full of interest, a study full of deep in-
struction.
" Such a mind as Goethe's is the fruit not only of a royal
endowment by Nature, but also of a culture proportionate to
her bounty. In Goethe's original form of spirit we discern
the highest gifts of manhood, without any deficiency of the
lower : he has an eye and a heart equally for the sublime, the
common, and the ridiculous ; the elements at once of a poet,
a thinker, and a wit. Of his culture we have often spoken
already; and it deserves again to be held up to praise and
imitation. This, as he himself unostentatiously confesses,
has been the soul of all his conduct, the great enterprise of
his life ; and few that understand him will be apt to deny
that he has prospered. As a writer, his resources have been
accumulated from nearly all the provinces of human intellect
and activity ; and he has trained himself to use these compli-
cated instruments with a light expertness which we might
have admired in the professor of a solitary'' department. Free-
dom, and grace, and smiling earnestness are the characteristics
of his works : the matter of them flows along in chaste abun-
dance, in the softest combination ; and their style is referred
246 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
to by native critics as the highest specimen of the German
tongue.
" But Goethe's culture as a writer is perhaps less remarkable
than his culture as a man. He has learned not in head only,
but also in heart ; not from Art and Literature, but also by
action and passion, in the rugged school of Experience. If
asked what was the grand characteristic of his writings, we
should not say knowledge, but wisdom. A mind that has
seen, and suffered, and done, speaks to us of what it has tried
and conquered. A gay delineation will give us notice of dark
and toilsome experiences, of business done in the great deep
of the spirit ; a maxim, trivial to the careless eye, will rise
with light and solution over long perplexed periods of our own
history. It is thus that heart speaks to heart, that the life of
one man becomes a possession to all. Here is a mind of the
most subtle and tumultuous elements ; but it is governed in
peaceful diligence, and its impetuous and ethereal faculties
work softly together for good and noble ends. Goethe may
be called a Philosopher ; for he loves and has practised as a
man the wisdom which as a poet he inculcates. Composure
and cheerful seriousness seem to breathe over all his character.
There is no whining over human woes : it is understood that
we must simply all strive to alleviate or remove them. There
is no noisy battling for opinions ; but a persevering effort to
make Truth lovely, and recommend her, by a thousand avenues,
to the hearts of all men. Of his personal manners we can
easily believe the universal report, as often given in the way
of censure as of praise, that he is a man of consummate breed-
ing and the stateliest presence : for an air of polished tolerance,
of courtly, we might almost say, majestic repose and serene
humanity, is visible throughout his works. In no line of them
does he speak with asperity of any man ; scarcely ever even
of a thing. He knows the good, and loves it ; he knows the
bad and hateful, and rejects it ; but in neither case with vio-
lence : his love is calm and active ; his rejection is implied,
rather than pronounced ; meek and gentle, though we see that
it is thorough, and never to be revoked. The noblest and the
GOETHE. 247
basest lie not only seems to comprehend, but to personate and
body forth in their most secret lineaments : hence actions and
opinions appear to him as they are, with all the circumstances
which extenuate or endear them to the hearts where they origi-
nated and are entertained. This also is the spirit of our
Shakspeare, and perhaps of every great dramatic poet. Shak-
speare is no sectarian ; to all he deals with equity and mercy ;
because he knows all, and his heart is wide enough for all. In
his mind the world is a whole; he figures it as Providence
governs it ; and to him it is not strange that the sun should
be caused to shine on the evil and the good, and the rain to
fall on the just and the unjust."
Considered as a transient far-off view of Goethe in his
personal character, all this, from the writer's peculiar point
of vision, may have its true grounds, and wears at least the
aspect of sincerity. We may also quote something of what
follows on Goethe's character as a poet and thinker, and the
contrast he exhibits in this respect with another celebrated
and now altogether European author.
"Goethe," observes this Critic, "has been called the * Ger-
man Voltaire ; ' bat it is a name which does him wrong and
describes him ill. Except in the corresponding variety of
their pursuits and knowledge in which, perhaps, it does Vol-
taire wrong, the two cannot be compared. Goethe is. all, or
the best of all, that Voltaire was, and he is much that Voltaire
did not dream of. To say nothing of his dignified and truth-
ful character as a man, he belongs, as a thinker and a writer,
to a far higher class than this enfant gate du monde qtCil gdta.
lie is not a questioner and a despiser, but a teacher and a
reverencer ; not a destroyer, but a builder-up ; not a wit only,
but a wise man. Of him Montesquieu could not have said,
with even epigrammatic truth : II a plus qiie personne V esprit
que tout le monde a. Voltaire is the cleverest of all past and
present men ; but a great man is something more, and this he
surely was not."
Whether this epigram, which we have seen in some Biograph-
ical Dictionary, really belongs to ]\[ontes([uieu, we know not ;
but it does seem to us not wholly inapplicable to Voltaire, and
248 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
at all events, highly expressive of an important distinction
among men of talent generally. In fact, the popular man, and
the man of true, at least of great originality, are seldom one
and the same ; we suspect that, till after a long struggle on
the part of the latter, they are never so. Reasons are obvious
enough. The popular man stands on our own level, or a hair's-
breadth higher ; he shows us a truth which we can see without
shifting our present intellectual position. This is a highly
convenient arrangement. The original man, again, stands
above us ; he wishes to wrench us from our old fixtures, and
elevate us to a higher and clearer level : but to quit our old
fixtures, especially if we have sat in them with moderate com-
fort for some score or two of years, is no such easy business ;
accordingly we demur, we resist, we even give battle ; we
still suspect that he is above us, but try to persuade ourselves
(Laziness and Vanity earnestly assenting) that he is below.
For is it not the very essence of such a man that he be new ?
And who will warrant us that, at the same time, he shall only
be an intensation and continuation of the old, which, in general,
is what we long and look for ? No one can warrant us. And,
granting him to be a man of real genius, real depth, and that
speaks not till after earnest meditation, what sort of a phi-
losophy were his, could we estimate the length, breadth and
thickness of it at a single glance ? And when did Criticism
give two glances ? Criticism, therefore, opens on such a man
its greater and its lesser batteries, on every side : he has no
security but to go on disregarding it ; and " in the end," says
Goethe, " Criticism itself comes to relish that method." But
now let a spoaker of the other class come forward ; one of those
men that " have more than any one, the opinion which all men
have " ! Xo sooner does he speak, than all and sundry of us
feel as if we had been wishing to speak, that very thing, as if
we ourselves might have spoken it ; and forthwith resounds
from the united universe a celebration of that surprising feat.
What clearness, brilliancy, justness, penetration ! Who can
doubt that this man is riglit, when so many tliousand votes are
ready to back him ? Doubtless, he is right; doubtless, he is a
clever man ; and his praise will long be in all the Magazines.
GOETHE. 249
Clever men are good, but they are not the best. " The in-
struction they can give us is like baked bread, savory and satis-
fying for a single day ; " but, unhappily, " flour cannot be
sown, and seed-corn ought not to be ground." We proceed
with our Critic in his contrast of Goethe with Voltaire.
" As poets," continues he, " the two live not in the same
hemisphere, not in the same world. Of Voltaire's poetry, it
were blindness to deny the polished, intellectual vigor, the
logical symmetry, the flashes that from time to time give it
the color, if not the warmth, of fire : but it is in a far other
sense than this that Goethe is a poet; in a sense of which
the French literature has never afforded any example. We
may venture to say of him, that his province is high and pecu-
liar ; higher than any poet but himself, for several generations,
has so far succeeded in, perhaps even has steadfastly attempted.
In reading Goethe's poetry, it perpetually strikes us that we
are reading the poetry of our own day and generation. No
demands are made on our credulity ; the light, the science, the
scepticism of our age, is not hid from us. He does not deal in
antiquated mythologies, or ring changes on traditionary poetic
forms; there are no supernal, no infernal influences, — for
Faust is an apparent, rather than a real exception ; — but there
is the barren prose of the nineteenth century, the vulgar life
which we are all leading, and it starts into strange beauty in
liis hands, and we pause in delighted wonder to behold the
flowerage of poesy blooming in that parched and rugged soil.
This is the end of his Mignons and Harpers, of his Hermanns
and Meisters. Poetry, as he views it, exists not in time or
place, but in the spirit of man ; and Art with Nature is now
to perform for the poet what Nature alone performed of old.
The divinities and demons, the witches, spectres and fairies,
are vanished from the world, never again to be recalled : but
the Imagination, which created these, still lives, and will for-
ever live, in man's soul ; and can again pour its wizard light
over the Universe, and summon forth enchantments as lovely
or impressive, and which its sister faculties will not contra-
dict. To say that Goethe has accomplished all this, would be
to say that his genius is greater than was ever given to any
250 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
man : for if it was a high and glorious mind, or rather series
of minds, that peopled the first ages with their peculiar forms
of poetry, it must be a series of minds much higher and more
glorious that shall so people the present. The angels and
demons that can lay prostrate our hearts in the nineteenth
century, must be of another and more cunning fashion than
those who subdued us in the ninth. To have attempted, to
have begun this enterprise, may be accounted the greatest
praise. That Goethe ever meditated it, in the form here set
forth, we have no direct evidence : but, indeed, such is the end
and aim of high poetry at all times and seasons ; for the fiction
of the poet is not falsehood, but the purest truth ; and, if he
would lead captive our whole being, not rest satisfied with a
part of it, he must address us on interests that are, not that
were ours ; and in a dialect which finds a response, and not a
contradiction, within our bosoms." ^
Hei'e, however, we must terminate our pilferings or open
robberies, and bring these straggling lucubrations to a close.
In the extracts we have given, in the remarks made on them
and on the subject of them, we are aware that we have held
the attitude of admirers and pleaders : neither is it unknown
to us that the critic is, in virtue of his ofiice, a judge, and not
an advocate ; sits there, not to do favor, but to dispense jus-
tice, which in most cases will involve blame as well as praise.
But we are firm believers in the maxim that, for all right judg-
ment of any man or thing, it is useful, nay essential, to see
his good qualities before pronouncing on his bad. This maxim
is so clear to ourselves, that, in respect to poetry at least, we
almost think we could make it clear to other men. In the
first place, at all events, it is a much shallower and more ig-
noble occupation to detect faults than to discover beauties.
The " critic fly," if it do but alight on any plinth or single
cornice of a brave stately building, shall be able to declare,
with its half-inch vision, that here is a speck, and there an
inequality; that, in fact, this and the other individual, stone
are nowise as they should be ; for all this the " critic fly " will
be suflicient : but to take in the fair relations of the Whole,
^ Appendix, I. No. 2. § Gott'ie, infra.
GOETHE. 261
to see the building as one object, to estimate its purpose, the
adjustment of its parts, and their .harmonious co-operation
towards that purpose, will require the eye and the mind of a
Vitruvius or a Palladio. But farther, the faults of a poem, or
other piece of art, as we view them at first, will by no means
continue unaltered when we view them after due and final
investigation. Let us consider what we mean by a fault. By
the word fault we designate something that displeases us, that,
contradicts us. But here the question might arise : who are
we ? This fault displeases, contradicts us y so far is clear ; and
had we, had /, and my pleasure and confirmation been the chief
end of the poet, then doubtless he has failed in that end, and
his fault remains a fault irremediably, and without defence.
But who shall say whether such really was his object, whether
such ought to have been his object ? And if it was not, and
ought not to have been, what becomes of the fault ? It must
hang altogether undecided ; we as yet know nothing of it ; per-
haps it may not be the poet's, but our own fault ; perhaps it
may be no fault whatever. To see rightly into this matter, to
determine with any infallibility, whether what we call a fault
is in very deed a fault, we must previously have settled two
points, neither of which may be so readily settled. First, we
must have made plain to ourselves what the poet's aim really
and truly was, how the task he had to do stood before his own
eye, and how far, with such means as it afforded him, he has
fulfilled it. Secondly, we must have decided whether and how
far this aim, this task of his, accorded, — not with us, and our
individual crotchets, and the crotchets of our little senate
where we give or take the law, — but with human nature, and
the nature of things at large ; with the universal principles of
poetic beauty, not as they stand written in our text-books, but
in the hearts and imaginations of all men. Does the answer
in either case come out unfavorable ; was there an inconsis-
tency between the means and the end, a discordance between
the end and truth, there is a fault : was there not, there is no
fault.
Thus it would appear that the detection of faults, provided
they be faults of any depth and consequence, leads us of itself
2.32 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
into that region where also the higher beauties of the piece, if
it have any true beauties, essentially reside. In fact, accord-
ing to our view, no man can pronounce dogmatically, with
even a chance of being right, on the faults of a poem, till he
has seen its very last and highest beauty ; the last in becom-
ing visible to any one, which few ever look after, which indeed
in most pieces it were very vain to look after ; the beauty of
the poem as a Whole, in the strict sense ; the clear view of it
as an indivisible Unity ; and whether it has grown up natu-
rally from the general soil of Thought, and stands there like a
thousand-years Oak, no leaf, no bough superfluous ; or is noth-
ing but a pasteboard Tree, cobbled together out of size and
waste-paper and water-colors ; altogether unconnected with
the soil of Thought, except by mere juxtaposition, or at best
united with it by some decayed stump and dead boughs, which
the more cunning Decoration ist (as in your Historic Novel)
may have selected for the basis and support of his agglutina-
tions. It is true, most readers judge of a poem by pieces, they
praise and blame by pieces ; it is a common practice, and for
most poems and most readers may be perfectly sufficient : yet
we would advise no man to follow this practice, who traces in
himself even the slightest capability of following a better
one ; and, if possible, we would advise him to practise only
on worthy subjects ; to read few poems that will not bear
being studied as well as read.
That Goethe has his faults cannot be doubtful ; for we
believe it was ascertained long ago that there is no man free
from them. Neither are we ourselves without some glimmer-
ing of certain actual limitations and inconsistencies by which
he too, as he really lives and writes and is, may be hemmed
in ; which beset him too, as they do meaner men ; which show
us that he too is a son of Eve. But to exhibit these before
our readers, in the present state of matters, we should reckon
no easy labor, Avere it to be adequately, to be justly done ; and
done anyhow, no profitable one. Better is it we should first
study him; better to "see the great man before attempting
to oversee him." We are not ignorant that certain objections
against Goethe already float vaguely in the English mind, and
GOETHE. 253
here and there, according to occasion, have even come to utter-
ance : these, as the study of him proceeds, we shall hold our-
selves ready, in due season, to discuss ; but for the present we
must beg the reader to believe, on our word, that we do not
reckon them unanswerable, nay that we reckon them in general
the most answerable things in the world ; and things which
even a little increase of knowledge will not fail to answer
without other help.
For furthering such increase of knowledge on this matter,
may we beg the reader to accept two small pieces of ad-
vice, which we ourselves have found to be of use in studying
Goethe. They seem applicable to the study of Foreign Litera-
ture generally ; indeed to the study of all Literature that de-
serves the name.
The first is, nowise to suppose that Poetry is a superficial,
cursory business, which may be seen through to the very bot-
tom, so soon as one inclines to cast his eye on it. We reckon
it the falsest of all maxims, that a true Poem can be adequately
tasted ; can be judged of "as men judge of a dinner," by some
internal tongue, that shall decide on the matter at once and
irrevocably. Of the poetry which supplies spouting-clubs, and
circulates in circulating libraries, we speak not here. That is
quite another species ; which has circulated, and will circulate,
and ought to circulate, in all times ; but for the study of which
no man is required to give rules, the rules being already given
by the thing itself. We speak of that Poetry which Masters
write, which aims not at "furnishing a languid mind with
fantastic shows and indolent emotions," but at incorporating
the everlasting Reason of man in forms visible to his Sense,
and suitable to it : and of this we say, that to know it is no
slight task ; but rather that, being the essence of all science,
it requires the purest of all study for knowing it. " What ! "
cries the reader, " are we to study Poetry ? To pore over it
as we do over Fluxions ? " Reader, it depends upon your ob-
ject : if you want only amusement, choose your book, and j^ou
get along, without study, excellently well. " But is not Shak-
speare plain, visible to the very bottom, without study ? " cries
he. Alas, no, gentle Header ; we cannot think so ; we do not
254 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
find that he is visible to the very bottom even to those that
profess the study of him. It has been our lot to read some
criticisms on Shakspeare, and to hear a great many.; but for
most part they amounted to no such " visibility." Volumes
we have seen that were simply one huge Interjection printed
over three hundred pages. Nine-tenths of our critics have
told us little more of Shakspeare than what honest Franz
Horn says our neighbors used to tell of him, " that he was a
great spirit, and stept majestically along." Johnson's Preface,
a sound and solid piece for its purpose, is a complete exception
to this rule ; and, so far as we remember, the only complete
one. Students of poetry admire Shakspeare in their tenth
year ; but go on admiring him more and more, understanding
him more and more, till their threescore-and-tenth. Grotius
said, he read Terence otherwise than boys do. " Happy con-
tractedness of youth," adds Goethe, " nay of men in general ;
that at all moments of their existence they can look upon
themselves as complete ; and inquire neither after the True
nor the False, nor the High nor the Deep ; but simply after
what is proportioned to themselves."
Our second advice we shall state in few words. It is, to
remember that a Foreigner is no Englishman ; that in judg-
ing a foreign work, it is not enough to ask whether it is suit-
able to our modes, but whether it is suitable to foreign wants ;
above all, whether it is suitable to itself. The fairness, the ne-
cessity of this can need no demonstration ; yet how often do we
find it, in practice, altogether neglected ! We could fancy we
saw some Bond-Street Tailor criticising the costume of an an-
cient Greek ; censuring the highly improper cut of collar and
lapel ; lamenting, indeed, that collar and lapel were nowhere
to be seen. He pronounces the costume, easily and decisively,
to be a barbarous one : to know whether it is a barbarous one,
and how barbarous, the judgment of a Winkelmann might be
required, and he would find it hard to give a judgment. For
the questions set before the two were radically different. The
Fraction asked himself : How will this look in Almacks, and be-
fore Lord Mahogany ? The Winkelmann asked himself : How
will this look in the Universe, and before the Creator of Man ?
GOETHE. 2")5
Whether these remarks of ours may do anything to forward
a right appreciation of Goethe in this country, we know not ;
neither do we reckon this last result to be of any vital impor-
tance. Yet must we believe that, in recommending Goethe,
we are doing our part to recommend a truer study of Poetry
itself; and happy were we to fancy that any efforts of ours
could promote such an object. Promoted, attained it will be,
as we believe, by one means and another. A deeper feeling for
Art is abroad over Europe ; a purer, more earnest purpose in
the study, in the practice of it. In this influence we too must
participate : the time will come when our own ancient noble
Literature will be studied and felt, as well as talked of ; when
Dilettantism will give place to Criticism in respect of it ; and
vague wonder end in clear knowledge, in sincere reverence,
and, what were best of all, in hearty emulation.
BURNS.^
[1828.]
In the modern arrangements of society, it is no uncommon
thing that a man of genius must, like Butler, " ask for bread
and receive a stone;" for, in spite of our grand maxim of
supply and demand, it is by no means the highest excellence
that men are most forward to recognize. The inventor of a
spinning-jenny is pretty sure of his reward in his own day ;
but the writer of a true poem, like the apostle of a true re-
ligion, is nearly as sure of the contrary. We do not know
whether it is not an aggravation of the injustice, that there
is generally a posthumous retribution. Robert Burns, in the
course of Kature, might yet have been living; but his short
life was spent in toil and penury ; and he died, in the prime
of his manhood, miserable and neglected : and yet already a
brave mausoleum shines over his dust, and more than one
splendid monument has been reared in other places to his
fame ; the street where he languished in poverty is called by
his name ; the highest personages in our literature have been
proud to appear as his commentators and admirers ; and here
is the sixth narrative of his Life that has been given to the
world !
.^ Mr. Lockhart thinks it necessary to apologize for this new
attempt on such a subject : but his readers, we believe, will
readily acquit him ; or, at worst, will censure only the per-
formance of his task, not the choice of it. The character of
Burns, indeed, is a theme that cannot easily become either
trite or exhausted; and will probably gain rather than lose
^ Edinbcroh Revie-\v, No. 96. — The Life of Robert Burns, By J. Q.
Lockhart, LL.B. Edinburgh, 1828.
BURNS. 257
in its dimensions by tlie distance to which it is removed by
Time. Ko man, it has been said, is a hero to his valet ; and
tliis is probably true ; but the fault is at least as likely to be
the valet's as the hero's. For it is certain, that to the vulgar
eye few things are wonderful that are not distant. It is diffi-
cult for men to believe that the man, the mere man whom they
see, nay perhaps painfully feel, toiling at their side through
the poor jostlings of existence, can be made of finer clay than
themselves. Suppose that some dining acquaintance of Sir
Thomas Lucy's, and neighbor of John a Combe's, had snatched
an hour or two from the preservation of his game, and written
us a Life of Shakspeare ! What dissertations should we not
have had, — not on Hamlet and The Tempest, but on the wool-
trade, and deer-stealing, and the libel and vagrant laws ; and
how the Poacher became a Player ; and how Sir Thomas and
Mr. John had Christian bowels, and did not push him to ex-
tremities ! In like manner, we believe, with respect to Burns,
that till the companions of his pilgrimage, the Honorable
Excise Commissioners, and the Gentlemen of the Caledonian
Hunt, and the Dumfries Aristocracy, and all the Squires and
Earls, equally with the Ayr Writers, and the New and Old
Light Clergy, whom he had to do with, shall have become
invisible in the darkness of the Past, or visible only by light
borrowed from his juxtaposition, it will be difficult to measure
him by any true standard, or to estimate what he really was
and did, in the eighteenth century, for his country and the
world. It will be difficult, we say ; but still a fair problem
for literary historians ; and repeated attempts will give us
repeated approximations.
3 His former Biographers have done something, no doubt,
but by no means a great deal, to assist us. Dr. Currie and
Mr. Walker, the principal of these writers, have both, we
think, mistaken one essentially important thing : Their own
and the world's true relation to their author, and the style
in which it became such men to think and to speak of such
a man. Dr. Currie loved the poet truly ; more perhaps than
he avowed to his readers, or even to himself; yet he every-
where introduces him with a certain patroniziugj apologetic
VOL. XIII. 17
i
258 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
air; as if the polite public might think it strange and half
unwarrantable that he, a man of science, a scholar and gentle-
man, should do such honor to a rustic. In all this, however,
we readily admit that his fault was not want of love, but
weakness of faith ; and regret that the first and kindest of all
our poet's biographers should not have seen farther, or be-
lieved more boldly what he saw. Mr. Walker offends more
deeply in the same kind : and both err alike in presenting us
with a detached catalogue of his several supposed attributes,
virtues and vices, instead of a delineation of the resulting
character as a living unity. This, however, is not painting a
portrait; but gauging the length and breadth of the several
features, and jotting down their dimensions in arithmetical
ciphers. Nay it is not so much as that : for we are yet
to learn by what arts or instruments the mind could be so
measured and gatiged.
Mr. Lockhart, we are happy to say, has avoided both these
errors. He uniformly treats Burns as the high and remark-
able man the public voice has now pronounced him to be :
and in delineating him, he has avoided the method of separate
generalities, and rather sought for characteristic incidents,
habits,, actions, sayings ; in a word, for aspects which exliibit
the whole man, as he looked and lived among his fellows.
The book accordingly, with all its deficiencies, gives more in-
sight, we think, into the true character of Burns, than any
prior biography : though, being written on the very popular
and condensed scheme of an article for Constable's Mvscellan]/,
it has less depth than we could have wished and expected
from a writer of such power ; and contains rather more, and
more multifarious quotations than belong of right to an origi-
nal production. Indeed, Mr. Lockhart's own writing is gener-
ally so good, so clear, direct and nervous, that we seldom wish
to see it making place for another man's. However, the spirit
of the work is throughout candid, tolerant and anxiously con-
ciliating; compliments and praises are liberally distributed, on
all hands, to great and small ; and, as Mr. Morris Birkbeck
observes of the society in the backwoods of America, "the
courtesies of polite life are never lost sight of for a moment."
BURNS. 259
But there are better things than these in the volume ; and
we can safely testify, not only that it is easily and pleasantly
read a first time, but may even be without diflEiculty read
again,
j" Nevertheless, we are far from thinking that the problem of
Burns's Biography has yet been adequately solved. We do not
allude so much to deficiency of facts or documents, — though
of these we are still every day receiving some fresh accession,
— as to tho limited and imperfect application of them to the
great end of Biography. Our notions upon this subject may
perhaps appear extravagant / but if an individual is really of
consequence enough to have his life and character recorded
for public remembrance, we have always been of opinion that
the public ought to be made acquainted with all the inward
springs and relations of his character.^ How did the world
and man's life, from his particular position, represent them-
selves to his mind ? How did coexisting circumstances mod-
ify him from without ; how did he modify these from within ?
With what endeavors and what efficacy rule over them ; with
what resistance and what suffering sink under them ? In
one word, what and how produced was the effect of society on
him ; what and how produced was his effect on society ? He
who should answer these questions, in regard to any individ-
ual, would, as we believe, furnish a model of perfection in
Biography. Few individuals, indeed, can deserve such a study ;
and many lives will be written, and, for the gratification of
innocent curiosity, ought to be written, and read and forgot-
ten, which are not in this sense hlograj^hies. But Burns, if we
mistake not, is one of these few individuals ; and such a study,
at least with such a result, he has not yet obtained. Our own
contributions to it, we are aware, can be but scanty and feeble ;
but we offer them with good-will, and trust they may meet
with acceptance from those they are intended for.
(f Burns first came upon the world as a prodigy ; and was, in
tliat character, entertained by it, in the usual fashion, with
loud, vague, tumultuous wonder, speedily subsiding into cen-
sure and neglect j till his early and most mournful death again
260 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
awakened an enthusiasm for him, which, especially as there
was now nothing to be done, and much to be spoken, has pro-
longed itself even to our own time. It is true, the *' nine days "
have long since elapsed ; and the very continuance of this
clamor proves that Burns was no vulgar wonder. Accordingly,
even in sober judgments, where, as years passed by, he has
come to rest more and more exclusively on his own intrinsic
merits, and may now be well-nigh shorn of that casual radiance,
he appears not only as a true British poet, but as one of the
most considerable British men of the eighteenth century. Let
it not be obj 3cted, that he did little. He did much, if we con-
sider where and how. If the work performed was small, we
must remember that he had his very materials to discover ; for
the metal he worked in lay hid under the desert moor, where no
eye but his had guessed its existence ; and we may almost say,
that with his own hand he had to construct the tools for fash-
ioning it. For he found himself in deepest obscurity, with-
out help, without instruction, without model ; or with models
only of the meanest sort. An educated man stands, as it were,
in the midst of a boundless arsenal and magazine, filled with
all the weapons and engines which man's skill has been able
to devise from the earliest time ; and he works, accordingly,
with a strength borrowed from all past ages. How different
is his state who stands on the outside of that storehouse, and
feels that its gates must be stormed, or remain forever shut
against him ! His means are the commonest and rudest ; the
mere work done is no measure of his strength. A dwarf be-
hind his steam-engine may remove mountains ; but no dwarf
will hew them down with the pickaxe ; and he must be a Titan
that hurls them abroad with his arms.
■^ It is in this last shape that Burns presents himself. Born
in an age the most prosaic Britain had yet seen, and in a con-
dition the most disadvantageous, where his mind, if it accom-
plished aught, must accomplish it under the pressure of
continual bodily toil, nay of penury and desponding apprehen-
sion of the worst evils, and with no furtherance but such
knowledge as dwells in a poor man's hut, and the rhymes of a
Ferguson or Ramsay for his standard of beauty, he sinks not
BURNS. 261
under all tluese impediments : through the fogs and darkness
of that obscure region, his lynx eye discerns the true rela-
tions of the world and human life ; he grows into intellec-
tual strength, and trains himself into intellectual expertness.
Impelled by the expansive movement of his own irrepressible
soul, he struggles forward into the general view; and with
haughty modesty lays down before us, as the fruit of his labor,
a gift, which Time has now pronounced imperishable. Add to
all this, that his darksome drudging childhood and youth was
by far the kindliest era of his whole life ; and that he died in
his thirty-seventh year : and then ask, If it be strange that his
poems are imperfect, and of small extent, or that his genius
attained no mastery in its art ? Alas, his Sun shone as
through a tropical tornado; and the pale Shadow of Death
eclipsed it at noon ! Shrouded in such baleful vapors, the
genius of Burns was never seen in clear azure splendor, en-
lightening the world : but some beams from it did, by fits,
pierce through ; and it tinted those clouds with rainbow and
orient colors, into a glory and stern grandeur, which men
silently gazed on with wonder and tears !
We are anxious not to exaggerate ; for it is exposition rather
than admiration that our readers require of us here ; and yet
to avoid some tendency to that side is no easy matter. We
love Burns, and we pity him ; and love and pity are prone to
magnify. Criticism, it is sometimes thought, should be a cold
business ; we are not so sure of this ; but, at all events, our
concern with Burns is not exclusively that of critics. True
and genial as his poetry must appear, it is not chiefly as a
poet, but as a man, that he interests and affects us. He was
often advised to write a tragedy : time and means were not
lent him for this ; but through life he enacted a traged}', and
one of the deepest. We question whether the world has since
witnessed so utterly sad a scene ; whether Napoleon himself,
left to brawl with Sir Hudson Lowe, and perish on his rock,
'••■ amid the melancholy main,"' presented to the reflecting mind
such a " spectacle of pity and fear" as did this intrinsically
nobler, gentler and perhaps greater soul, wasting itself away
in a hopeless struggle with base entanglements, which coiled
262 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
closer and closer round him, till only death opened him an
outlet. Conquerors are a class of men with whom, for most
part, the world could well dispense ; nor can the hard intel-
lect, the unsympatliizing loftiness and high but selfish entlm-
siasm of such persons inspire us in general with any affection ;
at best it may excite amazement ; and their fall, like that of a
•, pyramid, will iye beheld with a certain sadne^ and awe. But.
a true Poet, a man in whose heart resides some effluence of
Wisdom, some tone of the "Eternal Melodies," is the most
precious gift that can be bestowed on a generation : we see in
him a freer, purer development of whatever is noblest in our-
selves ; his life is a rich lesson to us ; and we mourn his death
as that of a benefactor who loved and taught us.
H Such a gift had Nature, in her bounty, bestowed on us in
Robert Burns ; but with queenlike indifference she cast it from
her hand, like a thing of no moment ; and it was defaced and
torn asunder, as an idle bauble, before we recognized it. To
the ill-starred Burns was given the power of making man's
life more venerable, but that of wisely guiding his own life
was not given. Destiny, — for so in our ignorance we must
speak, — his faults, the faults of others, proved too hard for
him ; and that spirit, which might have soared could it but
have walked, soon sank to the dust, its glorious faculties trod-
den under foot in the blossom ; and died, we may almost say,
without ever having lived. And so kind and warm a soul 5 so
full of inborn riches, of love to all living and lifeless things !
How his heart flows out in sympathy over universal Nature ;
and in her bleakest provinces discerns a beauty and a meaning !
The " Daisy " falls not unheeded under his ploughshare ; nor
the ruined nest of that " wee, cowering, timorous beastie," cast
forth, after all its provident pains, to " thole the sleety dribble
and cranreuch cauld." The " hoar visage " of Winter delights
him ; he dwells with a sad and oft-returning fondness in these
scenes of solemn desolation ; but the voice of the temj^est be-
comes an anthem to his ears ; he loves to walk in the sounding
woods, for " it raises his thoughts to Him that walketh on the
wings of the wind." A true Poet-soul, for it needs but to be
struck, and the sound it yields will be music ! But observe him
BUKNS. 263
chiefly as he mingles with his brother men. What warm, all-
comprehending fellow-feeling ; what trustful, boundless love ;
what generous exaggeration of the object loved ! His rustic
friend, his nut-brown maiden, are no longer mean and homely,
but a hero and a queen, whom he prizes as the paragons of
Earth. The rough scenes of Scottish life, not seen by hiia
in any Arcadian illusion, but in the rude contradiction, in the
smoke and soil of a too harsh reality, are still lovely to him :
Poverty is indeed his companion, but Love also, and Courage ;
the simple feelings, the worth, the nobleness, that dwell under
the straw roof, are dear and venerable to his heart : and thus
over the lowest provinces of man's existence he pours the glory
of his own soul ; and they rise, in shadow and sunshine, soft-
ened and brightened into a beauty which other eyes discern
not in the highest. He has a just self-consciousness, which
too often degenerates into pride ; yet it is a noble pride, for
defence, not for offence ; no cold suspicious feeling, but a
frank and social one. The Peasant Poet bears himself, we
might say, like a King in exile : he is cast among the low, and
feels himself equal to the highest ; yet he claims no rank, that
none may be disputed to him. The forward he can repel, the
supercilious he can subdue ; pretensions of wealth or ancestry
are of no avail with him ; there is a fire in that dark eye,
under which the "insolence of condescension" cannot thrive.
In his abasement, in his extreme need, he forgets not for a
moment the majesty of Poetry and Manhood. And yet, far
as he feels himself above common men, he wanders not apart
from them, but mixes warmly in their interests ; nay throws
himself into their arms, and, as it were, entreats them to love
him. It is moving to see how, in his darkest despondency,
this proud being still seeks relief from friendship ; unbosoms
himself, often to the unworthy ; and, amid tears, strains to his
glowing heart a heart that knows only the name of friendship.
And yet he was '^ quick to learn ; " a man of keen vision, be-
fore whom common disguises afforded no concealment. His
understanding saw through the hollowness even of accom-
plished deceivers ; but there was a generous credulity in his
heart. And so did our Peasant show himself among us } "a
264 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
soul like an jEolian harp, in whose strings the vulgar wind, as
it passed through them, changed itself into articulate melody."
And this was he for whom the world found no fitter busi-
ness than quarrelling with smugglers and vintners, computing
excise-dues upon tallow, and gauging ale-barrels ! In such toils
was that mighty Spirit sorrowfully wasted : and a hundred
years may pass on, before another such is given us to waste.
t *-* All that remains of Burns, the Writings he has left, seem
to us, as we hinted above, no more than a poor mutilated frac-
tion of what was in him ; brief, broken glimpses of a genius
that could never show itself complete ; that wanted all things
for completeness : culture, leisure, true effort, nay even length
of life. His poems are, with scarcely any exception, mere
occasional effusions ; poured forth with little premeditation ;
expressing, by such means as offered, the passion, opinion, or
humor of the hour. Never in one instance was it permitted
him to grapple with any subject with the full collection of his
strength, to fuse and mould it in the concentrated fire of his
genius. To try by the strict rules of Art such imperfect frag-
ments, would be at once unprofitable and unfair. Neverthe-
less, there is something in these poems, marred and defective
as they are, which forbids the most fastidious student of poetry
to pass them by. Some sort of enduring quality they must
have : for after fifty years of the wildest vicissitudes in poetic
taste, they still continue to be read ; nay, are read more and
more eagerly, more and more extensively ; and this not only
by literary virtuosos, and that class upon whom transitory
causes operate most strongly, but by all classes, down to the
most hard, unlettered and truly natural class, who i-ead little,
and especially no poetry, except because they find pleasure in
it. The grounds of so singidar and wide a popularity, which
extends, in a literal sense, from the palace to the hut, and
over all regions where the English tongue is spoken, are well
worth inquiring into. After every just deduction, it seems
to imply some rare excellence in these works. What is that
excellence ?
i To answer this question will not lead us far. The excel-
BURNS. 265
lence of Burns is, indeed, among the rarest, whether in poetry
or prose ; but, at the same time, it is plain and easily recognized :
his Sincerity, his indisputaLle air of Truth. Here are no fabu-
lous woes or joys ; no hollow fantastic sentimentalities ; no
wire-drawn retinings, either in thought or feeling : the passion
that is traced before us has glowed in a living heart; the
opinion he utters has risen in his own understanding, and
been a light to his own steps. He does not write from hear-
say, but from sight and experience ; it is the scenes that he
has lived and labored amidst, that he describes : those scenes,
rude and humble as they are, have kindled beautiful emotions
in his soul, noble thoughts, and definite resolves ; and he
speaks forth what is in him, not from any outward call of
vanit}^ or interest, but because his heart is too full to be silent.
He speaks it with such melody and modulation as he can ; " in
homely rustic jingle ; " but it is his own, and genuine. This
is the grand secret for finding readers and retaining them :
let him who would move and convince others, be first moved
and convinced himself. Horace's rule, Si vis me flere, is ap-
plicable in a wider sense than the literal one. To every
poet, to every writer, we might say : Be true, if you would
be believed. Let a man but speak forth with genuine ear-
nestness the thouglit, the emotion, the actual condition of
his own heart ; and other men, so strangely are we all knit
together by the tie of sympathy, must and will give heed to
him. In culture, in extent of view, we may stand above the
speaker, or below him ; but in either case, his words, if they
are earuest and sincere, will find some response within us ;
for in spite of all casual varieties in outward rank or in-
ward, as face answers to face, so does the heart of man to
man.
/? This may appear a very simple principle, and one which
Burns had little merit in discovering. True, the discovery
is easy enough : but the practical appliance is not easy ; is
indeed the fundamental difficulty which all poets have to
strive with, and which scarcely one in the hundred ever fairly
surmounts. A head too dull to discriminate the true from
the false ; a heart too dull to love the one at all risks, and to
2G6 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
hate the other in spite of all temptations, are alike fatal to
a ^vTite^. With either, or, as more commonly happens, with
both of these deficiencies combine a love of distinction, a wish
to be original, which is seldom wanting, and we have Affecta-
tion, the bane of literature, as Cant, its elder brother, is of
morals. How often does the one and the other front ns, in
poetry, as in life ! Great poets themselves are not always
free of this vice ; nay, it is precisely on a certain sort and
degree of greatness that it is most commonly ingrafted. A
strong effort after excellence will sometimes solace itself with
a mere shadow of success ; he who has much to unfold, will
sometimes unfold it imperfectly. Byron, for instance, was no
common man: yet if we examine his poetry with this view,
we shall find it far enough from faultless. Generally speak-
ing, we should say that it is not true. He refreshes us, not
with the divine fountain, but too often with vulgar strong
waters, stimulating indeed to the taste, but soon ending in
dislike, or even nausea. Are his Harolds and Giaours, we
would ask, real men ; we mean, poetically consistent and con-
ceivable men ? Do not these characters, does not the char-
acter of their author, which more or less shines through them
all, rather appear a thing put on for the occasion ; no natural
or possible mode of being, but something intended to look
much grander than nature ? Surely, all these stormful ago-
nies, this volcanic heroism, superhuman contempt and moody
desperation, with so much scowling, and teeth-gnashing, and
other sulphurous humor, is more like the brawling of a player
in some paltry tragedy, which is to last three hours, than tlie
bearing of a man in the business of life, which is to last three-
score and ten years. To our minds there is a taint of this
sort, something which we should call theatrical, false, affected,
in every one of these otherwise so powerful pieces. Perhaps
Don Juan, especially the latter parts of it, is the only thing
approaching to a sincere work, he ever wrote ; the only work
where he showed himself, in any measure, as he was ; and
seemed so intent on his subject as, for moments, to forget
himself. Yet Byron hated this vice ; we believe, heartily
detested it: nay he had declared formal war against it in
BURNS. 26T
words. So difficult is it even for the strongest to make this
primary attainment, which might seem the simplest of all:
to read its own consciousness without mistakes, without errors
involuntary or wilful ! We recollect no poet of Burns's sus-
ceptibility who comes before us from the first, and abides
with us to the last, with such a total want of affectation. He
is an honest man, and an honest writer. In his successes and
his failures, in his greatness and his littleness, he is ever clear,
simple, true, and glitters with no lustre but his own. We
reckon this to be a great virtue ; to be, in fact, the root o'f
most other virtues, literary as well as moral.
Here, however, let us say, it is to the Poetry of Burns that
we now allude ; to tliose writings which he had time to medi-
tate, and where no special reason existed to warp his critical
feeling, or obstruct his endeavor to fulfil it. Certain of his
Letters, and other fractions of prose composition, by no means
deserve this praise. Hei-e, doubtless, there is not the same
natural truth of style; but on the contrary, something not
only stiff, but strained and twisted ; a certain high-flown in-
flated tone ; the stilting emphasis of which contrasts ill with
the firmness and rugged simplicity of even his poorest verses.
Thus no man, it would appear, is altogether unaffected. Does
not Shakspeare himself sometimes premeditate the sheerest
bombast ! But even with regard to these Letters of Burns, it
is but fair to state that he liad two excuses. The first was his
comparative deficiency in language. Burns, though for most
part he writes with singular force and even gracefulness, is not
master of English prose, as he is of Scottish verse ; not master
of it, we mean, in proportion to the depth and vehemence of
his matter. These Letters strike us as the effort of a man to
express something which he has no organ fit for expressing.
But a second and weightier excuse is to be found in the
peculiarity of Burns's social rank. His coiTespondents are
often men whose relation to him he has never accurately
ascertained ; whom therefore he is either forearming himself
against, or else unconsciously flattering, by adopting the
style he thinks will please them. At all events, we should
remember that these faults, even in his Letters, are not
268 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
tlie rule, but the exception. Whenever he writes, as one
■would ever wish to do, to trusted friends and on real interests,
his style becomes simple, vigorous, expressive, sometimes
even beautiful. His letters to Mrs. Dunlop are uniformly
excellent.
I (J But we return to his Poetry. In addition to its Sincerity,
it has another peculiar merit, which indeed is but a mode, or
perhaps a means, of the foregoing : this displays itself in his
choice of subjects ; or rather in his indifference as to subjects,
and the power he has of making all subjects interesting. The
ordinary poet, like the ordinary man, is forever seeking in
external circumstances the help which can be found only in
himself. In what is familiar and near at hand, he discerns
no form or comeliness : home is not poetical but prosaic ; it is
in some past, distant, conventional heroic world, that poetry
resides ; were he there and not here, were he thus and not so,
it would be well with him. Hence our innumerable host of
rose-colored Novels and iron-mailed Epics, with their locality
not on the Earth, but somewhere nearer to the Moon. Hence
our Virgins of the Sun, and our Knights of the Cross, maliv
cious Saracens in turbans, and copper-colored Chiefs in wam-
pum, and so many other truculent figures from the heroic
times or the heroic climates, who on all hands swarm in our
fioetry. Peace be with them ! But yet, as a great moralist
proposed preaching to the men of this century, so would we
fain preach to the poets, " a sermon on the duty of staying at
home." Let them be sure that heroic ages and heroic climates
can do little for them. That form of life has attraction for
lis, less because it is better or nobler than our own, than
simply because it is different ; and even this attraction must
be of the most transient sort. For will not our own age, one
day, be an ancient one ; and have as quaint a costume as the
rest ; not contrasted with the rest, therefore, but ranked along
with them, in respect of quaintness ? Does Homer interest
us now, because he wrote of what passed beyond his native
Greece, and two centuries before he was born ; or because he
wrote what passed in God's world, and in the heart of man,
which is the same after thirty centuries ? Let our poets look
BURNS. 269
to this : is their feeling really finer, truer, and their vision
deeper than that of other men, — they have nothing to fear,
even from the humblest subject ; is it not so, — they have
nothing to hope, but an ephemeral favor, even from the
highest.
/<^ The poet, we imagine, can never have far to seek for a
subject : the elements of his art are in him, and around him
on every hand ; for him the Ideal world is not remote from
the Actual, but under it and within it : nay, he is a poet,
precisely because he can discern it there. Wherever there is
a sky above him, and a world around him, the poet is in his
place ; for here too is man's existence, with its infinite long-
ings and small acquirings ; its ever-thwarted, ever-renewed
endeavors ; its unspeakable aspirations, its fears and hopes
that wander through Eternity ; and all the mystery of bright-
ness and of gloom that it was ever made of, in any age or
climate, since man first began to live. Is there not the fifth
act of a Tragedy in every death-bed, though it were a peas-
ant's, and a bed of heath? And are wdoings and weddings
obsolete, that there can be Comedy no longer ? Or are men
suddenly grown wise, that Laughter must no longer shake his
sides, but be cheated of his Farce ? Man's life and nature is,
as it was, and as it will ever be. But the poet must have an
eye to read these things, and a heart to understand them ; or
they come and pass away before him in vain. He is a vates,
a seer; a gift of vision has been given him. Has life no
meanings for him, which another cannot equally decipher;
then he is no poet, and Delphi itself will not make him
one.
^/'„ In this respect, Burns, though not perhaps absolutely a
great poet, better manifests his capability, better proves the
truth of his genius, than if he had by his own strength kept
the whole Minerva Press going, to the end of his literary
course. He shows himself at least a poet of Nature's own
making; and Nature, after all, is still the grand agent in
making poets. We often hear of this and the other external
condition being requisite for the existence of a poet. Some-
times it is a certain sort of training ; he must have studied
&7Q CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
eertain things, studied for instance "the elder dramatists,"
and so learned a poetic language ; as if poetry lay in the
tongue, not in the heart. At other times we are told he must
be bred in a eertain rank, and must be on a confidential foot-
ing with the higher classes ; because, above all things, he must
see the world. As to seeing the world, we apprehend this
will cause him little difficulty, if he have but eyesight to see
it with. Without eyesight, indeed, the task might be hard.
The blind or the purblind man " travels from Dan to Beer-
sheba, and finds it all barren." But happily every poet is
born in the world ; and sees it,, with or against his will, every
day and every hour he lives. The mysterious workmanship
of man's heart, the true light and the inscrutable darkness of
man's destiny, reveal themselves not only in capital cities and
crowded saloons, but in every hut and hamlet where men
have their abode. Nay, do not the elements of all human
virtues and all human vices ; the passions at once of a Borgia
and of a Luther, lie written, in stronger or fainter lines, in
the consciousness of every individual bosom, that has prac-
tised honest self-examination ? Truly, this same world may
be seen in Mossgiel and Tarbolton, if we look well, as clearly
as it ever came to light in Crockford's, or the Tuileries
itself.
But sometimes still harder requisitions are laid on the poor
aspirant to poetry ; for it is hinted that he should have been
born two centuries ago ; inasmuch as poetry, about that date,
vanished from the earth, and became no longer attainable by
men ! Such cobweb speculations have, now and then, over-
hung the field of literature ; but they obstruct not the growth
of any plant there : the Shakspeare or the Burns, uncon-
sciously and merely as he walks onward, silently brushes
them away. Is not every genius an impossibility till he
appear ? Why do we call him new and original, if we saw
where his marble was lying, and what fabric he could rear
from it ? It is not the material but the workman that is
wanting. It is not the dark place that hinders, but the dim
eye. A Scottish peasant's life was the meanest and rudest of
all lives, till Burna became a poet ia it. and a poet of it;
BURNS. 271
found it a marCs life, and therefore significant to men. A
thousand battle-fields remain unsung ; but the Wounded Hare
has not perished without its memorial ; a balm of mercy yet
breathes on us from its dumb agonies, because a poet was
there. Our Halloween had passed and repassed, in rude awe
and laughter, since the era of the Druids ; but no Theocritus,
till Burns, discerned in it the materials of a Scottish Idyl :
neither was the Holy Fair any Council of Trent or Roman
Jtihilee ; but nevertheless, Superstition and Hypocrisy and Fun
having been propitious to him, in this man's hand it became
a poem, instinct with satire and genuine comic life. Let but
the true poet be given us, we repeat it, place him where and
how you will, and true poetry will not be wanting.
Independently of the essential gi£t of poetic feeling, as we
have now attempted to describe it, a certain rugged sterling
worth pervades whatever Burns has "written ; a virtue, as of
green fields and mountain breezes, dwells in his poetry ; it is
redolent of natural life and hardy natural men. There is a deci-
sive strength in him, and yet a sweet native gracefulness : he
is tender, he is vehement, yet without constraint or too visible
effort ; he melts the heart, or inflames it, with a power which
seems habitual and familiar to him. We see that in this man
there was the gentleness, the trembling pity of a woman, with
the deep earnestness, the force and passionate ardor of a hero.
Tears lie in him, and consuming fire ; as lightning lurks in the
drops of the summer cloud. He has a resonance in his bosom
for every note of human feeling ; the high and the low, the sad,
the ludicrous, the joyful, are welcome in their turns to his
" lightly moved and all-conceiving spirit." And observe with
what a fierce prompt force he grasps his subject, be it what it
may ! How he fixes, as it were, the full image of the matter
in his eye ; full and clear in every lineament ; and catches the
real type and essence of it, amid a thousand accidents and
superficial circumstances, no one of which misleads him ! Is
it of reason ; some truth to be discovered ? No sophistry, no
vain surface-logic detains him ; quick, resolute, unerring, he
pierces through into the marrow of the question ; and speaks
his verdict with an emphasis that cannot be forgotten. Is it
272 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
of description ; some visual object to be represented ? No poet
of any age or nation is more graphic than Burns : the character-
istic features disclose themselves to him at a glance ; three lines
from his hand, and we have a likeness. And, in that rough
dialect, in that rude, often awkward metre, so clear and defi-
nite a likeness ! It seems a draughtsman working with a burnt
stick ; and yet the burin of a Eetzsch is not more expressive
or exact.
/ ^ Of this last excellence, the plainest and most comprehensive
of all, being indeed the root and foundation of every sort of
talent, poetical or intellectual, we could produce innumerable
instances from the writings of Burns. Take these glimpses
of a snow-storm from his Winter Night (the italics are
ours) : — tt
"When "biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r,
And Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glowr
Far south the lift,
Dim-darkening thro' the flaky showW
Or whirling drift :
" Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd,
Poor labor sweet in sleep was lock'd,
While burns wi' snawy wreeths upchoVd
Wild-eddying swhirl,
Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd
Down headlong hurl."
Are there not " descriptive touches " here ? The describer
saiv this thing ; the essential feature and true likeness of
every circumstance in it ; saw, and not with the eye only.
" Poor labor locked in sweet sleep ; " the dead stillness of man,
unconscious, vanquislied, yet not unprotected, while such strife
of the material elements rages, and seems to reign supreme in
loneliness : this is of the heart as well as of the eye ! — Look
also at his image of a thaw, and propliesied fall of the Auld
Brig : —
" When heavy, dark, continued, a'- day rains
Wi' deepening deluges o'erliow the plains ;
(-;
BURNS. 273
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil,
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,
Or where the Greenoclc winds his moorland course,
Or haunted Garpal ^ draws his feeble source,
Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotting thowes,
In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes ;
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat,
Sweeps dams and mills and brigs a' to the gate ;
And from Gleubuck down to the Rottonkey,
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea;
Then down ye '11 hurl, Deil nor ye never rise !
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies.^^
The last line is in itself a Poussin-picture of that Deluge ! The
welkin has, as it were, bent down with its weight ; the " gumlie
jaups " and the " pouring skies " are mingled together ; it is
a world of rain and ruin. — hi respect of mere clearness and
minute fidelity, the Farmer^s commendation of his Auld Mare,
in plough or in cart, may vie with Homer's Smithy of the
C3'elops, or yoking of Priam's Chariot. Nor have we forgotten
stout Burn-the-wind and his brawny customers, inspired by
Scotch Drink : but it is needless to multiply examples. One
other trait of a much finer sort we select from multitudes of
such among his Songs. It gives, in a single line, to the saddest
feeling the saddest environment and local habitation :
" Tlie pale Moon is setting beyond the white wave,
And Time is setting tci' me, 0 ;
Farewell, false friends ! folse lover, farewell !
I '11 nae mair trouble them nor thee, 0."
This clearness of sight we have called the foundation of all
talent ; for in fact, unless we see our object, how shall we know
how to place or prize it, in our understanding, our imagination,
our affections ? Yet it is not in itself, perhajis, a very high
excellence ; but capable of being united indifferently with the
strongest, or with ordinary powers. Homer surpasses all men
in tliis quality : but strangely enough, at no great distance
below him are Richardson and Defoe. It belongs, in truth, to
1 Fabulonus Uydaspes !
VOL. XIII. lo
274 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
what is called a lively mind ; and gives no sure indication of
tlie higher endowments that may exist along with it. In all
the three cases we have mentioned, it is combined with great
garrulity ; their descriptions are detailed, ample and lovingly
exact ; Homer's fire bursts through, from time to time, as if by
accident ; but Defoe and Richardson have no fire. Burns, again,
is not more distinguished by the clearness than by the impetu-
ous force of his conceptions. Of the strength, the piercing
emphasis with which he thought, his emphasis of expression
may give a humble but the readiest proof. Who ever uttered
sharper sayings than his ; words more memorable, now by
their burning vehemence, now by their cool vigor and laconic
pith ? A single phrase depicts a whole subject, a whole scene.
We hear of " a gentleman that derived his patent of nobility
direct from Almighty God." Our Scottish forefathers in the
battle-field struggled forward " red-wat-shod : " in this one word,
a full vision of horror and carnage, perhaps too frightfully
accurate for Art !
y,^ In fact, one of the leading features in the mind of Burns is
this vigor of his strictly intellectual perceptions. A resolute
force is ever visible in his judgments, and in his feelings and
volitions. Professor Stewart says of him, with some surprise :
"All the faculties of Burns's mind were, as far as I could judge,
equally vigorous ; and his predilection for poetry was rather
the result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned temper,
than of a genius exclusively adapted to that species of compo-
sition. Erom his conversation I should have pronounced hira
to be fitted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he had
chosen to exert his abilities." But this, if we mistake not, is
at all times the very essence of a truly poetical endowment.
Poetry, except in, such cases as that of Keats, where the whole
consists in a weak-eyed maudlin sensibility, and a certain
vague random tunefulness of nnture, is no separate faculty,
no organ which can bo superadded to the rest, or disjoined
from them ; but rather the result of their general harmony
and completion. The feelings, the gifts that exist in the Poet
are those that exist, with more or less development, in every
human soul : the imagination, which shudders at the Hell of
BURNS. 275
Dante, is the same faculty, weaker in degree, which called that
picture into being. How does the Poet speak to men, with
power, but by being still more a man than they ? Shakspeare,
it has been well observed, in the planning and completing of
his tragedies, has shown an Understanding, were it nothing
more, which might have governed states, or indited a Novum
Organum. What Burns's force of understanding may have
been, we have less means of judging : it had to dwell among
the humblest objects ; never saw Philosophy ; never rose, ex-
cept by natural effort and for short intervals, into the region
of great ideas. Nevertheless, sufficient indication, if no proof
sufficient, remains for us in his Avorks : we discern the brawny
movements of a gigantic though untutored strength ; and can
understand how, in conversation, his quick sure insight into
men and things may, as much as aught else about him, have
amazed the best thinkers of his time and country.
5 But, unless we mistake, the intellectual gift of Burns is
fine as well as strong. The more delicate relations of things
could not well have escaped his eye, for they were intimately
present to his heart. The logic of the senate and the forum is
indispensable, but not all-sufficient ; nay perhaps the highest
Truth is that which will the most certainly elude it. For this
logic works by words, and "the highest," it has been said,
"cannot be expressed in words." "We are not without tokens
of an openness for this higher truth also, of a keen though un-
cultivated sense for it, having existed in Burns. Mr. Stewart^
it will be remembered, " wonders," in the passage above quoted,
that Burns had formed some distinct conception of the " doc-
trine of association." We rather think that far subtler things
than the doctrine of association had from of old been familiar
to him. Here for instance : —
A n. "We know nothing," thus writes he, "or next to notliing,
of the structure of our souls, so we cannot account for those
seeming caprices in them, that one should be i;articularly
pleased witli this thing, or struck with that, wliich, on minds
of a diiferent cast, makes no extraordinary impression. I have
some favorite flowers in spring, among which are the moun-
tain-daisy, the harebell, the foxglove, the wild-brier rose, the
276 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang
Qver with particular delight. I never hear the loud solitary
whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing
cadence of a troop of gray plover in an autumnal morning,
without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of de-
votion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this
be owing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the
^olian harp, passive, takes the impression of the passing acci- ^
dent ; or do these workings argue something within us above
the trodden clod ? I own myself partial to such proofs of
those awful and important realities : a God that made all
things, man's immaterial and immortal nature, and a world of
weal or woe beyond death and the grave."
1 A Force and fineness of understanding are often spoken of as
something different from general force and fineness af nature,
as something partly independent of them. The necessities
of language so require it ; but in truth these qualities are not
distinct and independent : except in special cases, and from
special causes, they ever go together. A man of strong under-
standing is generally a man of strong character ; neither is
delicacy in the one kind often divided from delicacy in the
other. No one, at all events, is ignorant that in the Poetry of
Burns keenness of insight keeps pace with keenness of feeling ;
that his Uffht is not more pervading than his warmth. He is a
man of the most impassioned temper ; with passions not strong
only, but noble, and of the sort in which great virtues and
great poems take their rise. It is reverence, it is love towards
all Nature that inspires him, that opens his eyes to its beauty,
and makes heart and voice eloquent in its praise. There is a
true old saying, that " Love furthers knowledge : " but above
all, it is the living essence of that knowledge which makes
poets ; the first principle of its existence, increase, activity.
Of Burns's fervid affection, his generous all-embracing Love,
we have spoken already, as of the grand distinction of his
nature, seen equally in word and deed, in his Life and in his
Writings. It were easy to multiply examples. Not man only,
but all that environs man in the material and moral universe,
is lovely in his sight : " the hoary hawthorn," the " troop of
BURNS. 277
gray plover," the " solitary curlew," all are dear to him ; all
live in this Earth along with him, and to all he is knit as in
mysterious brotherhood. How touching is it, for instance,
that, amidst the gloom of personal misery, brooding over the
wintry desolation without him and within him, he thinks of
the " ourie cattle " and " silly sheep," and their sufferings in
the pitiless storm !
" I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha hide this brattle
0' wintry war,
Or thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,
Beneath a scaur.
Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing,
That in the merry montlis o' spring
Dehghted me to hear thee sing.
What comes o' thee ?
Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,
And close thy ee 1 "
The tenant of the mean hut, with its " ragged roof and chinky
wall," has a heart to pity even these ! This is worth several
homilies on Mercy ; for it is the voice of Mercy herself.
Burns, indeed, lives in sympathy ; his soul rushes forth into
all realms of being ; nothing that has existence can be in-
different to him. The very Devil he cannot hate with right
orthodoxy : —
" But fare you weol, auld Nickie-ben;
0, wad ye tak a thought and men' I
Ye aiblins might, — I dinna ken, —
Still hae a stake ;
I'm wae to think upo' yon den,
Even for your sake ! "
" He is the father of curses and lies," said Dr. Slop ; " and is
cursed and damned already." — "I am sorry for it," quoth my
uncle Toby ! — A Poet without Love were a physical and
metaphysical impossibility.
^ But has it not been said, in contradiction to this principle,
that " Indignation makes verses " ? It has been so said, and
278 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
is true enough: but the contradiction is apparent, not real.
The Indignation which makes verses is, properly speaking, an
inverted Love ; the love of some right, some worth, some good-
ness, belonging to ourselves or others, which has been injured,
and which this tempestuous feeling issues forth to defend and
avenge. No selfish fury of heart, existing there as a primary
feeling, and without its opposite, ever produced much Poetry :
otherwise, we suppose, the Tiger were the most musical of all
our choristers. Johnson said, he loved a good hater ; by which
he must have meant, not so much one that hated violently, as
one that hated wisely ; hated baseness from love of nobleness.
However, in spite of Johnson's paradox, tolerable enough for
once in speech, but which need not have been so often adopted
in print since then, we rather believe tliat good men deal spar-
ingly in hatred, either wise or unwise : nay that a " good ''
hater is still a desideratum in this world. The Devil, at least,
who passes for the chief and best of that class, is said to be
nowise an amiable character.
/) J Of the verses which Indignation makes. Burns has also given
us specimens : and among the best that were ever given. Who
will forget his " Dweller in yon Dungeon dark ; " a piece that
might have been chanted by the Puries of ^schylus ? The
secrets of the infernal Pit are laid bare ; a boundless baleful
" darkness visible ; " and streaks of hell-fire quivering madly
in its black haggard bosom ! —
" Dweller in yon Dungeon dark,
Hangman of Creation, mark !
Who in widow's weeds appears.
Laden with unhonored years.
Noosing with care abursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse ! "
>r Why should we speak of Scots wha hae fvV Wallace hied ;
since all know of it, from the king to the meanest of his sub-
jects ? This dithyrambic was composed on horseback; in
riding in the middle of tempests, over the wildest Galloway
moor, in company with a Mr. Syme, who, observing the poet's
looks, forbore to speak, — judiciously enough, for a man com-
posing Bruce's Address might be unsafe to trifle with. Doubt-
BURNS. 279
less this stern hymn was singing itself, as lie formed it, through
the soul of Burns : but to the external ear, it should be sung
with the throat of the whirlwind. So long as there is warm
blood in the heart of Scotchman or man, it will move in fierce
thrills under this war-ode ; the best, we believe, that was ever
written by any pen.
Another Avild stormful Song, that dwells in our ear and mind
with a strange tenacity, is Macpherson's Fareicell. Perhaps
there is something in the tradition itself that co-operates.
For was not this grim Celt, this shaggy Northland Cacus, that
" lived a life of sturt and strife, and died by treacherie," —
was not he too one of the Nimrods and Napoleons of the earth,
in the arena of his own remote misty glens, for want of a
clearer and wider one ? Nay, was there not a touch of grace
given him? A fibre of love and softness, of poetry itself,
must have lived in his savage heart : for he composed that air
the night before his execution ; on the wings of that poor
melody his better soul would soar away above oblivion, pain
and all the ignominy and despair, which, like an avalanche,
was hurling him to the abyss ! Here also, as at Thebes, and in
Pelops' line, was material Fate matched against man's Free-
will ; matched in bitterest though obscure duel ; and the
ethereal soul sank not, even in its blindness, without a cry
which has survived it. But who, except Burns, could have
given words to such a soul ; words that we never listen to with-
out a strange half-barbarous, half-poetic fellow-feeling ?
" Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sne dauntinghi gned he ;
He phiy'd a spring, and danced it round,
Below the gallows-tree."
' Under a lighter disguise, the same principle of Love, which
we have recognized as the great characteristic of Burns, and
of all true poets, occasionally manifests itself in the shape of
Humor. Everywhere, indeed, in his sunny moods, a full buoy-
ant flood of mirth rolls through the mind of Burns ; he rises
to the high, and stoops to the low, and is brother and playmate
to all Nature. We speak not of his bold and often irresistible
280 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
faculty of caricature ; for this is Drollery rather than Humor :
but a much tenderer sportfulness dwells in him ; and comes
forth here and there, in evanescent and beautiful touches ; as
in his Address to the House, or the farmer's Mare, or in his
Elegy on poor Mailie, which last may be reckoned his happiest
effort of this kind. In these pieces there are traits of a Humor
as fine as that of Sterne ; yet altogether different, original,
peculiar, — the Humor of Burns.
;) <'■ Of the tenderness, the playful pathos, and many other kin-
dred qualities of Burns's Poetry, much more might be said;
but now, with these poor outlines of a sketch, we must prepare
to quit this part of our subject. To speak of his individual
Writings, adequately and with any detail, would lead us far
beyond our limits. As already hinted, we can look on but
few of these pieces as, in strict critical language, deserving the
name of Poems : they are rhymed eloqiience, rhymed pathos,
rhymed sense ; yet seldom essentially melodious, aerial, poeti-
cal. Tam 6' Shanter itself, which enjoys so high a favor, does
not appear to us at all decisively to come under this last cate-
gory. It is not so much a poem, as a piece of sparkling
rhetoric ; the heart and body of the story still lies hard and
dead. He has not gone back, much less carried us back, into
that dark, earnest, wondering age, when the tradition was be-
lieved, and when it took its rise ; he does not attempt, by any
new-modelling of his supernatural ware, to strike anew that
deep mysterious chord of human nature, which once responded
to such things ; and which lives in us too, and will forever
live, though silent now, or vibrating with far other notes, and
to far different issues. Our German readers will understand
us, when we say, that he is not the Tieck but the jNIusaus of
this tale. Externally it is all green and living ; yet look
closer, it is no firm growth, but only ivy on a rock. The piece
does not properly cohere : the strange chasm which yawns in
our incredulous imaginations between the Ayr public-house
and the gate of Tophet, is nowhere bridged over, nay the idea
of such a bridge is laughed at ; and thus the Tragedy of the
adventure becomes a mere drunken phantasmagoria, or many-
colored spectrum painted on ale-vapors, and the Farce alone
BURNS. 281
has any reality. We do not say that Burns should have made
much more of this tradition ; we rather think that, for strictly
poetical purposes, not much was to be made of it. Neither
are we blind to the deep, varied, genial power displayed in
what he has actually accomplished ; but we find far more
" Shakspearean " qualities, as these of Tarn o' Shunter have
been fondly named, in many of his other pieces ; nay we in-
cline to believe that this latter might have been written, all
but quite as well, by a man who, in place of genius, had only
possessed talent.
i. ^Perhaps we may venture to say, that the most strictly
poetical of all his ''poems" is one which does not appear in
Currie's Edition ; but has been often printed before and since,
under the humble title of The Jolly Beggars. The subject
truly is among the lowest in ]S"ature ; but it only the more
shows our Poet's gift in raising it into the domain of Art.
To our minds, this piece seems thoroughly compacted ; melted
together, refined ; and poured forth in one flood of true liquid
harmony. It is light, airy, soft of movement ; yet sharp and
precise in its details ; every face is a portrait : that raucle
carlin, that wee Apollo, that Son of liars, are Scottish, yet
ideal ; the scene is at once a dream, and the very Kagcastle of
" Poosie-Xansic." Farther, it seems in a considerable degree
complete, a real self-supporting "Whole, which is the highest
merit in a poem. The blanket of the Xight is drawn asunder
for a moment ; in full, ruddy, flaming light, these rough tatter-
demalions are seen in their boisterous revel; for the strong
pulse of Life vindicates its right to gladness even here ; and
when the curtain closes, we prolong the action, without effort ;
the next day as the last, our Caird and our Balladmonger are
singing and soldiering ; their " brats and callets " are hawk-
ing, begging, cheating ; and some other night, in new com-
binations, they will wring from Fate another hour of wassail
and good cheer. Apart from the universal sympathy with
man which this again bespeaks in Burns, a genuine inspiration
and no inconsiderable technical talent are manifested here.
There is the fidelity, humor, warm life and accurate painting
and grouping of some Teniers, for whom hostlers and carous-
282 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
jng peasants are not without significance. It would be strange,
doubtless, to call this the best of Burns's writings : we mean
to say only, that it seems to us the most perfect of its kind,
as a piece of poetical composition, strictly so called. In the
Beggars' Opera, in the Beggars' Bush, as other critics have
already remarked, there is nothing which, in real poetic vigor,
equals this Cantata ; nothing, as we think, which comes within
many degrees of it.
But by far the most finished, complete and truly inspired
pieces of Burns are, without dispute, to be found among his
Songs. It is here that, although through a small aperture, his
light shines with least obstruction; in its highest beauty and
pure sunny clearness. The reason may be, that Song is a brief
simple species of composition ; and requires nothing so much for
its perfection as genuine poetic feeling, genuine music of heart.
Yet the Song has its rules equally with the Tragedy ; rules
which in most cases are poorly fulfilled, in many cases are
not so much as felt. We might write a long essay on the
Songs of Burns ; which we reckon by far the best that Britain
has yet produced : for indeed, since the era of Queen Elizabeth,
we know not that, by any other hand, aught truly worth at-
tention has been accomplished in this department. True, we
have songs enough " by persons of quality ; " we have tawdry,
hollow, wine-bred madrigals ; many a rhymed speech " in the
flowing and watery vein of Ossorius the Portugal Bishop,"
rich in sonorous words, and, for moral, dashed perhaps with
Borae tint of a sentimental sensuality ; all which many per-
sons cease not from endeavoring to sing; though for most
part, we fear, the music is but from the throat outwards, or
at best from some region far enough short of the Soul ; not
in which, but in a certain inane Limbo of the Fancy, or even
in some vaporous debatable-land on the outskirts of the
Nervous System, most of such madrigals and rhymed speeches
seem to have originated.
With the Songs of Burns we must not name these things.
Independently of the clear, manly, heartfelt sentiment that
ever pervades his poetry, his Songs are honest in another
BURNS. 283
point of view: in form, as well as in spirit. They do not
affect to be set to music, but they actually and in themselves
are music ; they have received their life, and fashioned them-
selves together, in the medium of Harmony, as Venus rose
from the bosom of the sea. The story, the feeling, is not
detailed, but suggested ; not said, or spouted, in rhetorical
completeness and coherence ; but sung, in iitful gushes, in
glowing hints, in fantastic breaks, in warblings not of the
voice only, but of the whole mind. We consider this to be
the essence of a song ; and that no songs since the little care-
less catches, and as it were drops of song, which Shakspeare
has here and there sprinkled over his Plays, fulfil this condi-
tion in nearly the same degree as most of Burns's do. Such
grace and truth of external movement, too, presupposes in
general a corresponding force and truth of sentiment and
inward meaning. The Songs of Burns are not more perfect
in the former quality than in the latter. With what tender-
ness he sings, yet with what vehemence and entireness ! There
is a piercing wail in his sorrow, the purest rapture in his joy ;
he burns with the sternest ire, or laughs with the loudest or
slyest mirth ; and yet he is sweet and soft, " sweet as the smile
when fond lovers meet, and soft as their parting tear." If
we farther take into account the immense variety of his sub-
jects ; how, from the loud flowing revel in Willie brewed a
Peck o' Maut, to the still, rapt enthusiasm of sadness for
Mary in Heaven ; from the glad kind greeting of Auld Lang
Syne, or the comic archness of Duncan Gray, to the fire-eyed
fury of Scots wha hoe wH Wallace hied, he has found a tone
and words for every mood of man's heart, — it will seem a
small praise if we rank him as the first of all our Song-
writers ; for we know not where to find one worthy of being
second to him.
y; n It is on his Songs, as we believe, that Burns's chief influence
as an autlior will ultimately be found to depend : nor, if our
Fletcher's aphorism is true, shall we account this a small in-
fluence. *' Let me make the songs of a people," said he, " and
3'ou shall make its laws." Surely, if ever any Poet might
have equalled himself with Legislators on this ground, it was
284 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Burns. His Songs are already part of the mother-tongue, not
of Scotland only but of Britain, and of the millions that in
all ends of the earth speak a British language. In hut and
hall, as the heart unfolds itself in many-colored joy and woe
of existence, the name, the voice of that joy and that woe, is
the name and voice which Burns has given them. Strictly
speaking, perhaps no British man has so deeply affected the
thoughts and feelings of so many men, as this solitary and
altogether private individual, with means apparently the
humblest.
^ / In another point of view, moreover, we incline to think that
" I Burns's influence may have been considetable : we mean, as
exerted specially on the Literature of his country, at least on
the Literature of Scotland. Among the great changes which
British, particularly Scottish literature, has undergone since
that period, one of the greatest will be found to consist in its
remarkable increase of nationality. Even the English writers,
most popular in Burns's time, were little distinguished for
their literary patriotism, in this its best sense. A certain
attenuated cosmopolitanism had, in good measure, taken place
of the old insular home-feeling ; literature Avas, as it were,
without any local environment ; was not nourished by the
affections which spring from a native soil. Our Grays and
Glovers seemed to write almost as if iji vacuo ; the thing
written bears no mark of place ; it is not written so much
for Englishmen, as for men ; or rather, which is the inevitable
result of this, for certain Generalizations which philosophy
termed men. Goldsmith is an exception ; not so Johnson ;
the scene of his Rambler is little more English than that of
his Rasselas.
^ ^ But if such was, in some degree, the case with England, it
^ was, in the highest degree, the case with Scotland. In fact,
our Scottish literature had, at that period, a very singular
aspect ; unexampled, so far as we know, except perhaps at
Geneva, where the same state of matters appears still to con-
tinue. For a long period after Scotland became British, we
had no literature : at the date when Addison and Steele were
writing their Spectators, our good Thomas Boston was writing,
BURNS. 286
with the noblest intent, but alike in defiance of grammar and
philosophy, his Fourfold State of Man. Then came the schisms
in our National Church, and the fiercer schisms in our Body-
Politic : Theologic ink, and Jacobite blood, with gall enough in
both cases, seemed to have blotted out the intellect of the
country : however, it was only obscured, not obliterated. Lord
Kames made nearly the first attempt at writing English ; and
ere long, Hume, Kobertson, Smith, and a whole host of fol-
lowers, attracted hither the eyes of all Europe. And yet in
this brilliant resuscitation of our "fervid genius," there was
nothing truly Scottish, nothing indigenous ; except, perhaps,
the natural impetuosity of intellect, which we sometimes
claim, and are sometimes upbraided with, as a characteristic
of our nation. It is curious to remark that Scotland, so full
of writers, had no Scottish culture, nor indeed any English ;
our culture was almost exclusively French. It was by study-
ing Racine and Voltaire, Batteux and Boileau, that Kames had
trained himself to be a critic and philosopher ; it was the light
of Montesquieu and jMably that guided Robertson in his politi-
cal speculations ; Quesnay's lamp that kindled the lamp of
Adam Smith. Hume was too rich a man to borrow ; and per-
haps he reacted on the French more than he was acted on by
them : but neither had he aught to do with Scotland ; Edin-
burgh, equally with La Fleche, was but the lodging and labora-
tory, in which he not so much morally lived, as metaphysically
investigated. iSTever, perhaps, was there a class of writers so
clear and well-ordered, yet so totally destitute, to all appear-
ance, of any patriotic affection, nay of any human affection
whatever. The French wits of the period were as unpatriotic :
but their general deficiency in moral principle, not to say their
avowed sensuality and unbelief in all virtue, strictly so called,
render this accountable enough. We hope, there is a patriot-
ism founded on something better than prejudice ; that our coun-
try may be dear to us, without injury to our philosoj)hy ; that
in loving and justly prizing all other lands, we may prize
justly, and yet love before all others, our own stern Mother-
land, and the venerable Structure of social and moral Life,
which Mind has through long ages been building up for U3
286 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
there. Surely there is nourishment for the better part of
man's heart in all this : surely the roots, that have fixed them-
selves in the very core of man's being, may be so cultivated as
to grow up not into briers, but into roses, in the field of his
life ! Our Scottish sages have no such propensities : the field
of their life shows neither briers nor roses ; but only a flat,
continuous thrashing-floor for Logic, whereon all questions,
from the " Doctrine of Rent " to the " Natural History of
Religion," are thrashed and sifted with the same mechanical
impartiality !
■&j With Sir Walter Scott at the head of our literature, it can-
not be denied that much of this evil is past, or rapidly passing
away : our chief literary men, whatever other faults they may
have, no longer live among us like a French Colony, or some
knot of Propaganda Missionaries ; but like natural-born sub-
jects of the soil, partaking and sympathizing in all our attach-
ments, humors and habits. Our literature no longer grows in
water but in mould, and with the true racy virtues of the soil
and climate. How much of this change may be due to Burns,
or to any other individual, it might be difficult to estimate.
Direct literary imitation of Burns was not to be looked for.
But his example, in the fearless adoption of domestic subjects,
could not but operate from afar ; and certainly in no heart did
the love of country ever burn with a warmer glow than in that
of Burns : " a tide of Scottish prejudice," as he modestly calls
this deep and generous feeling, " had been poured along his
veins ; and he felt that it would boil there till the flood-gates
shut in eternal rest." It seemed to him, as if he could do so
little for his country, and yet would so gladly have done all.
One small province stood open for him, — that of Scottish
Song ; and how eagprly he entered on it, how devotedly ho
labored there ! In liis toilsome journeyin;::s, this object never
quits him ; it is the little happy-valley of his careworn heart.
In the gloom of his own aiflietion, he eagerly searches after
some lonely brother of the muse, and rejoices to snatch
one other name from the oblivion that was covering it !
These were early feelings, and they abode with him to the
end : —
BUENS. 287
"... A wish (I mind its power),
A wish, that to my latest hour
Will strongly heave ray breast, —
That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake.
Some useful plau or book could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
" The rough bur Thistle spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn'd my weeding-clips aside.
And spared the symbol dear."
'^'] But to leave the mere literary character of Burns, which has
already detained us too long. Far more interesting than any
of his written works, as it appears to us, are his acted ones :
the Life he willed and was fated to lead among his fellow-men.
These Poems are but like little rhymed fragments scattered
here and there in the grand unrhymed Romance of his earthly
existence ; and it is only when intercalated in this at their
proper places, that they attain their full measure of signifi-
cance. And this too, alas, was but a fragment ! The plan of
a mighty edifice had been sketched ; some columns, porticos,
firm masses of building, stand completed ; the rest more or
less clearly indicated ; with many a far-stretching tendency,
which only studious and friendly eyes can now trace towards
the purposed termination. For the work is broken off in the
middle, almost in the beginning; and rises among us, beautiful
and sad, at once unfinished and a ruin ! If charitable judg-
ment was necessary in estimating his Poems, and justice
required that the aim and the manifest power to fulfil it must
often be accepted for the fulfilment; much more is this the case
in regard to his Life, the sum and result of all his endeavors,
where his difficulties came upon him not in detail only, but in
mass ; and so much has been left unaccomplished, nay was
mistaken, and altogether marred.
Properly speaking, there is but one era in the life of Burns,
and that the earliest. We have not youth and manhood, but
only youth : for, to the end, we discern no decisive change in
the complexion of his character ; in his thirty-seventh year, he
is still, as it were, in youth. With all that resoluteness of
288 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
judgment, that penetrating insight, and singular maturity
of intellectual power, exhibited in his wi-itings, he never
attains to any clearness regarding himself ; to the last, he
never ascertains his peculiar aim, even with such distinctness
as is common among ordinary men ; and therefore never can
pursue it with that singleness of will, which insures success
and some contentment to such men. To the last, he wavers
between two purposes : glorying in his talent, like a true poet,
he yet cannot consent to make this his chief and sole glory,
and to follow it as the one thing needful, through poverty or
riches, through good or evil report. Another far meaner ambi-
tion still cleaves to him ; he must dream and struggle about
a certain " Rock of Independence ; " which, natural and even
admirable as it might be, was still but a warring with the
world, on the comparatively insignificant ground of his being
more completely or less completely supplied Avith money than
others ; of his standing at a higher or at a lower altitude in
general estimation than others. For the world still appears
to him, as to the young, in borrowed colors : he expects from
it what it cannot give to any man ; seeks for contentment, not
within himself, in action and wise effort, but from without, in
the kindness of circumstances, in love, friendship, honor, pecu-
niary ease. He would be happy, not actively and in himself,
but passively and from some ideal cornucopia of Enjoyments,
not earned by his own labor, but showered on him by the
beneficence of Destiny. Thas, like a j'oung man, he cannot
gird himself up for any worthy well-calculated goal, but
swerves to and fro, between passionate hope and remorseful
disappointment : rushing onwards with a deep tempestuous
force, he surmounts or breaks asunder many a barrier; travels,
nay advances far, but advancing only under uncertain guid-
ance, is ever and anon turned from his path ; and to the last
cannot reach the only true happiness of a man, that of clear
decided Activity in the sphere for which, by nature and cir-
cumstances, he has been fitted and apj)ointed.
We do not say these things in dispraise of Burns ; nay, per-
haps, they but interest us the more in his favor. This blessing
is not given soonest to the best; but rather, it is often the
BURNS. 289
greatest minds that are latest in obtaining it ; for where most
is to be developed, most time may be required to develop it.
A complex condition had been assigned him from without ; as
complex a condition from within : no " pre-established har-
mony" existed between the clay soil of Mossgiel and the
empyrean soul of Robert Burns ; it was not wonderful that
the adjustment between them should have been long post-
poned, and his arm long cumbered, and his sight confused, in
so vast and discordant an economy as he had been appointed
steward over. Byron was, at his death, but a year younger
than Burns ; and through life, as it might have appeared, far
more simply situated : yet in him too we can trace no such
adjustment, no such moral manhood; but at best, and only a
little before his end, the beginning of what seemed such.
By much the most striking incident in Burns's Life is his
journey to Edinburgh ; but perhaps a still more important one
is his residence at Irvine, so early as in his twenty-third year.
Hitherto his life had been poor and toilworn ; but otherwise
not ungenial, and, with all its distresses, by no means unhappy.
In his parentage, deducting outward circumstances, he had
every reason to reckon himself fortunate. His father was a
man of thoughtful, intense, earnest character, as the best of
our peasants are ; valuing knowledge, possessing some, and,
what is far better and rarer, open-minded for more ; a man
with a keen insight and devout heart ; reverent towards God,
friendly therefore at once, and fearless towards all that God
has made : in one word, though but a hard-handed peasant, a
complete and fully unfolded Man. Such a father is seldom
found in any rank in society ; and was worth descending far
in society to seek. Unfortunately, he was very poor ; had he
been even a little richer, almost never so little, the whole
might have issued far otherwise. Mighty events turn on a
straw ; the crossing of a brook decides the conquest of the
world. Had this William Burns's small seven acres of nur-
sery-ground anywise prospered, the boy Robert had been sent
to school ; had struggled forward, as so many weaker men do,
to some university ; come forth not as a rustic wonder, but as
a regular well-trained intellectual workman, and changed the
TOL. XIII. 19
290 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
whole course of British Literature, — for it lay in him to have
done this ! But the nursery did not prosper ; poverty sank
his whole family below the help of even our cheap school-
system : Burns remained a hard- worked ploughboy, and British
literature took its own course. Nevertheless, even in this
rugged scene there is much to nourish him. If he drudges, it
is with his brother, and for his father and mother, whom he
loves, and would faiij shield from want. Wisdom is not ban-
ished from their poor hearth, nor the balm of natural feeling :
the solemn words, Let us worship God, are heard there from a
" priest-like father ; " if threatenings of unjust men throw
mother and children into tears, these ai"e tears not of grief
only, but of holiest affection ; every heart in that humble group
feels itself the closer knit to every other ; in their hard war-
fare they are there together, a "little band of brethren."
Neither are such tears, and the deep beauty that dwells in
them, their only portion. Light visits the hearts as it does
the eyes of all living : there is a force, too, in this youth, that
enables him to trample on misfortune ; nay to bind it under
his feet to make him sport. For a bold, warm, buoyant humor
of character has been given him; and so the thick-coming
shapes of evil are welcomed with a gay, friendly irony, and
in their closest pressure he bates no jot of heart or hope.
Vague yearnings of ambition fail not, as he grows up ; dreamy
fancies hang like cloud-cities around him ; the curtain of Ex-
istence is slowly rising, in many-colored splendor and gloom :
and the auroral light of first love is gilding his horizon, and
the music of song is on his path ; and so he walks
" .... in glory and in joy,
Behind his plough, upon tlie mountain side."
•^ ' We ourselves know, from the best evidence, that up to this
date Burns was happy ; nay that he was the gayest, brightest,
most fantastic, fascinating being to be found in the world ;
more so even than he ever afterwards appeared. But now,
at this early age, he quits the paternal roof; goes forth into
looser, louder, more exciting society ; and becomes initiated in
those dissipations, tliose vices, which a certain class of philoso-
BURNS. 291
phers have asserted to be a natural preparative for entering on
active life ; a kind of mud-bath, in which the youth is, as it
were, necessitated to steep, and, we suppose, cleanse himself,
before the real toga of Manhood can be laid on him. We shall
not dispute much with this class of philosophers ; we hope
they are mistaken : for Sin and Remorse so easily beset us at
all stages of life, and are always such indifferent company,
that it seems hard we should, at any stage, be forced and fated
not only to meet but to yield to them, and even serve for a
term in their leprous armada. We hope it is not so. Clear
we are, at all events, it cannot be the training one receives in
this Devil's-service, but only our determining to desert frora
it, that fits us for true manly Action. We become men, not
after we have been dissipated, and disappointed in the chase
of false pleasure ; but after we have ascertained, in any way,
what impassable barriers hem us in through this life ; how
mad it is to hope for contentment to our infinite soul from the
gifts of this extremely finite world ; that a man must be suffi-
cient for himself; and that for suffering and enduring there
is no remedy but striving and doing. Manhood begins when
we have in any way made truce with Necessity ; begins even
when we have surrendered to Necessity, as the most part
only do ; but begins joyfully and hopefully only when we
have reconciled ourselves to Necessity ; and thus, in reality,
triumphed over it, and felt that in Necessity we are free.
Surely, such lessons as this last, which, in one shape or other,
is the grand lesson for every mortal man, are better learned
from the lips of a devout mother, in the looks and actions
of a devout father, while the heart is yet soft and pliant, than
in collision with the sharp adamant of Fate, attracting us to
shipwreck us, when the heart is grown hard, and may be broken
before it will become contrite. Had Burns continued to learn
this, as he was already learning it, in his father's cottage, he
would have learned it fully, which he never did ; and been
saved many a lasting aberration, many a bitter hour and year
of remorseful sorrow.
It seems to us another circumstance of fatal import in
Burns's history, that at this time too he became involved in
292 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
the religious quarrels of his district ; that he was enlisted and
feasted, as the fighting man of the New-Light Priesthood, in
their highly unprofitable warfare. At the tables of these
free-minded clergy he learned much more than was needful
for him. Such liberal ridicule of fanaticism awakened in his
mind scruples about Religion itself ; and a whole world of
Doubts, which it required quite another set of conjurers than
these men to exorcise. We do not say that such an intellect
as his could have escaped similar doubts at some period of
his history ; or even that he could, at a later period, have come
through them altogether victorious and unharmed: but it
seems peculiarly unfortunate that this time, above all others,
should have been fixed for the encounter. For now, with
■principles assailed by evil example from without, by "pas-
sions raging like demons " from within, he had little need of
sceptical misgivings to whisper treason in the heat of the bat-
tle, or to cut off his retreat if he were already defeated. He
loses his feeling of innocence; his mind is at variance with
itself; the old divinity no longer presides there; but wild
Desires and wild Repentance alternately oppress him. Ere
long, too, he has committed himself before the world; his
character for sobriety, dear to a Scottish peasant as few cor-
rupted worldlings can even conceive, is destroyed in the eyes
of men ; and his only refuge consists in trying to disbelieve
his guiltiness, and is but a refuge of lies. The blackest des-
peration now gathers over him, broken only by red lightnings
of remorse. The whole fabric of his life is blasted asunder ;
for now not only his character, but his personal liberty, is to
be lost ; men and Fortune are leagued for his hurt ; " hungry
Kuin has him in the wind." He sees no escape but the sad-
dest of all : exile from his loved country, to a country in every
sense inhospitable and abhorrent to him. While the " gloomy
night is gathering fast," in mental storm and solitude, as well
as in physical, he sings his wild farewell to Scotland : —
" Farewell, my friends ; farewell, my foes !
My peace with these, my love with those :
The bursting tears my heart declare ;
Adieu, my native banks of Ayr ! "
BURNS. -293
!^!'y Light breaks suddenly in on him in floods ; but still a false
transitory light, and no real sunshine. He is invited to Edin-
burgh ; hastens thither with anticipating heart ; is welcomed
as in a triumph, and with universal blandishment and acclama/-
tion; whatever is wisest, whatever is greatest or loveliest
there, gathers round him, to gaze on his face, to show him
honor, sympathy, aifection. Burns's appearance among the
sages and nobles of Edinburgh must be regarded as one of the
most singular phenomena in modern Literature ; almotst like
the appearance of some Napoleon among the crowned sov-
ereigns of modern Politics. For it is nowise as " a mockery
king," set there by favor, transiently and for a purpose, that
he will let himself be treated ; still less is he a mad Kienzi,
whose sudden elevation turns his too weak head : but he stands
there on his own basis ; cool, unastonished, holding his equal
rank from Isature herself ; putting forth no claim v/hich
there is not strength in him, as well as about him, to vin-
dicate. Mr. Lockhart has some forcible observations on this
point : —
^ -2 " It needs no effort of imagination," says he, " to conceive
"what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all
either clergymen or professors) must have been in the presence
of this big-boned, black-browed, brawny stranger, with bis
great flashing eyes, who, having forced his way among tnem
from the plough-tail at a single stride, manifested in the whole
strain of his bearing and conversation a most thorough convic-
tion, that in the society of the most eminent men of his nation
he was exactly where he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned
to flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of
being flattered by their notice ; by turns calmly measured
himself against the most cultivated understandings of his time
in discussion ; overpowered the bon-viots of the most celebrated
convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with
all the burning life of genius ; astounded bosoms habitually
enveloped in the thrice-piled folds of social reserve, by com-
pelling them to tremble, — nay, to tremble visibly, — beneath
the fearless touch of natural pathos ; and all this without indi-
cating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those pro-
294 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
fessional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid
in money and smiles for doing what the spectators and audi-
tors would be ashamed of doing in their own persons, even if
they had the power of doing it ; and last, and probably worst
of all, who was known to be in the habit of enlivening socie-
ties which they would have scorned to approach, still more
frequently than their own, with eloquence no less magnificent ; :
with wit, in all likelihood still more daring ; often enough, as
the superiors whom he fronted without alarm might have
guessed from the beginning, and had ere long no occasion to
guess, with wit pointed at themselves."
The farther we remove from this scene, the more singular
will it seem to us : details of the exterior aspect of it are
already full of interest. Most readers recollect Mr. Walker's
personal interviews with Burns as among the best passages
of his Narrative : a time will come when this reminiscence
of Sir Walter Scott's, slight though it is, will also be pre-
cious : —
^! i^ "As for Burns," writes Sir Walter, "I may truly say, Vir-
ff ilium vidi tantum. I was a lad of fifteen in 1786-87, when ho
came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and feeling enough to
be much interested in his poetry, and would have given the
world to know him : but I had very little acquaintance with
any literary people, and still less with the gentry of the west
country, the two sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas
Grierson was at that time a clerk of my father's. He knew
Burns, and promised to ask him to his lodgings to dinner ; but
had no opportunity to keep his word ; otherwise I might have
seen more of this distinguished man. As it was, I saw him
one day at the late venerable Professor Ferguson's, where
there were several gentlemen of literary reputation, among
whoin I remember the celebrated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of
course, we youngsters sat silent, looked and listened. The
only thing I remember wliich was remarkable in Burns's man-
ner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's,
representing a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog sitting
in misery on one side, — on the other, his widow, with a child
in her arms. These lines were written beneath : —
BURNS. 295
' Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain.
Perhaps that mother wept her soldier slain ;
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew.
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew.
Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The cliild of misery baptized in tears.'
" Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather by the
ideas which it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears.
He asked whose the lines were ; and it chanced that nobody
but myself remembered that they occur in a half-forgotten
poem of Langhorne's called by the unpromising title of * The
Justice of Peace.' I whispered my information to a friend
present ; he mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a
look and a word, which, though of mere civility, I then re-
ceived and still recollect with very great pleasure.
^■^ "His person was strong and robust ; his manners rustic, not
clownish ; a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which
received part of its effect perhaps from one's knowledge of his
extraordinary talents. His features are represented in Mr.
Nasmyth's picture : but to me it conveys the idea that they
are diminished, as if seen in perspective. I think his counte-
nance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits.
I should have taken the poet, had I not known what he was,
for a very sagacious country farmer of the old Scotch school,
i.e. none of your modern agriculturists who keep laborers for
their drudgery, but the douce gxideman who held his own
plough. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewd-
ness in all his lineaments ; the e3^e alone, I think, indicated
the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and
of a dark cast, which glowed (I say literally glowed) when he
spoke with feeling or interest. I never saw such another Q\e
in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished
men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect self-
confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the
men who were the most learned of their time and countr}'", he
expressed himself with perfect firmness, but without the least
intrusive forwardness ; and when he differed in opinion, he
did not hesitate to express it firml}', yet at the same time with
296 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
modesty. I do not remember any part of his conversation
distinctly enough to be quoted ; nor did I ever see him again,
except in the street, where he did not recognize me, as I could
not expect he should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh :
but (considering what literary emoluments have been since his
day) the efforts made for his relief were extremely trifling.
. / "I remember, on this occasion I mention, I thought Burns's
' acquaintance with English poetry was rather limited ; and also
that, having twenty times the abilities of Allan Ramsay and
of Ferguson, he talked of them with too much humility as
his models : there was doubtless national predilection in his
estimate.
. ^ " This is all I can tell you about Burns. I have only to
' ' add, that his dress corresponded with his manner. He was
like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the laird. I do
not speak in malam pcui,em, when I say, I never saw a man in
company with his superiors in station or information more
perfectly free from either the reality or the affectation of em-
barrassment. I was told, but did not observe it, that his address
to females was extremely deferential, and always with a turn
either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged their atten-
tion particularly. I have heard the late Duchess of Gordon
remark this. — I do not know anything I can add to these
recollections of forty years since."
The conduct of Burns under this dazzling blaze of favor;
^ the calm, unaffected, manly manner in which he not only bore
it, but estimated its value, has justly been regarded as the
best proof that could be given of his real vigor and integrity
of mind. A little natural vanity, some touches of hypocriti-
cal modesty, some glimmerings of affectation, at least some
fear of being thought affected, we could have pardoned in
almost any man ; but no such indication is to be traced here.
In his unexampled situation the young peasant is not a mo-
ment perplexed ; so many strange lights do not confuse him,
do not lead him astray. Nevertheless, Ave cannot but perceive
that this winter did him great and lasting injury. A some-
what clearer knowledge of men's affairs, scarcely of their
characters, it did afford him ; but a sharper feeling of Fortune's
BURNS. 297
unequal arrangements in their social destiny it also left with,
him. He had seen the gay and gorgeous arena, in which the
powerful are born to play their parts ; nay had himself stood
in the midst of it ; and he felt more bitterly than ever, that
here he was but a looker-on, and had no part or lot in that
splendid game. From this time a jealous indignant fear of
social degradation takes possession of him ; and perverts, so
far as aught could pervert, his private contentment, and his
feelings towards his richer fellows. It was clear to Burns
that he had talent enough to make a fortune, or a hundred
fortunes, could he but have rightly willed this ; it was clear
also that he willed something far different, and therefore could
not make one. Unhappy it was that he had not power to
choose the one, and reject the other ; but must halt forevei?
between two opinions, two objects ; making hampered advance-
ment towards either. But so is it with many men ; we " long
for the merchandise, yet would fain keep the price ; " and so
stand chaffering with Fate, in vexatious altercation, till the
night come, and our fair is over !
/y ; The Edinburgh Learned of that period were in general more
noted for clearness of head than for warmth of heart : with the
exception of the good old Blacklock, whose help was too in-
effectual, scarcely one among them seems to have looked at
Burns with any true sympathy, or indeed much otherwise than
as at a highly curious thing. By the great also he is treated
in the customary fashion ; entertained at their tables and dis-
missed : certain modica of pudding and praise are, from time
to time, gladly exchanged for the fascination of his presence ;
which exchange once effected, the bargain is finished, and each
party goes his several way. At the end of this strange season.
Burns gloomily sums up his gains and losses, and meditates
on the chaotic future. In money he is somewhat richer ; in
fame and the show of happiness, infinitely richer ; but in the
substance of it, as poor as ever. Nay poorer ; for his heart is
now maddened still more with the fever of worldly Ambition ;
and through long years the disease will rack him with unprofit-
able sufferings, and weaken his strength for all true and no-
bler aims.
298 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
^"i What Burns was next to do or to avoid ; how a man *o cir-
cumstanced was now to guide himself towards his true ad-
vantage, might at this point of time have been a question for
the wisest. It was a question too, which apparently he was
left altogether to answer for himself : of his learned or i-ich
patrons it had not struck any individual to turn a thought on
this so trivial matter. Without claiming for Burns the praise
of perfect sagacity, we must say, that his Excise and Farm
scheme does not seem to us a very unreasonable one ; that we
should be at a loss, even now, to suggest one decidedly better.
Certain of his admirers have felt scandalized at his ever
resolving to gauge ; and would have had him lie at the pool,
till the spirit of Patronage stirred the waters, that so, with
one friendly plunge, all his sorrows might be healed. Unwise
counsellors ! They know not the manner of this spirit ; and
how, in the lap of most golden dreams, a man might have hai>
piness, were it not that in the interim he must die of hunger !
It reflects credit on the manliness and sound sense of Burns,
that he felt so early on what ground he was standing ; and
preferred self-help, on the humblest scale, to dependence and
inaction, though with hope of far more splendid possibilities.
But even these possibilities were not rejected in his scheme :
he might expect, if it chanced that he had any friend, to rise,
in no long period, into something even like opulence and lei-
sure ; while again, if it chanced that he had no friend, he could
still live in security ; and for the rest, he " did not intend to
borrow honor from any profession." We reckon that his plan
was honest and well-calculated : all turned on the execution of
it. Doubtless it failed ; yet not, we believe, from any vice in-
herent in itself. Nay, after all, it was no failure of external
means, but of internal, that overtook Burns. His was no
bankruptcy of the purse, but of the soul ; to his last day, he
owed no man anything.
Meanwhile he begins well : with two good and wise actions.
His donation to his mother, munificent from a man whose in-
come had lately been seven pounds a year, was worthy of him,
and not more than worthy. Generous also, and worthy of
him, was the treatment of the woman whose life's welfare now
BURNS. 299
depended on his pleasure. A friendly observer might have
hoped serene days for him : his mind is on the true road to
peace with itself : what clearness he still wants will be given
as he proceeds ; for the best teacher of duties, that still lie
dim to us, is the Practice of those we see and have at hand.
Had the " patrons of genius," who could give him nothing, but
taken nothing from him, at least nothing more ! The wounds
of his heart would have healed, vulgar ambition would have
.died away. Toil and Frugality would have been welcome,
since Virtue dwelt with them ; and Poetry would have shone
through them as of old : and in her clear ethereal light, which
was his own by birthright, he might have looked down on his
earthly destiny, and all its obstructions, not with patience only,
but with love.
/^■^^ But the patrons of genius would not have it so. Picturesque
tourists,' all manner of fashionable danglers after literature,
and, far worse, all manner of convivial Maecenases, hovered
round him in his retreat ; and his good as well as his weak
qualities secured them influence over him. He was flattered
by their notice ; and his warm social nature made it impossible
for him to shake them off, and hold on his way apart from
them. These men, as we believe, were proximately the means
of his ruin. Not that they meant him any ill; they only
meant themselves a little good ; if he suffered harm, let him
look to it ! But they wasted his precious time and his precious
talent ; they disturbed his composure, broke down his return-
1 There is one little sketch by certain " English gentlemen " of this class,
which, though adopted in Carrie's Narrative, and since then repeated in most
others, we have all along felt an invincible disposition to regard as imaginary;
'• On a rock that projected into the stream, they saw a man employed lu
angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap made of fox-skin on his
head, a loose great-coat fixed round him by a belt, from which depended an
enormous Highland broad-sword. It was Burns." Now, we rather think it
was not Burns. For, to say nothing of the fox-skin cap, the loose and quite
Hibernian watch-coat with tlie belt, what are we to make of this " enormous
Highland broad sword " depending from him ? More especially, as tlicre is
no word of parish constables on the outlook to see whether, as Dennis phrases
it, he had an eye to his own midriff or that of the public ! Burns, of all men,
had the least need, and the least tendency, to seek for distinction, either in his
own eyes, or those of others, by such poor mummeries.
300 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
ing habits of temperance and assiduous contented exertion.
Their pampering was baneful to him; their cruelty, which
soon followed, was equally baneful. The old grudge against
Fortune's inequality awoke with new bitterness in their neigh-
boi-hood ; and Burns had no retreat but to " the Eock of Inde-
pendence," which is but an air-castle after all, that looks well
at a distance, but will screen no one from real wind and wet.
Flushed with irregular excitement, exasperated alternately by
contempt of others, and contempt of himself. Burns was no
longer regaining his peace of mind, but fast losing it forever.
There was a hollowness at the heart of his life, for his con-
science did not no\t approve what he was doing.
"T Amid the vapors of unwise enjoyment, of bootless remorse,-
and angry discontent with Fate, his true loadstar, a life of
Poetry, with Poverty, nay with Famine if it must be so, was
too often altogether hidden from his eyes. And yet he sailed
a sea, where without some such loadstar there was no right
steering. Meteors of French Politics rise before him, but
these were not his stars. An accident this, which hastened,
but did not originate, his worst distresses. In the mad con-
tentions of that time, he comes in collision with certain official
Superiors ; is wounded by them ; cruelly lacerated, we should
say, could a dead mechanical implement, in any case, be called
cruel :■ and shrinks, in indignant pain, into deeper self-seclusion,
into gloomier moodiness than ever. His life has now lost its
unity : it is a life of fragments ; led with little aim, beyond
the melancholy one of securing its own continuance, — in fits
of wild false joy when such offered, and of black despondency
when they passed away. His character before the world be-
gins to suffer : calumny is busy with him ; for a miserable man
makes more enemies than friends. Some faults he has fallen
into, and a thousand misfortunes ; but deep criminality is
what he stands accused of, and they that are not without sin
cast the first stone at him ! For is he not a well-wisher to the
French Revolution, a Jacobin, and therefore in that one act
guilty of all ? These accusations, political and moral, it has
since appeared, were false enough : but the world hesitated
little to credit them. Nay his convivial Maecenases themselves
BURNS. 801
were not the last to do it. There is reason to believe that, in
his later years, the Dumfries Aristocracy had partly withdrawn
themselves from Burns, as from a tainted person, no longer
worthy of their acquaintance. That painful class, stationed,
in all provincial cities, behind the outmost breastwork of Gen-
tility, there to stand siege and do battle against the intrusions
of Grocerdom and Grazierdom, had actually seen dishonor in
the society of Burns, and branded him with their veto ; had, as i
we vulgarly say, cut him ! We find one passage in this Work
of Mr. Lockhart's, which will not out of our thoughts : —
l^ "A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already
more than once had occasion to refer to, has often told me that
he was seldom more grieved, than when riding into Dumfries
one fine summer evening about this time to attend a county
ball, he saw Burns walking alone, on the shady side of the
principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay
with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn to-
gether for the festivities of the night, not one of whom ap-
peared willing to recognize him. The horseman dismounted,
and joined Burns, who on his proposing to cross the street
said: 'Nay, nay, my young friend, that's all over now;' and
quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's
pathetic ballad : —
* His bonnet stood ance f u' fair on his brow.
His auld ane look'd better than mony ane's new;
But now he lets 't wear ony way it will hing,
And casts himsell dowie upon the corn-bing.
' Oh, were we young as we ance hae been.
We sud hae been gallopping down on yon green.
And linking it ower the lily-white lea!
And werena my heart light, I wad die.'
It was little in Burns's character to let his feelings on certain
subjects escape in this fashion. He, immediately after recit-
ing these verses, assumed the sprightliness of his most pleasing
manner ; and taking his young friend home with him, enter-
tained him very agreeably till the hour of the ball arrived."
Alas ! when we think that Burns now sleeps " where bitter
802 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
indignation can no longer lacerate his heart," ^ and that most
of those fair dames and frizzled gentlemen already lie at his
side, where the breastwork of gentility is quite thrown down,
— who would not sigh over the thin delusions and foolish toys
that divide heart from heart, and make man unmerciful to his
brother !
j^j It was not now to be hoped that the genius of Burns would
"^ ever reach maturity, or accomplish aught worthy of itself.
His spirit was jarred in its melody ; not the soft breath of
natural feeling, but the rude hand of Fate, was now sweeping
over the strings. And yet what harmony was in him, what
music even in his discords ! How the wild tones had a charm
for the simplest and the wisest ; and all men felt and knew
that here also was one of the Gifted ! " If he entered an inn
at midnight, after all the inmates were in bed, the news of his
arrival circulated from the cellar to the garret ; and ere ten
minutes had elapsed, the landlord and all his guests were
assembled ! " Some brief pure moments of poetic life were
yet appointed him, in the composition of his Songs. We can
understand how he grasped at this employment ; and how too,
he spurned all other reward for it but what the labor itself
brought him. For the soul of Burns, though scathed and
marred, was yet living in its full moral strength, though
sharply conscious of its errors and abasement : and here,
in his destitution and degradation, was one act of seeming
nobleness and self-devotedness left even for him to perform.
He felt too, that with all the " thoughtless follies " that had
"laid him low," the world was unjust and cruel to him; and
he silently appealed to another and calmer time. Not as a
hired soldier, but as a patriot, would he strive for the glory
of his country : so he cast from him the poor sixpence a day,
and served zealously as a volunteer. Lot us not grudge him
this last luxury of his existence ; let him not have appealed
to us in vain ! The money was not necessary to him ; he
struggled through without it : long since, these guineas would
have been gone, and now the high-mindedness of refusing
them will plead for him in all hearts forever.
1 Uli tcEva indiynatio cor uUerius laccrare nequit. Swift's Epitaph.
BURNS. 808
' / We are here arrived at the crisis of Burns's life ; for mat-
ters had now taken such a shape with him as could not long
continue. If improvement was not to be looked for, Nature
could only for a limited time maintain this dark and madden-
ing warfare against the world and itself. We are not medi-
.cally informed whether any continuance of years was, at this
period, probable for Burns ; whether his death is to be looked
on as in some sense an accidental event, or only as the natural
consequence of the long series of events that had preceded.
The latter seems to be the likelier opinion; and yet it is by
no means a certain one. At all events, as we have said, some
change could not be very distant. Three gates of deliverance,
it seems to us, were open for Burns : clear poetical activity ;
madness ; or death. The first, with longer life, was still pos-
sible, though not probable ; for physical causes were beginning
to be concerned in it : and yet Burns had an iron resolution ;
could he but have seen and felt, that not only his highest
glory, but his first duty, and the true medicine for all his
woes, lay here. The second was still less probable ; for his
mind was ever among the clearest and firmest. So the milder
third gate was opened for him : and he passed, not softly yet
speedily, into that still country, where the hail-storms and
fire-showers do not reach, and the heaviest-laden wayfarer at
length lays down his load !
r*f Contemplating this sad end of Burns, and how he sank
unaided by any real help, uncheered by any wise sympathy,
generous minds have sometimes figured to themselves, with a
reproachful sorrow, that much might have been done for him *,
that by counsel, true affection and friendly ministrations, he
might have been saved to himself and the world. We question
whether there is not more tenderness of heart than soundness
of judgment in these suggestions. It seems dubious to us
whether the richest, wisest, most benevolent individual could
have lent Burns any effectual help. Counsel, which seldom
profits any one, he did not need ; in his understanding, he
knew the right from the wrong, as well perhaps as any man
ever did ; but the persuasion, which would have availed him,
304 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
lies not so much in the head as in the heart, where no argu-
ment or expostulation could have assisted much to implant
it. As to money again, we do not believe that this was his
jessential want ; or well see how any private man could, eren
presupposing Burns's consent, have bestowed on him an in-
dependent fortune, with much prospect of decisive advantage.
It is a mortifying truth, that two men in any rank of society,
could hardly be found virtuous enough to give money, and to
take it as a necessary gift, without injury to the moral entire-
ness of one or both. But so stands the fact : Friendship, in
the old heroic sense of that term, no longer exists ; except
in the cases of kindred or other legal affinity, it is in reality
jio longer expected, or recognized as a virtue among men. A
close observer of manners has pronounced *•' Patronage," that
is, pecuniary or other economic furtherance, to be " twice
cursed ; " cursing him that gives, and him that takes ! And
thus, in regard to outward matters also, it has become the
rule, as in regard to inward it always was and must be the
lule, that no one shall look- for effectual help to another ; but
that each shall rest contented with what help he can afford
himself. Such, we say, is the principle of modern Honor;
naturally enough growing out of that sentiment of Pride,
which we inculcate and encourage as the basis of our whole
social morality. Many a poet has been poorer than Burns ;
but no one was ever prouder : we may question whether,
without great precautions, even a pension from Eoyalty would
not have galled and encumbered, more than actually assisted
him.
Still less, therefore, are we disposed to join with another
class of Buins's admirers, who accuse the higher ranks among
us of having ruined Burns by their selfish neglect of him.
We have already stated our doubts whether direct pecuniary
help, had it been offered, would have been accepted, or could
have proved very effectual. We shall readily admit, however,
tliat much was to be done for Burns ; that many a poisoned
arrow might have been warded from his bosom ; many an
entanglement in his path cut asunder by the hand of the
powerful J and light and heat, shed on him from high places,
BURNS. 805
would have made his humble atmosphere more genial ; and
the softest heart then breathing might have lived and died
with some fewer pangs. Nay, we shall grant farther, and for
Burns it is granting much, that, with all his pride, he would
have thanked, even with exaggerated gratitude, any one wlio
had cordially befriended him : patronage, unless once cursed,
needed not to have been twice so. At all events, the poor
promotion he desired in his calling might have been granted :
it was his own scheme, therefore likelier than any other to be
of service. All this it might have been a luxury, nay it was
a duty, for our nobility to have done. No part of all this,
however, did any of them do ; or apparently attempt, or wish
to do : so much is granted against them. But what then is
the amount of their blame ? Simply that they were men of
the world, and walked by the principles of such men ; that
they treated Burns, as other nobles and other commoners had
done other poets ; as the English did Shakspeare ; as King
Charles and his Cavaliers did Butler, as King Philip and his
Grandees did Cervantes. Do men gather grapes of thorns ;
or shall we cut down our tliorns for yielding only a fence and
haws ? How, indeed, could the " nobility and gentry of his
native land " hold out any help to this " Scottish Bard, proud
of his name and country " ? Were the nobility and gentry so
much as able rightly to help themselves ? Had they not their
game to preserve ; their borough interests to strengthen ; din-
ners, therefore, of various kinds to eat and give ? Were their
means more than adequate to all this business, or less than
adequate ? Less than adequate, in general ; few of them in
reality were richer than Bui-ns ; many of them were poorer ;
for sometimes they had to wring their supplies, as with thumb-
screws, from the hard hand ; and, in their need of guineas, to
forget their dutj^ of mercy ; which Burns was never reduced
to do. Let us pity and forgive them. The game the}' pre-
rerved and shot, the dinners they ate and gave, the borough
interests they strengthened, the little Bab,ylons they severally
})uilded by the glory of their might, are all melted or melting
back into the primeval Chaos, as man's merely selfish en-
deavors are fated to do : and here was an action, extending, in
VOL. XIII. -A)
306 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
virtue of its worldly influence, we may say, through all time ;
in virtue of its moral nature, beyond all time, being immortal
as the Spirit of Goodness itself ; this action was offered them
to do, and light was not given them to do it. Let us pity and
forgive them. But better than pity, let us go and do otherwise.
Human suffering did not end with the life of Burns ; neither
was the solemn mandate, "Love one another, bear one an-
other's burdens," given to the rich only, but to all men. True,
we shall find no Burns to relieve, to assuage by our aid or
our pity ; but celestial natures, groaning under the fardels of
a weary life, we shall still find; and that wretchedness
which Fate has rendered voiceless and tuneless is not the least
wretched, but the most,
Qi) Still, we do not think that the blame of Burns's failure liea
chiefly with the world. The world, it seems to us, treated
him with more rather than with less kindness than it usually
shows to such men. It has ever, we fear, shown but small
favor to its Teachers : hunger and nakedness, perils and re-
vilings, the prison, the cross, the poison-chalice have, in most
times and countries, been the market-price it has offered for
Wisdom, the welcome with which it has greeted those who
have come to enlighten and purify it. Homer and Socrates,
and the Christian Apostles, belong to old days ; but the
world's Martyrology was not completed with these. Roger
Bacon and Galileo languish in priestly dungeons ; Tasso pines
in the cell of a madhouse ; Camoens dies begging on the
streets of Lisbon. So neglected, so " persecuted they the
Prophets," not in Judea only, but in all places where men
have been. We reckon that every poet of Burns's order is,
or should be, a prophet and teacher to his age ; that he has
no right to expect great kindness from it, but rather is bound
to do it great kindness ; that Burns, in particular, experienced
fully the usual proportion of the world's goodness ; and that
tlie blame of his failure, as we have said, lies not chiefly with
the world.
Where, then, does it lie ? We are forced to answer : With
himself; it is his inward, not his outward misfortunes that
bring him to the dust. Seldom, indeed, is it otherwise j
BURNS. 307
seldom is a life morally wrecked but the grand cause lies
in some internal mal-arrangement, some want less of good
fortune than of good guidance. Nature fashions no creature
without implanting in it the strength needful for its action
and duration ; least of all does she so neglect her masterpiece
and darling, the poetic soul. Neither can we believe that it
is in the power of any external circumstances utterly to iniin
the mind of a man ; nay if proper wisdom be given him, even
so much as to affect its essential health and beauty. The
sternest sum-total of all worldly misfortunes is Death ; nothing
more can lie in the cup of human woe : yet many men, in all
ages, have triumphed over Death, and led it captive ; convert-
ing its physical victory into a moral victory for themselves,
into a seal and immortal consecration for all that their past
life had achieved. What has been done, may be done again :
nay, it is but the degree and not the kind of such heroism
that differs in different seasons ; for without some portion
of this spirit, not of boisterous daring, but of silent fearless-
ness, of Self-denial in all its forms, no good man, in any scene
or time, has ever attained to be good.
We have already stated the error of Burns ; and mourned
over it, rather than blamed it. It was the want of unity in
his purposes, of consistency in his aims ; the hapless attempt
to mingle in friendly union the common spirit of the world
with the spirit of poetry, which is of a far different and alto-
gether irreconcilable nature. Burns was nothing wholly ; and
Burns could be nothing, no man formed as he was can be any-
tliing, by halves. The heart, not of a mere hot-blooded, pop-
ular Verse-monger, or poetical Restaurateur, but of a true
Poet and Singer, worthy of the old religious heroic times,
bad been given him : and he fell in an age, not of heroism
and rpli(xion, but of scepticism, selfishness and triviality, when
t ue Xobleness was little understood, and its place supplied
by a hollow, dissocial, altogether barren and unfruitful ]n'in-
ciple of Pride. The influences of that age, his open, kind,
susceptible nature, to say nothing of his highly untoward
situation, made it more than usually difficult for him to cast
aside, or rightly subordinate ; the better spirit that was with-
308 CKITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
in him ever sternly demanded its rights, its supremacy: he
spent his life in endeavoring to reconcile these two ; and lost
it, as he must lose it, without reconciling them.
(y % Burns was born poor ; and born also to continue poor, for
"he would not endeavor to be otherwise : this it had been well
could he have once for all admitted, and considered as finally
settled. He was poor, truly ; but hundreds even of his own
class and order of minds have been poorer, yet have suffered
nothing deadly from it : nay, his own Father had a far sorer
battle with ungrateful destiny than his was ; and he did not
yield to it, but died courageously warring, and to all moral
intents prevailing, against it. True, Burns had little means,
had even little time for poetry, his only real pursuit and vo-
cation ; but so much the more precious was what little he had.
In all these external respects his case was hard ; but very far
from the hardest. Poverty, incessant drudgery and much
worse evils, it has often been the lot of Poets and wise men
to strive with, and their glory to conquer. Locke was ban-
ished as a traitor ; and wrote his Essay on the Human Under-
standing sheltering himself in a Dutch garret. Was Milton
rich or at his ease when he composed Paradise Lost? Kot
only low, but fallen from a height ; not only poor, but im-
poverished ; in darkness and with dangers compassed round,
he sang his immortal song, and found fit audience, though
few. Did not Cervantes finish his work, a maimed soldier
and in prison ? Nay, was not the Araucana, which Spain
acknowledges as its Epic, written without even the aid of
paper ; on scraps of leather, as the stout fighter and voyager
snatched any moment from that wild warfare ?
'r^ And what, then, had these men, which Burns wanted ?
Two things ; both which, it seems to us, are indispensable
for such men. They had a true, religious principle of morals ;
and a single, not a double aim in their activity. They were
not self-seekers and self-worshippers ; but seekers and wor-
shippers of something far better than Self, Not personal en-
joyment was their object; but a high, heroic idea of Religion,
of Patriotism, of heavenly Wisdom, in one or the other form,
ever hovered before them ; in which cause they neither shrank
BURNS. 809
from suffering, nor called on the earth to witness it as some-
thing wonderful ; but patiently endured, counting it blessed-
ness enough so to spend and be spent. Thus the " golden-calf
of Self-love," however curiously carved, was not their Deity ;
but the Invisible Goodness, which alone is man's reasonable ser-
vice. This feeling was as a celestial fountain, whose streams
refreshed into gladness and beauty all the provinces of their
otherwise too desolate existence. In a word, they willed one
thing, to which all other things were subordinated and made
subservient ; and therefore they accomplished it. The wedge
will rend rocks ; but its edge must be sharp and single : if
it be double, the wedge is bruised in pieces and will rend
nothing.
^</^Part of this superiority these men owed to their age ; in
which heroism and devotedness were still practised, or at least
not yet disbelieved in : but much of it likewise they owed to
themselves. With Burns, again, it was different. His moral-
ity, in most of its practical points, is that of a mere worldly
man ; enjoyment, in a finer or coarser shape, is the only thing
he longs and strives for. A noble instinct sometimes raises
him above this ; but an instinct only, and acting only for mo~
ments. He has no Eeligion ; in the shallow age, where his
days were cast, Eeligion was not discriminated from the New
and Old Jjight forms of Religion; and was, with these, becom-
ing obsolete in the minds of men. His heart, indeed, is alive
with a trembling adoration, but there is no temple in his under-
standing. He lives in darkness and in the shadow of doubt.
His religion, at best, is an anxious wish ; like that of E-abelais,
" a great Perhaps."
QG-He loved Poetry warmly, and in his heart ; could he but
have loved it purely, and with his whole undivided heart, it
had been well. For Poetry, as Burns could have followed it,
is but another form of Wisdom, of Eeligion ; is itself Wisdom
and Eeligion. But this also was denied him. His poetry is a
stray vagrant gleam, which will not be extinguished within
him, yet rises not to be the true light of his path, but is often
a wildfire that misleads him. It was not necessary for Burns
to be rich, to be, or to seem, " independent ; " but it was neces-
SIO CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
sary for him to be at one with his own heart ; to place what
was highest in his nature highest also in his life ; " to seek
within himself for that consistency and sequence, which ex-
ternal events would forever refuse him." He was born a poet ;
poetry was the celestial element of his being, and should have
been the soul of his whole endeavors. Lifted into that serene
ether, whither he had wings given him to mount, he would
have needed no other elevation : poverty, neglect and all evil,
save the desecration of himself and his Art, were a small mat-
ter to him ; the pride and the passions of the world lay far
beneath his feet ; and he looked down alike on noble and slave,
on prince and beggar, and all that wore the stamp of man, with
clear recognition, with brotherly affection, with sympathy, with
pity. Nay, we question whether for his culture as a Poet,
poverty and much suffering for a season were not absolutely
advantageous. Great men, in looking back over their lives,
have testified to that effect. *' I would not for much," says
Jean Paul, " that I had been born richer." And yet Paul's
birth was poor enough ; for, in another place, he adds : " The
prisoner's allowance is bread and water ; and I had often only
the latter." But the gold that is refined in the hottest fur-
nace comes out the purest ; or, as he has himself expressed it,
" the canary-bird sings sweeter the longer it has been trained
in a darkened cage."
A man like Burns might have divided his hours between
poetry and virtuous industry ; industry which all true feeling
sanctions, nay prescribes, and which has a beauty, for that
cause, beyond the pomp of thrones : but to divide his hours
between poetry and rich men's banquets was an ill-starred and
inauspicious attempt. How could he be at ease at such ban-
quets ? What had he to do there, mingling his music with
the coarse roar of altogether earthly voices ; brightening the
thick smoke of intoxication with fire lent him from heaven ?
Was it his aim to enjoy life ? To-morrow he must go drudge
as an Exciseman ! We wonder not that Burns became moody,
indignant, and at times an offender against certain rules of
society ; but rather that he did not grow utterly frantic, and
run amuck against them all. How could a man, so falsely
BURNS. 811
placed, by his own or others' fault, ever know contentment or
peaceable diligence for an hour ? What he did, under such
perverse guidance, and what he forbore to do, alike fill us
with astonishment at the natural strength and worth of his
character.
/. .' Doubtless there was a remedy for this perverseness ; but not
in others ; only in himself ; least of all in simple increase of
wealth and worldly " respectability." We hope we have now
heard enough about the efficacy of wealth for poetry, and to
make poets happy. Nay have we not seen another instance
of it in these very days ? Byron, a man of an endowment
considerably less ethereal than that of Burns, is born in the
rank not of a Scottish ploughman, but of an English peer :
the highest worldly honors, the fairest worldly career, are his
by inheritance ; the richest harvest of fame he soon reaps, in
another province, by his own hand. And what does all this
avail him ? Is he happy, is he good, is he true ? Alas, he
has a poet's soul, and strives towards the Infinite and the
Eternal ; and soon feels that all this is but mounting to the
house-top to reach the stars ! Like Burns, he is only a proud
man ; might, like him, have " purchased a pocket-copy of
Milton to study the character of Satan ; " for Satan also is
Byron's grand exemplar, the hero of his poetry, and the model
apparently of his conduct. As in Burns's case too, the celes-
tial element will not mingle with the clay of earth ; both poet
and man of the world he must not be ; vulgar Ambition will
not live kindly with poetic Adoration ; he cannot serve God
and Mammon. Byron, like Burns, is not happy ; nay he is
the most wretched of all men. His life is falsely arranged :
the fire that is in him is not a strong, still, central fire, warm-
ing into beauty the products of a world ; but it is the mad fire
of a volcano ; and now — we look sadly into the ashes of a
crater, which ere long will fill itself with snow !
Ij, Byron and Burns were sent forth as missionaries to their
generation, to teach it a higher Doctrine, a purer Truth ; they
had a message to deliver, which left them no rest till it was
accomplished ; in dim throes of pain, this divine behest lay
smouldering within them ; for they knew not what it meant,
312 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
and felt it only in mysterious anticipation, and they had to
die without articulately uttering it. They are in the camp
of the Unconverted ; yet not as high messengers of rigorous
though benignant truth, but as soft flattering singers, and in
pleasant fellowship will they live there : they are first adulated,
then persecuted ; they accomplish little for others ; they find
no peace for themselves, but only death and the peace of the
grave. We confess, it is not without a certain mournful awe
that we view the fate of these noble souls, so richly gifted,
yet ruined to so little purpose with all their gifts. It seems
to us there is a stern moral taught in this piece of history, —
ttvice told us in our own time ! Surely to men of like genius,
if there be any such, it carries with it a lesson of deep impres-
sive significance. Surely it would become such a man, fur-
nished for the highest of all enterprises, that of being the Poet
of his Age, to consider well what it is that he attempts, and in
what spirit he attempts it. For the words of Milton are true
in all times, and were never truer than in this : " He who Avould
write heroic poems must make his whole life a heroic poem."
If he cannot first so make his life, then let him hasten from
this arena ; for neither its lofty glories, nor its fearful perils,
are fit for him. Let him dwindle into a modish balladmonger;
let him worship and besing the idols of the time, and the time
will not fail to reward him. If, indeed, he can endure to live
in that capacity ! Byron and Burns could not live as idol-
priests, but the fire of their own hearts consumed them ; and
better it was for them that they could not. For it is not in
the favor of the great or of the small, but in a life of truth,
and in the inexpugnable citadel of his own soul, that a Byron's
or a Burns's strength must lie. Let the great stand aloof from
him, or know how to reverence him. Beautiful is the union
of wealth with favor and furtherance for literature ; like the
costliest flower-jar enclosing the loveliest amaranth. Yet let
not the relation be mistaken. A true poet is not one whom
they can hire by money or flattery to be a minister of their
pleasures, their writer of occasional verses, their purveyor of
table-wit ; he cannot be their menial, he cannot even be their
partisan. At the peril of both parties, let no such union be
BURNS. 813
attempted ! Will a Courser of the Sun work softly in tl;e
harness of a Dray-horse ? His hoofs are of fire, and his path
is through the heavens, bringing light to all lands ; will he
lumber on mud highways, dragging ale for earthly appetites
from door to door ?
? , But we must stop short in these considerations, which would
lead us to boundless lengths. We had something to say on
the public moral character of Burns; but this also we must
forbear. We are far from regarding him as guilty before the
world, as guiltier than the average ; nay from doubting that
he is less guilty than one of ten thousand. Tried at a tribunal
far more rigid than that where the Plebiscita of common civic
reputations are pronounced, he has seemed to us even there
less worthy of blame than of pity and wonder. But the world
is habitually unjust in its judgments of such men ; unjust on
many grounds, of which this one may be stated as the sub-
stance : It decides, like a court of law, by dead statutes ; and
not positively but negatively, less on what is done right, than
on what is or is not done wrong. Not the few inches of de-
flection from the mathematical orbit, which are so easily mea-
sured, but the ratio of these to the whole diameter, constitutes
the real aberration. This orbit may be a planet's, its diameter
the breadth of the solar system ; or it may be a city hippo-
drome ; nay the circle of a gin-horse, its diameter a score of
feet or paces. But the inches of deflection only are measured :
and it is assumed that the diameter of the gin-horse, and that
of the planet, will yield the same ratio when compared with
them ! Here lies the root of many a blind, cruel condemnation
of Burnses, Swifts, Rousseaus, which one never listens to with
approval. Granted, the ship comes into harbor with shrouds
and tackle damaged ; the pilot is blameworthy ; he has not
been all-wise and all-powerful : but to know ho7v blameworthy,
tell us first whether his voyage has been round the Globe, or
only to llamsgate and the Isle of Dogs.
' " With our readers in general, with men of right feeling any-
where, we are not required to plead for Burns. In pitying
admiration he lies enshrined in all our hearts, in a far nobler
mausoleum than that one of marble j neither will his Works,
314 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
even as they are, pass away from the memory of men. While^
the Shakspeares and Miltons roll on like mighty rivers through
the country of Thought, bearing fleets of traffickers and assidu-
ous pearl-fishers on their waves ; this little Valclusa Fountain
will also arrest our eye : for this also is of Nature's own and
most cunning workmanship, bursts from the depths of the
earth, with a full gushing current, into the light of day ; and
often will the traveller turn aside to drink of its clear waters,
and muse among its rocks and pines I
THE LIFE OF HEYNE.*
[1828.]
The labors and merits of Heyne being better known, and
more justly appreciated in England, than those of almost any
other German, whether scholar, poet or philosopher, we cannot
but believe that some notice of his life may be acceptable to
most readers. Accordingly, we here mean to give a short ab-
stract of this Volume, a miniature copy of the " biographical
portrait ; " but must first say a few words on the portrait
itself, and the limner by whom it was drawn.
Professor Heeren is a man of learning, and known far out
of his own Hanoverian circle, — indeed, more or less to all
students of history, — by his researches on Ancient Commerce,
a voluminous account of which from his hand enjoys consid-
erable reputation. He is evidently a man of sense and natural
talent, as well as learning ; and his gifts seem to lie round him
in quiet arrangement, and very much at his own command.
Nevertheless, we cannot admire him as a writer ; we do not
even reckon that such endowments as he has are adequately
represented in his books. His style both of diction and
thought is thin, cold, formal, without force or character, and
painfully reminds us of college lectures. He can work rapidly,
but with no freedom, and, as it were, only in one attitude, and '
at one sort of labor. ISTot that we particularly blame Professor
Heeren for this, but that we think he might have been some-
thing better : these " fellows in buckram," very numerous in
certain walks of literature, are an unfortunate rather than a
guilty class of men ; they have fallen, perhaps unwillingly,
^ Foreign Review, No. 4. — Christian Goftloh Heyne hiographisch darqestellt
von Arnold Hermann Ludwig Heeren. (Christian Gottlob Heyne biographicallj
portrayed by Arnold Hermann Ludwig Heeren.) Gottingen.
316 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
into the plan of writing by pattern, and can now do no other ;
for, in their minds, the beautiful comes at last to be simply
synonymous with the neat. Every sentence bears a family-
likeness to its precursor ; most probably it has a set number
of clauses (three is a favorite number, as in Gibbon, for " the
Muses delight in odds ") ; has also a given rhythm, a known
and foreseen music, simple but limited enough, like that of ill-
bred lingers drumming on a table. And then it is strange how
soon the outward rhythm cai'ries the inward along with it ;
and the thought moves with the same stinted, hamstrung rub-
a-dub as the words. In a state of perfection, this species of
writing comes to resemble power-loom weaving ; it is not the
mind that is at work, but some scholastic machinery which
the mind has of old constructed, and is from afar observing.
Shot follows shot from the unwearied shuttle ; and so the web
is woven, ultimately and properly, indeed, by the wit of man,
yet immediately and in the mean while by the mere aid of
time and steam.
But our Professor's mode of speculation is little less in-
tensely academic than his mode of writing. We fear he is
something of what the Germans call a Kleinstddter ; mentally
as well as bodily, a " dweller in a little town." He speaks at
great length, and with undue fondness, of the " Georgia Au-
gusta ; " which, after all, is but the University of Gottingen,
an earthly and no celestial institution : it is nearly in vain
that he tries to contemplate Heyne as a Eui'opean personage,
or even as a German one ; beyond the precincts of the Georgia
Augusta his view seems to grow feeble, and soon dies away
into vague inanity ; so we have not Heyne, the man and
scholar, but Heyne the Gottingen Professor. But neither is
this habit of mind any strange or crying sin, or at all peculiar
to Gottingen ; as, indeed, most parishes in England can pro^
duce more than one example to show. And yet it is pitiful,
when an establishment for universal science, which ought to
be a watch-tower where a man might see all the kingdoms of
the world, converts itself into a workshop, whence he sees
nothing but his tool-box and bench, and the world, in broken
glimpses, through one patched and highly discolored pane !
LIFE OF HEYNE. 817
Sometimes, indeed, our worthy friend rises into a region
of the moral sublime, in which it is difficult for a foreigner
to follow him. Thus he says, on one occasion, speaking of
Heyne : " Immortal are his merits in regard to the cata-
logues " — of the Gottingen library. And, to cite no other
instance except the last and best one, we are informed, that
when Heyne died, " the guardian angels of the Georgia Au-
gusta waited, in that higher world, to meet him with bless-
ings." By Day and Night! there is no such guardian angel,
that we know of, for the University of Gottingen ; neither
does it need one, being a good solid seminary of itself, with
handsome stipends from Government. We had imagined too,
that if anybody welcomed people into heaven, it would be St.
Peter, or at least some angel of old standing, and not a mere
mushroom, as this of Gottingen must be, created since the
year 1739.
But we are growing very ungrateful to the good Heeren,
who meant no harm by these flourishes of rhetoric, and in-
deed does not often indulge in them. The grand questions
with us here are, Did he know the truth in this matter; and
was he disposed to tell it honestly ? To both of which ques-
tions we can answer without reserve, that all appearances are
in his favor. He was Heyne's pupil, colleague, son-in-law,
and so knew him intimately for thirty years : he has every
feature also of a just, quiet, truth-loving man ; so that we see
little reason to doubt the authenticity, the innocence, of any
statement in his Volume. What more have we to do with
him, then, but to take thankfully what he has been pleased
and able to give us, and, with all despatch, communicate it
to our readers ?
Hej'ne's Life is not without an intrinsic, as well as an ex-
ternal interest ; for he had much to struggle with, and he
struggled with it manfully ; thus his history has a value inde-
pendent of his fame. Some account of his early years we are
liappily enabled to give in his own words : we translate a con-
siderable part of this passage ; aixtobiography being a favorite
sort of reading with us.
818 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
He was born at Chemnitz, in Upper Saxony, in September,
1729 ; the eldest of a poor weaver's family, poor almost to the
verge of destitution.
" My good father, George Heyne," says he, " was a native
of the principality of Glogau, in Silesia, from the little village
of Gravenschiitz. His youth had fallen in those times when
the Evangelist party of that province were still exposed to
the oppressions and persecutions of the Romish Church. His
kindred, enjoying the blessing of contentment in a humble
but independent station, felt, like others, the influence of this
proselytizing bigotry, and lost their domestic peace by means
of it. Some went over to the Romish faith. My father left
his native village, and endeavored, by the labor of his hands,
to procure a livelihood in Saxony. "What will it profit a
man, if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul ! " was
the thought which the scenes of his youth had stamped the
most deeply on his mind. But no lucky chance favored his
enterprises or endeavors to better his condition never so little.
On the contrary, a series of perverse incidents kept him con-
tinually below the limits even of a moderate sufficiency. His
old age was thus left a prey to poverty, and to her compan-
ions, timidity and depression of mind. Manufactures, at that
time, were visibly declining in Saxony; and the misery among
the working-classes, in districts concerned in the linen trade,
was unusually severe. Scarcely could the labor of the hands
suffice to support the laborer himself, still less his family.
The saddest aspect which the decay of civic society can ex-
hibit has always appeared to me to be this, when honorable,
honor-loving, conscientious diligence cannot, by the utmost
efforts of toil, obtain the necessaries of life ; or when the
working man cannot even find work, but must stand witli
folded arms, lamenting his forced idleness, through whieh
himself and his family are verginr^ to stai vatiou, or it may
be, actually suffering the pains of hunger.
" It was in the extremest penniy that I was born and
brought up. The earliest companion of my childhood was
Want ; and my first impressions came from the tears of my
mother, who had not bread for her children. How often have
LIFE OF HEYNE. 819
I seen her on Saturday nights wringing her hands and weep-
ing, when she had come back with what the hard toil, nay
often the sleepless nights of her husband had produced, and
could find none to buy it ! Sometimes a fresh attempt was
made through me or my sister : I had to return to the pur-
chasers with the same piece of ware, to see whether we could
not possibly get rid of it. In that quarter there is a class of
so-called merchants, who, however, are in fact nothing more
than forestallers, that buy up the linen made by the poorer
people at the lowest price, and endeavor to sell it in other
districts at the highest. Often have I seen one or other of
these petty tyrants, with all the pride of a satrap, throw back
the piece of goods offered him, or imperiously cut off some
trifle from the price and wages required for it. Necessity
constrained the poorer to sell the sweat of his brow at a
groschen or two less, and again to make good the deficit by
starving. It was the view of such things that awakened the
first sparks of indignation in my young heart. The show of
pomp and plenty among these purse-proud people, who fed
themselves on the extorted crumbs of so many hundreds, far
from dazzling me into respect or fear, filled me with rage
against them. The first time I heard of tyrannicide at school,
there rose vividly before me the project to become a Brutus
on all those oppressors of the poor, who had so often cast my
father and mother into straits : and here, for the first time,
was an instance of a truth which I have since had frequent
occasion to observe, that if the unhappy man, armed with feel-
ing of his wrongs and a certain strength of soul, does not risk
the utmost and become an open criminal, it is merely the be-
neficent result of those circumstances in which Providence
has placed him, thereby fettering his activity, and guarding
him from such destructive attempts. That the oppressing
part of mankind should be secured against the oppressed
was, in the plan of inscrutable Wisdom, a most importaut
element of the present system of things.
" My good parents did what they could, and sent me to a
child's-school in the suburbs. I obtained the praise of learn-
ing very fast, and being very fond of it. My schoolmaster
320 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
had two sons, lately returned from Leipzig ; a couple of de-
praved fellows, who took all pains to lead me astray ; and, as
I resisted, kept me for a long time, by threats and mistreat-
ment of all sorts, extremely miserable. So early as my tenth
year, to raise the money for my school-wages, I had given
lessons to a neighbor's child, a little girl, in reading and
writing. As the common school-course could take me no
farther, the point now was to get a private hour and proceed
into Latin. But for that purpose a guter groschen weekly was
required ; this my parents had not to give. Many a day I
carried this grief about with me : however, I had a godfather,
who was in easy circumstances, a baker, and my mother's
half-brother. One Saturday I was sent to this man to fetch a
loaf. With wet eyes I entered his house, and chanced to find
my godfather himself there. Being questioned why I was
crying, I tried to answer, but a whole stream of tears broke
loose, and scarcely could I make the cause of my sorrow in-
telligible. My magnanimous godfather offered to pay the
weekly groschen out of his own pocket ; and only this condi-
tion was imposed on me, that I should come to him every
Sunday, and repeat what part of the Gospel I had learned
by heart. This latter arrangement had one good effect for
me, — it exercised my memory, and I learned to recite with-
out bashfulness.
*' Drunk with joy, I started off with my loaf ; tossing it up
time after time into the air, and barefoot as I was, I capered
aloft after it. But hereupon my loaf fell into a puddle. This
misfortune again brought me a little to reason. My mother
heartily rejoiced at the good news ; my father was less con-
tent. Thus passed a couple of years ; and my schoolmaster
intimated, what I myself had long known, that I could now
learn no more from him.
*' This then was the time when I must leave school, and
bi'take me to the handicraft of my fatlier. Were not the
artisan under oppressions of so many kinds, robbed of the
fruits of his hard toil, and of so many advantages to which
the useful citizen has a natural claim ; I should still say, Had
1 but continued in the station of my parents, what thousand-
LIFE OF HEYNE., 821
fold vexation would at this hour have been unknown to me !
My father could not but be anxious to have a grown-up son
for an assistant in his labor, and looked -upon my repugnance
to it with great dislike. I again longed to get into the gram-
mar-school of the town ; but for this all means were wanting.
Where was a gulden of quarterly fees, where were books and
a blue cloak to be come at ? How wistfully my look often
hung on the walls of the school when I passed it !
"■ A clergyman of the suburbs was my second godfather ; his
name was Sebastian Seydel ; my schoolmaster, who likewise
belonged to his congregation, had told him of me. I was sent
for, and after a short examination, he promised me that I
should go to the town-school ; he himself would bear tho
charges. Who can express my happiness, as I then felt it !
I was despatched to the first teacher; examined, and placed
with approbation in the second class. Weakly from the first,
pressed down with sorrow and want, without any cheerful
enjoyment of childhood or youth, I was still of very small
stature ; my class-fellows judged by externals, and had a veiy
slight opinion of me. Scarcely, by various proofs of diligence
and by the praisos I received, could I get so far that they
tolerated ni}^ being put beside them.
" And certainly my diligence was not a little hampered !
Of his promise, the clergyman, indeed, kept so much, that he
paid my quarterly fees, provided me with a coarse cloak, and
gave me some useless volumes that were lying on his shelves ;
but to furnish me with school-books he could not resolve. I
thus found myself under the necessity of borrowing a class-
fellow's books, and daily copying a part of them before the
lesson. On the other hand, the honest man would have some
hand himself in my instruction, and gave me from time to
time some liours in Latin. In his youth he had learned to
make Latin verses : scarcely was Erasvui.s de CivUltute riorum
got over, when I too must take to verse-making; all this
before I had read any authors, or could possibly jiossess any
ftore of words. The man was withal ]iassionatf^ and rigorous ;
in every point repulsive ; with a moderate income he was
accused of av;aice; he had the stift'ntss and self-will of an
vcH,. A in. '.'I
322 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
old bachelor, and at the same time the vanity of aiming to
be a good Latinist, and, what was more, a Latin verse-maker,
and consequently a literary clergyman. These qualities of
his all contributed to overload my youth, and nip away in
the bud every enjoyment of its pleasures."
In this plain but somewhat leaden style does Heyne pro-
ceed, detailing the crosses and losses of his school-years. We
cannot pretend that the narrative delights us much ; nay, that
it is not rather bald and barren for such a narrative ; but its
fidelity may be relied on; and it paints the clear, broad,
strong and somewhat heavy nature of the writer, perhaps
better than description could do. It is curious, for instance,
to see with how little of a purely humane interest he looks
back to his childhood ; how Heyne the man has almost grown
into a sort of teaching-machine, and sees in Heyne the boy
little else than the incipient Gerund-grinder, and tells us little
else but how this wheel after the other was developed in him,
and he came at last to grind in complete perfection. We
could have wished to get some view into the interior of that
poor Chemnitz hovel, with its unresting loom and cheerless
hearth, its squalor and devotion, its affection and repining;
and the fire of natural genius struggling into flame amid such
incumbrances, in an atmosphere so damp and close ! But of
all this we catch few farther glimpses ; and hear only of Fa-
bricius and Owen and Pasor, and school-examinations, and
rectors that had been taught by Ernesti. Neither, in another
respect, not of omission but of commission, can this piece of
writing altogether content us. We must object a little to the
spirit of it, as too narrow, too intolerant. Sebastian Seydel
must have been a very meagre man; but is it right that
Heyne, of all others, should speak of him with as])erity ?
Without question the unfortunate Seydel meant nobly, had
not thrift stood in lus way. Did not he pay down his gulden
every quarter regularly, and give the boy a blue cloak, though
a coarse one ? Nay, he bestowed old books on him, and in-
struction, according to his gift, in the mj'^stery of verse-
making. And was not all this something? And if thrift and
charity had a continual battle to figlit, was not that better
LIFE OF HEYNE. 823
than a flat surrender on the part of the latter ? The other
pastors of Chemnitz are all quietly forgotten : why should
Sebastian be remembered to his disadvantage for being only
a little better than they ?
Heyne continued to be much infested with tasks from
Sebastian, and sorely held down by want, and discouragement
of every sort. The school-course moreover, he says, was bad ;
nothing but the old routine ; vocables, translations, exercises ;
all without spirit or purpose. jSTevertlieless, he continued
to make what we must call wonderful proficiency in these
branches ; especially as he had still to write every task before
he could learn it. For he prepared " Greek versions," he
says, " also Greek verses ; and by and by could write down in
Greek prose, and at last in Greek as well as Latin verses, the
discourses he heard in church ! " Some ray of hope was be-
ginning to spring up within his mind. A certain small degree
of self-confidence had first been aAvakened in him, as he in-
forms us, by a " pedantic adventure : " —
" There chanced to be a school-examination held, at which
the Superintendent, as chief school-inspector, was present.
This man. Dr. Theodor Kriiger, a theologian of some learning
for his time, all at once interrupted the rector, who was teach-
ing ex cathedra, and put the question : Who among the schol-
ars could tell him what might be made ^;er ana gramma from
the word Austria? This whim had arisen from the circum-
stance that the first Silesian war was just begun ; and some
such anagram, reckoned very happy, had appeared in a news-
paper.^ Xo one of us knew so much as what an anagram
was ; even the rector looked quite perplexed. As none an-
swered, the latter began to give us a description of anagrams
in general. I set myself to work, and sprang forth with my
discovery: Vastari! This was something different froni tlie
newspaY)er one : so much the greater was our Superintendent's
admiration ; and the more, as the successful aspirant was a
little boy, on the lowest bench of the secunda. lie growled
out his applause to me ; but at the same time set the whole
' "As yet Saxony was against Austria, not, as iu the end, allied with
her."
S24 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
school about my ears, as he stoutly upbraided them with
being beaten by an injimus.
" Enough : this pedantic adventure gave the first impulse to
the development of my powers. I began to take some credit
to myself, and in spite of all the oppression and contempt in
■which I languished, to resolve on struggling forward. This
first struggle was in truth ineffectual enough ; was soon re-
garded as a piece of pride and conceitedness ; it brought on
me a thousand humiliations and disquietudes ; at times it
might degenerate on my part into defiance. Nevertheless, it
kept me at the stretch of my diligence, ill-guided as it w^s,
and withdrew me from the company of my class-fellows,
among whom, as among children of low birth and bad nurture
could not fail to be the case, the utmost coarseness and boor-
ishness of every sort prevailed. The plan of these schools
does not include any general inspection, but limits itself to
mere intellectual instruction.
'•'Yet on all hands," continues he, " I found myself too sadly
hampered. The perverse way in which the old parson treated
me ; at home the discontent and grudging of my parents, es-
pecially of my father, who could not get on with his work,
and still thought that, had I kept by his way of life, he might
now have had some help ; the pressure of want, the feeling of
being behind every other ; all this would allow no cheerful
thought, no sentiment of worth to spring up within me. A
timorous, bashful, awkward carriage shut me out still farther
from all exterior attractions. Where could I learn good man-
ners, elegance, a right way of thought '^ Where could I attain
any culture for heart and spirit ?
" Upwards, however, I still strove. A feeling of honor, a
wish for something better, an effort to work myself out of
this abasement, incessantly attended me; but without direc-
tion as it was, it led me rather to sullenness, misanthropy
and clownishness.
" At lenj^h a place opened for me, where some training in
these points lay within my reach. One of our senators took
his mother-in-law home to live with him ; she had still two
children with her, a son and a daughter, both about my own
LIFE OF HEYNE. 825
age. For the son private lessons were wanted ; and happily I
was chosen for the purpose.
" As these private lessons brought me in a gulden monthly,
I now began to defend myself a little against the grumbling
of my parents. Hitherto I had been in the habit of doing
work occasionally, that I might not be told how I was eating
their bread for nothing; clothes, and oil for m}- lamp, I liad
earned by teaching in the house : these things I could now
relinquish ; and thus my condition was in some degree im-
proved. On the other hand, I had now opportunity of see-
ing persons of better education. I gained the good-will of
the family ; so that besides the lesson-hours, I generally lived
there. Such society afforded me some culture, extended my
conceptions and opinions, and also polished a little the rude-
ness of my exterior."
In this senatorial house he must have been somewhat more
at ease ; for he now very privately fell in love with his pupil's
sister, and made and burnt many Greek and Latin verses in
her praise; and had sweet dreams of some time rising "so
high as to be worthy of her." Even as matters stood, he
acquired her friendship and that of her mother. But the
grand concern, for the present, was how to get to college at
Leipzig. Old Sebastian had promised to stand good on this
occasion ; and unquestionably would have done so Avith the
greatest yjleasure, had it cost him nothing: but he promised
and promised, without doing aught ; above all, without putting
his hand into his pocket ; and elsewhere there was no help or
resource. At length, wearied perhaps with the boy's impor-
tunity, he determined to bestir himself ; and so directed his
assistant, who was just making a journey to Leipzig, to show
Heyne the road : the two arrived in perfect safety ; Ilej-ne
still longing after cash, for of his own he had only two gn/deii,
about five shillings ; but the assistant left him in a lodging-
house, and went his way, saying he had no farther orders !
The miseries of a poor scholar's life were now to be Heyne's
portion in full measure. Ill-clothed, totally destitute of books,
with five shillings in his purse, he found himself set down in
the Leipzig University, to study all learning. Despondency
326 CllITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
at first overmastered the poor boy's heart, and he sank into
sickness, from which indeed he recovered ; but only, he says,
"to fall into conditions of life where he became the prey of
desperation." How he contrived to exist, much more to study,
is scarcely apparent from this narrative. The unhappy old
Sebastian did at length send him some 2:>ittance, and at rare
intervals repeated the dole ; yet ever with his own peculiar-
grace ; not till after unspeakable solicitations ; in quantities
that were consumed by inextinguishable debt, and coupled
with sour admonitions; nay, on one occasion, addressed exter-
nally, " A Mr. Ilei/ne, Etudiant negligent." For half a year
he would leave him without all help ; then promise to come
and see what he was doing ; come accordingly, and return
without leaving him a penny : neither could the destitute
youth ever obtain any public furtherance ; no freltisch (free-
table) or stipendluvi was to be procured, ^fany times he had
no regular meal ; " often not three halfpence for a loaf at
midday." He longed to be dead, for his spirit was often sunk
in the gloom of darkness. " One good heart alone," says he,
"I found, and that in the servant-girl of the house Avhere I
lodged. She laid out money for my most pressing necessities,
and risked almost all she had, seeing me in such frightful
want. Could I but find thee in the world even now, thou
good pious soul, that I might repay thee what thou then didst
for me ! "
Hoyne declares it to be still a mystery to him how he stood
all this. '•' What carried me forward," continues he, " was not
ambition; any youthful dream of one day taking a place, or
aiming to take one, among the learned. It is true, the bitter
feeling of debasement, of deficiency in education and external
polish, the consciousness of awkwardness in social life, inces-
santly accompanied me. But my chief strength lay in a cer-
tain defiance of Fate. This gave me courage not to yield;
everywliere to try to the uttermost whether I was doomed
without remedy never to rise from this degradation."
Of order in his studies there could be little expectation.
He did not even know what profession he was aiming after:
old Sebastian was for theology ; and Heyne, though himself
LIFE OF HEYNE. 827
averse to it, affected and only affected to comply : besides he
had no money to pay class fees ; it was only to open lectures,
or at most to ill-guarded class-rooms, that he could gain ad-
mission. Of this ill-guarded sort was Winkler's ; into which
poor Heyne insinuated himself to hear philosoph3\ Alas, the
first problem of all philosophy, the keeping of soul and body
together, was well-nigh too hard for him ! Winkler's stu-
dents were of a riotous description ; accustomed, among other
improprieties, to scharren, scraping with the feet. One day
they chose to receive Heyne in this fashion; and he could
not venture back. " Nevertheless," adds he, simply enough,
'•'the beadle came to me some time afterwards, demanding
the fee : I had my own shifts to take before I could raise
it."
Ernesti was the only teacher from whom he derived any
benefit ; the man, indeed, whose influence seems to have shaped
the whole subsequent course of his studies. By dint of exces-
sive endeavors he gained admittance to Ernesti's lectures ; and
here first learned, says Heeren, "what interpretation of the
classics meant." One Crist also, a strange, fantastic Sir
Plume of a Professor, who built much on taste, elegance of
manners and the like, took some notice of him, and procured
him a little employment as a private teacher. This might be
more useful than his advice to imitate Scaliger, and read the
ancients so as to begin with the most ancient, and proceed
regularly to tlie latest. Small service it can do a bedrid man
to convince him that waltzing is preferable to quadrilles !
"Grist's Lectures," says he, "were a tissue of endless digres-
sions, which, however, now and then contained excellent
remarks."
But Ileyne's best teacher was himself. No pressure of dis-
tresses, no want of books, advisers or encouragement, not hun-
ger itself could abate his resolute perseverance. What books
he could come at he borrowed ; and such was his excess of
zeal in reading, that for a whole half-year ho allowed himself
only two nights of sleep in the week, till at last a fever
obliged him to be more moderate. His diligence was undi-
rected, or ill-directed, but it never rested, never paused, and
328 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
must at length prevail. Fortune had cast him into a cavern,
and he was groping darkly round; but the prisoner was a
giant, and would at length burst forth as a giant into the
light of day. Heyne, without any clear aim, almost with-
out any hope, had set his heart on attaining knowledge ; a
force, as of instinct, drove him on, and no promise and no
threat could turn him back. It was at the very depth of his
destitution, when he had not ''three groschen for a loaf to
dine on," that he refused a tutorship, with handsome enough
appointments, but which was to have removed him from the
University. Crist had sent for him one Sunday, and made him
the proposal: "There arose a violent struggle within me,"
says he, " which drove me to and fro for several days ; to this
hour it is incomprehensible to me where I found resolution
to determine on renouncing the offer, and pursuing my object
in Leipzig." A man with a half volition goes backwards and
forwards, and makes no way on the smoothest road ; a man
with a whole volition advances on the roughest, and will reach
his purpose if there be even a little wisdom in it.
With his first two years' residence in Leipzig, Heyne's per-
sonal narrative terminates; not because the nodus of the his-
tory had been solved then, and his perplexities cleared up,
but simply because he had not found time to relate farther.
A long series of straitened hopeless days were yet appointed
him. By Ernesti's or Grist's recommendation, he occasionally
got employment in giving private lessons ; at one time, he
worked as secretary and classical hodman to " Crusius, the
philosopher," who felt a little rusted in his Greek and Latin ;
<!very where he found the scantiest accommodation, and shifting
from side to side in dreary vicissitude of want, had to spin
out an existence, wnrmed by no ray of comfort, except the
lire that burnt or smouldered unquenchably within his own
bosom. However, he had now chosen a profession, that of
law, at which, as at many other branches of learning, he
was laboring with his old diligence. Of preferment in this
province there was, for the present, little or no hope; but this
was no new thing with Heyne. By degrees, too, his fine
talents and endeavors, and his perverse situation, began to
LIFE OF IIEYXE. 829
attrr.ct notice and sympathy; and here and there some well-
wisher had his eye on him, and stood ready to do him a ser-
vice. Two-and-twenty years of penury and joyless struggling
had now passed over the man ; how many more such might
be added was still uncertain ; yet surely the longest winter is
followed by a spring.
Another trifling incident, little better than that old " pedan-
tic adventure," again brought about important changes in
Heyne's situation. Among liis favorers in Leipzig had been
the preacher of a French chapel, one Lacoste, who, at this
time, was cut off by death. Heyne, it is said, in the real
sorrow of his heart, composed a long Latin Epicedium on that
occasion : the poem had nowise been intended for the press ;
but certain hearers of the deceased were so pleased with it, that
they had it printed, and this in the finest style of typography
and decoration. It was this latter circumstance, not the merit
of the verses, Avhich is said to have been considerable, that
attracted the attention of Count Briihl, the well-known prime
minister and favorite of the Elector. Briihl's sons were study-
ing in Leipzig; he was pleased to express himself contented
with the poem, and to say that he should like to have the
author in his service. A prime minister's words are not as
water spilt upon the ground, which cannot be gathered ; but
rather as heavenly manna, which is treasured up and eaten,
not without a religious sentiment. Heyne was forthwith
written to from all quarters, that his fortune was made : he
had but to show himself in Dresden, said his friends with one
voice, and golden showers from the ministerial cornucopia
would refresh him almost to saturation. For, was not the
Count taken with him ; and who in all Saxony, not except-
ing Serene Highness itself, could gainsay the Count? Over-
persuaded, and against his will, Heyne at length determined
on the journey; for which, as an indispensable preliminary,
*' fifty-one fhalers " had to be borrowed ; and so, following this
hopeful quest, he actually arrived at Dresden in April, 1752.
Count Briihl received him with the most captivating smiles ;
and even assured him in words, that he, Count Briihl, would
take care of him. But a prime minister has so much to take
830 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
care of ! Heyne danced attendance all spring and summer ;
happier than our Johnson, inasmuch as he had not to " blow
his fingers in a cold lobby," the weather being warm ; and
obtained not only promises, but useful experience of their
value at courts.
He was to be made a secretary, with five hundred, with four
hundred, or even with three hundred thalers, of income : only,
in the mean while, his old stock of fifty -one had quite run out,
and he had nothing to live upon. By great good luck, he
procured some employment in his old craft, private teaching,
which helped him through the winter ; but as this ceased, he
remained without resources. He tried working for the book-
sellers, and translated a French romance, and a Greek one,
" Chariton's Loves of Chareas and Callirhoe : " however, his
emoluments would scarcely furnish him with salt, not to
speak of victuals. He sold his few books. A licentiate in
divinity, one Sonntag, took pity on his houselessness, and
shared a garret with him ; where, as there was no unoccupiel
bed, Heyne slept on the floor, Avith a few folios for his pillow.
So fared he as to lodging : in regard to board, he gathered
empty pease-cods, and had them boiled ; this was not unfre-
quently his only meal. — 0 ye poor naked wretches ! what
would Bishop Watson say to this? — At length, by dint of
incredible solicitations, Heyne, in the autumn of 1753, ob-
tained, not his secretaryship, but the post of under-clerk
(coplst) in the Briihl Library, with one hundred thalers of
salary ; a sum barely sufficient to keep in life, which, indeed,
was now a great point with him. In such sort was this young
scholar " taken care of."
Nevertheless, it was under these external circumstances
that he first entered on his proper career, and forcibly made a
place for himself among the learned men of his day. In 1754
he prepared his edition of Tibullus, which Avas printed next
year at Leipzig ; ^ a work said to exhibit remarkable talent,
inasmuch as "the rudiments of all tliose excellences, by whicli
Heyne afterwards became distinguished as a commentator on
' Alhii TilmlU qufi' erlnnl Carmina, novis atris castlgata. lUustrissimo Domino
Henrico Comiti de Briilu inscripta. Lipsiac, 1755.
LIFE OF HEYNE. 331
the Classics, are more or less apparent in it." The most illus-
trious Henry Count von Briihl, in spite of the dedication, paid
no regard to this Tibullus ; as indeed Germany at large
paid little : but, in another country, it fell into the hands of
Ehuuken, where it was rightly estimated, and lay waiting, as
in due season appeared, to be the pledge of better fortune for
its author.
jNIeanwhile the day of difficulty for Heyne was yet far from
past. The profits of his Tibullus served to cancel some debts ;
on the strength of the hundi-ed thalers, the spindle of Clothe
might still keep turning, though languidly ; but, ere long, new
troubles arose. His superior in the Library was one Rost, a
poetaster, atheist, and gold-maker, who corrupted his religious
principles, and plagued him with caprices : over the former
evil Heyne at length triumphed, and became a rational Chris-
tian ; but the latter Avas an abiding grievance : not, indeed,
forever, for it was removed by a greater. In 1756 the Seven-
Years War broke out; Frederick advanced towards Dresden,
animated with especial fury against Briihl ; whose palaces
accordingly in a few months were reduced to ashes, as his
70,000 splendid volumes were annihilated by fire and by
water,^ and all his domestics and dependents turned to the
street without appeal.
Heyne had lately been engaged in studying Epictet-us, and
publishing, ad fidem Codd. Ilnspt., an edition of his Enchiri-
dion ; ^ from which, quoth Heeren, his great soul had acquired
much stoical nourishment. Such nourishment never comes
wrong in life ; and, surel}-, at this time Heyne had need of it
all. However, he struggled as he had been wont : translated
pampldcts, sometimes wrote newspaper articles ; eat when he
had wherewithal, and resolutely endured when he had not.
By and by, Eabener, to whom he was a little known, offered
1 One rich cargo, on its way to Hamburg, sank in tlie Ell)e ; auotlier still
more valuahle portion had been, for safety, deposited in a vault ; tlirougli
wliich jiassed certain j)ipcs of artificial water-works ; these the cannon broke,
and when tliP: vault came to be opened, all was reduced to pulp and mould.
The bomb-shells burnt the remainder.
2 Lipsise, 1756. The Codices, or rather the Codex, was in Bruhl's Library.
8S2 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
him a tutorship in the family of a Herr von Schonberg; which
Heyne, not without reluctance, accepted. Tutorships were at
all times his aversion : his rugged plebeian proud spirit made
business of that sort grievous : but Want stood over him, like
an armed man, and was not to be reasoned with.
In this Schonberg family, a novel and unexpected series of
fortunes awaited him ; but whether for weal or for woe might
stiir be hard to determine. The name of Theresa Weiss has
become a sort of classical word in biography ; her union with
Heyne forms, as it were, a green cypress-and-myrtle oasis in
his otherwise hard and stony history. It was here that he
first met with her ; that they learned to love each other. She
was the orphan of a " professor on the lute ; " had long, amid
poverty and afflictions, been trained, like the stoics, to bear
and forbear ; was now in her twenty -seventh year, and the
humble companion, as she had once been the schoolmate, of
the Frau von Schonberg, whose young brother He^^ne had
come to teach. Their first interview may be described in his
own words, which Heeren is here again happily enabled to
introduce : —
" It was on the 10th of October (her future death-day !) that
I first entered the Schonberg house. Towards what mountains
of mischances was I now proceeding ! To what endless tissues
of good and evil hap was the thread here taken up ! Could I
fancy that, at this moment. Providence was deciding the for-
tune of my life ! I was ushered into a room, where sat several
ladies engaged, with gay youthful sportiveness, in friendly
confidential talk. Frau von Schonberg, but lately married, yet
at this time distant from her husband, was preparing for a
journey to him at Prague, where his business detained him.
On her brow still beamed the pure innocence of youth ; in her
eyes you saw a glad soft vernal sky ; a smiling loving complai-
sance accompanied her discourse. This too seemed one of
those souls, clear and uncontaminated as they come from the
hands of their Maker, l^y reason of her brother, in her ten-
der love of him, I must have been to her no unimportant
guest.
" Beside her stood a young lady, dignified in aspect, of fair,
LIFE OF HEYNE. 333
slender shape, not regular in feature, yet soul in every glance.
Her words, her looks, her every movement, impressed you
with respect ; another sort of respect than what is paid to
rank and birth. Good sense, good feeling disclosed itself in
all she did. You forgot that more beauty, more softness,
might have been demanded ; you felt yourself under the influ-
ence of something noble, something stately and earnest, some-
thing decisive that lay in her look, in her gestures ; not less
attracted to her than compelled to reverence her.
" More than esteem the fii-st sight of Theresa did not inspire
me with. What I noticed most were the efforts she made to
relieve my embarrassment, the fruit of my down-bent pride,
and to keep me, a stranger, entering among familiar acquain-
tances, in easy conversation. Her good heart reminded her
how much the unfortunate requires encouragement ; especially
when placed, as I was, among those to whose protection he
must look up. Thus was my first kindness for her awakened
by that good-heartedness, which made her among thousands a
beneficent angel. She was one at this moment to myself ; for
I twice received letters from an unknown hand, containing
mone}^, which greatly alleviated my difficulties.
" In a few days, on the 14th of October, I commenced my
task of instruction. Her I did not see agaiu till the following
spring, when she returned with her friend from Prague ; and
then only once or twice, as she soon accouipanied Frau von
Schonberg to the country, to J^nsdorf in Oberlausitz (Upper
Lusatia). They left us, after it had been settled that I was
to follow them in a few days with my pupil. My young
heart joyed in the prospect of rural pleasures, of wliich
I had, from of old, cherished a thousand delightful dreams.
I still remember the 6th of May, when we set out for
^'Ensdorf.
" Tlie society of two cultivated females, who belonged to the
noblest of their sex, and tlie endeavor to acquire their esteem,
C(jntributed to form my own character. Xature and religion
were the objects of my daily conteuiplatiun ; I began to act
and live on principles, of which, till now, I had never thought :
these too formed the subject of our constant discourse. Lovely
334 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Nature and solitude exalted our feelings to a pitch of pious
enthusiasm,
" Sooner than I, Theresa discovered that her friendship for
me was growing into a passion. Her natural melancholy now
seized her heart more keenly than ever : often our glad hours
were changed into very gloomy and sad ones. Whenever our
conversation chanced to turn on religion (she was of the
Roman Catholic faith), I observed that her grief became more
apparent. I noticed her redouble her devotions ; and some-
times found her in solitude weeping and praying with such a
fulness of heart as I had never seen."
Theresa and her lover, or at least beloved, were soon sepa-
rated, and for a long while kept much asunder; partly by
domestic arrangements, still more by the tumults of war.
Heyne attended his pupil to the Wittenberg University, and
lived there a year ; studying for his own behoof, chiefly in
philosophy and German history, and with more profit, as he
says, than of old. Theresa and he kept up a correspondence,
which often passed into melancholy and enthusiasm. The
Prussian cannon drove him out of Wittenberg : his piipil and
he witnessed the bombardment of the place from the neigh-
borhood ; and, having waited till their University became " a
heap of rubbish," had to retire else-whither for accommodation.
The young man subsequently went to Erlangen, then to Got-
tingen. Heyne remained again without employment, alone in
Dresden. Theresa was living in his neighborhood, lovely and
sad as ever ; but a new bombardment drove her also to a dis-
tance. She left her little property with Heyne ; who removed
it to his lodging, and determined to abide the Prussian siege,
having indeed no other resource. The sack of cities looks so
well on paper, that we must find a little space here for Heyne's
account of his experience in this business ; though it is none of
the brightest accounts ; and indeed contrasts bub poorl}' with
liabener's brisk sarcastic narrative of the same adventure ; for
he too was cannonaded out of Dresden at this time, and lost
liouse and home, and books and manuscripts, and all but good
humor.
"The Prussians advanced meanwhile, and on the 18th of
LIFE OF HEYNE. 335
July (1760) the bombardment of Dresden began. Several
nights I passed, in company with others, in a tavern, and the
days in my room ; so that I could hear the balls from the
battery, as they flew through the streets, whizzing past my
windows. An indifference to danger and to life took such
possession of me, that on the last morning of the siege, I went
early to bed, and, amid the frightfulest crashing of bombs and
grenades, fell fast asleep of fatigue, and lay sound till mid-
day. On awakening, I huddled on my clothes, and ran dovv^n-
stairs, but found the whole house deserted. I had returned
to my room, considering what I was to do, whither, at all
events, I was to take my chest, when, with a tremendous
crash, a bomb came down in the court of the house ; did not,
indeed, set fire to it, but on all sides shattered everything to
pieces. The thought, that where one bomb fell, more would
soon follow, gave me wings ; I darted downstairs, found the
house-door locked, ran to and fro ; at last got entrance into one
of the under rooms, and sprang through the window into the
street.
" Empty as the street where I lived had been, I found the
principal thoroughfares crowded with fugitives. Amidst the
whistling of balls, I ran along the Schlossgasse towards
the Elbe-Bridge, and so forward to the iSTeustadt, out of which
the Prussians had now been forced to retreat. Glad that I
had leave to rest anywhere, I passed one part of the night
on the floor of an empty house ; the other, witnessing the
frio^htful light of flying bombs and a burning city.
" At break of day, a little postern was opened by the A us-
trian guard, to let the fugitives get out of the walls. The
captain, in his insolence, called the people Lutheran dogs, and
with this nickname gave each of us a stroke as we passed
through the gate.
" I was now at large ; and the thought, "Whither bound ?
began for the first time to employ me. As I had run, indeed
leapt from my house, in the night of terror, I had carried with
me no particle of my property, and not a grosrJu'n of money.
Only in liurryiug along the street, I had chanced to see a
tavern open ; it was an Italian's, where I used to pass the
336 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
nights. Here espying a fur cloak, I had picked it up, and
thrown it about me. With this I walked along, in one of the
sultriest days, from the Neustadt, over the sand and the moor,
and took the road for ^nsdorf, where Theresa with her friend
was staying ; the mother-in-law of the latter being also on a
visit to them. In the fiercest heat of the sun, through tracts
of country silent and deserted, I walked four leagues to
Bischofswerda, where I had to sleep in an inn among carriers.
Towards midnight arrived a postilion with return-horses ; I
asked him to let me ride one ; and with him I proceeded, till
my road turned off from the highway. All day, I heard the
shots at poor Dresden re-echoing in the hills.
" Curiosity at first made my reception at jiEnsdorf very
warm. But as I came to appear in the character of an alto-
gether destitute man, the family could see in me only a future
burden : no invitation to continue with them followed. In a
few days came a chance of conveyance, by a wagon for Neu-
stadt, to a certain Frau von Fletscher's a few miles on this
side of it j I was favored with some old linen for the road.
The good Theresa suffered unspeakably under these pro-
ceedings : the noble lady, her friend, had not been allowed to
act according to the dictates of her own heart.
"Not till now did I feel wholly how miserable I was.
Spurning at destiny, and hardening my heart, I entered on
this journey. With the Frau von Fletscher too my abode was
brief ; and by the first opportunity I returned to Dresden.
There was still a possibility that my lodging might have been
saved. With heavy heart I entered the city ; hastened to the
place where 1 had lived, and found — a heap of ashes."'
Heyne took up his quarters in the vacant rooms of the
Briihl Library. Some friends endeavored to alleviate his dis-
tress ; but war and rumors of war continued to harass him,
and drive him to and fro ; and his Theresa, afterwards also a
fugitive, was now as poor as himself. She heeded little the
loss of her property ; but inward sorrow and so many outward
agitations preyed hard upon her ; in the winter she fell vio-
lently sick at Dresden, was given up by her physicians ; re-
ceived extreme unction according to the rites of her church ;
LIFE OF HEYNE. 337
and was for some hours believed to be dead. N'ature, how-
ever, again prevailed : a crisis had occurred in the mind as
well as in the body ; for with her first returning strenf^th
Theresa declared her determination to renounce the Catholic
and publicly embrace the Protestant faith. Argument, rep-
resentation of worldly disgrace and loss were unavailing : she
could now, that all her friends were to be estranged, have
little hope of being wedded to Heyne on earth; but she
trusted that in another scene a like creed might unite them
in a like destiny. He himself fell ill ; and only escaped death
by her nursing. Persisting the more in her purpose, she took
priestly instruction, and on the 30th of May, in the Evan-
gelical Schlosskirche, solemnly professed her new creed.
" Eeverent admiration filled me," says he, '' as I beheld the
peace and steadfastness with which she executed her deter-
mination ; and still more the courage with which she bore the
consequences of it. She saw herself altogether cast out from
her family ; forsaken by her acquaintance, by every one; and
by the lire deprived of all she had. Her courage exalted me
to a higher duty, and admonished me to do mine. Imprudently
I had, in former conversations, first awakened her religious
scruples ; the passion for me, which had so much increased
her enthusiasm, increased her melancholy ; even the secret
tliought of belonging more closely to me by sameness of belief
had unconsciously influenced her. In a word, I formed the
determination which could not but expose me to universal
censure : helpless as I was, I united my destiny with hers.
"We were wedded at .^Ensdorf, on the 4th of June, 1761."
This was a bold step, but a right one : Theresa had now no
stay but him ; it behooved them to struggle, and if better
might not bo, to sink together. Theresa, in this nari'ative,
appears to us a noble, interesting being ; noble not in senti-
ment only, but in action and suffering ; a fair flower trodd"u
down by misfortune, but yielding, like flowers, only the sweeter
perfume for being crushed, and which it would have been a
blessedness to raise up and cherish into free growth. Yet, in
plain prose, we nuist question whether the two were happier
than others in their union: l>oth were quick of temper; she
VOL. XIII. L*2
338 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
•was all a heavenly light, he in good part a hard terrestrial
mass, which perhaps she could never wholly illuminate ; the
balance of the love seems to have lain much on her side.
Nevertheless Heyne was a steadfast, true and kindly, if no
ethereal man ; he seems to have loved his wife honestly ; and
so, amid light and shadow, they made their pilgrimage together,
if not better than other mortals, not worse, which was to have
been feared.
Neither, for the present, did the pressure of distress weigh
heavier on either than it had done before. He worked dili-
gently, as he found scope, for his old Maecenases, the Book-
sellers ; the war-clouds grew lighter, or at least the young pair
better used to them ; friends also were kind, often assisting
and hospitably entertaining them. On occasion of one such
visit to the family of a Herr von Liiben, there occurred a little
trait, which for the sake of Theresa must not be omitted.
Heyne and she had spent some happy weeks with their infant,
in this country-house, when the alarm of war drove the Von
Lbbens from their residence, which with the management of
its concerns they left to Heyne. He says, he gained some no-
tion of " land-economy " hereby ; and Heeren states that he had
" a candle-manufactory " to oversee. But to our incident : —
" Soon after the departure of the family, there came upon
us an irruption of Cossacks, — disguised Prussians, as we sub-
sequently learned. After drinking to intoxication in the
cellars, they set about plundering. Pursued by them, I ran
upstairs, and no door being open but that of the room where
my wife was with her infant, I rushed into it. She arose
courageously, and placed herself, with the child on her arm,
in the door against the robbers. This courage saved me, and
the treasure which lay hidden in the chamber."
" 0 thou lioness ! " said Attila Schmelzle, on occasion of a
similar rescue, " why hast thou never been in any deadly peril,
that I might show thee the lion in thy husband ? "
But better days were dawning. " On our return to Dres-
den," says Heyne, "I learned that inquiries had been made
after me from Hanover ; I knew not for what reason." The
reason by and by came to light. Gessner, Professor of Elo-
LIFE OF HEYNE. 839
qiience in Gottingen, was dead ; and a successor was wanted.
These things, it would appear, cause difficulties in Hanover,
which in many other places are little felt. But the Prime
Minister Miinchhausen had as good as founded the Georgia
Augusta himself ; and he was wont to watch over it with sin-
gular anxiety. The noted and notorious Klotz was already
there, as assistant to Gessner ; " but his beautiful latinity,"
says Heeren, " did not dazzle Miinchhausen ; Klotz, with his
pugnacity, was not thought of." The Minister applied to
Ernesti for advice : Ernesti knew of no fit man in German}^ ;
but recommended Ehunken of Leyden, or Saxe of Utrecht.
Ehunken refused to leave his country, and added these words :
" But why do you seek out of Germany, what Germany itself
offers you ? "Why not, for Gessner's successor, take Christian
Gottlob Heyne, that true pupil of Ernesti, and man of fine
talent (excellenti virum ingenio), who has shown how much he
knows of Latin literature by his Tibullus ; of Greek, by his
Epictetus ? In my opinion, and that of the greatest Hem-
sterhuis (ITemsterhusii tou ttuvv), Heyne is the only one that
can replace your Gessner. Nor let any one tell me that Heyne's
fame is not sufficiently illustrious and extended. Believe me,
there is in this man such a richness of genius and learning,
that ere long all Europe will ring with his praises."
This courageous and generous verdict of Ehunken's. in favor
of a person as yet little known to the world, and to him known
only by his writings, decided the matter. "Miinchhausen,"
says our Heeren, " believed in the boldly prophesying man."
Not without difficulty Heyne was unearthed ; and after various
excuses on account of competence on his part, — for he had lost
all his books and papers in the siege of Dresden, and sadly for-
gotten his Latin and Greek in so many tumults, — and various
livuilential negotiations about dismission from the Saxon ser-
vice, and salary and privilege in the Hanoverian, he at length
formally received his appointment ; and some three months
after, in June, 17G3, settled in Gottingen, with an official in-
come of eight hundred thnlers ; \vhich, it appears, Avas by
several additions, in the course of time, increased to twelve
hundred.
340 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Here then had Heyne at last got to land. His long life was
henceforth as quiet, and fruitful in activity and comfort, as
the past period of it had been desolate and full of sorrows.
He never left Gottingen, though frequently invited to do so,
and sometimes with highly tempting offers ; ^ but continued in
his place, busy in his vocation ; growing in influence, in extent
of connection at home and abroad ; till Rhunken's prediction
might almost be reckoned fulfilled to the letter ; for Heyne in
his own department was without any equal in Europe.
However, his history from this point, even because it was
so happy for himself, must lose most of its interest for the
general reader. Heyne has now become a Professor, and a
regularly progressive man of learning ; has a fixed household,
has rents and comings in ; it is easy to fancy how that man
might flourish in calm sunshine of prosperity, whom in adver-
sity we saw growing in spite of every storm. Of his proceed-
ings in Gottingen, his reform of the Royal Society of Sciences,
his editing of the Gelehrte Anzeigen {Gazette of Learning), his
exposition of the Classics from Virgil to Pindar, his remodel-
ling of the Library, his passive quarrels with Voss, his armed
neutrality with Michaelis ; of all this we must say little. The
best fruit of his endeavors lies before the world, in a long
series of Works, which among us, as well as elsewhere, are
known and justly appreciated. On looking over them, the
first thing that strikes us is astonishment at Heyne's diligence ;
which, considering the quantity and quality of his writings,
niiglit have appeared singular even in one who had been with-
out other duties. Yet Heyne's office involved him in the most
laborious researches : he wrote letters by the hundred to all
parts of the world, and on all conceivable subjects ; he had
three classes to teach daily ; he appointed professors, for his
recommendation was all-powerful ; superintended schools ; for a
1 He was invited successively to be Professor at C.ossel, and at Kloster-
bergeu; to be Librarian at Dresden; and, most flattering of all, to be Pro-
kunzler in the University of Copenliageu, and virtual Director of Education
over all T^enmark. He had a struggle on tiiis last occasion, but the Georgia
Augusta again prevailed. Some increase of salary usually follows such re-
luails ; it d.d i:ot in this iiistauce.
LIFE OF HEYNE. 841
long time the inspectiofa of the Freitische was laid on him, and
he had cooks' bills to settle, and hungry students to satisfy
with his purveyance. Besides all which, he accomplished, in
the way of publication, as follows : —
In addition to his Tibullus and Epictetus, the first of which
went through three, the second through two editions, each
time with large extensions and improvements : —
His Virgil (P. Virgilius Maro Varietate Lectionis et per-
petiid Annotatione illustratus), in various forms, from 1767 to
1803 ; no fewer than six editions.
His Pliny (^Ex C. Plin^ii Secun^di Historid Naturali excerpta,
quce ad Artes spectani) ; two editions, 1790, 1811.
His Apollodorus (Apollodori Atheniensis Bibliothecce Libri
tres, &c.) ; two editions, 1787, 1803.
His Pindar (Pin^dari Carmlna, cum Lectionis Varietate,
curavit Ch. G. H.) ; three editions, 1774, 1797, 1798, the last
with the Scholia, the Fragments, a Translation, and Hermann's
Inq. De Metris.
His Conon and Parthenius (Con-qnis Narrationes, et Par-
THEXii Narrationes atnatoria'), 1798.
And lastly his Homer (Homeki Ilias, cum hrevi Annotatione) ;
8 volumes, 1802 ; and a second, contracted edition, in 2 vol-
umes, 1804.
Next, almost a cart-load of Translations ; of which we shall
mention only his version, said to be with very important im-
provements, of our Universal History by Guthrie and Gray.
Then some ten or twelve thick volumes of Prolusions, Eulo-
gies, Essays ; treating of all subjects, from the French Direc-
torate to the Chest of Cypselus. Of these. Six Volumes are
known in a separate shape, under the title of Opuscula ; and
contain some of Heyne's most valuable writings.
And lastly, to crown the whole with one most surprising
item, seven thousand five hundred (Heeren says from seven to
eight thousand) Reviews of Books, in the Gcittingen Gclchrte
Anzeigen. Shame on us degenerate Editors ! Here of itself
was work for a lifetime !
To expect that elegance of composition should prevail in
these multifarious performances were unreasonable enough.
342 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Heyne wrote very indifferent German ; and his Latin, by much
the more common vehicle in his learned works, flowed from
him with a copiousness which could not be Ciceronian. At
the same time, these volumes are not the folios of a Mont-
faucon, not mere classical ore and slag, but regularly smelted
metal; for most part exhibiting the essence, and only the
essence, of very great research ; and enlightened by a philoso-
phy which, if it does not always wisely order its results, has
looked far and deeply in collecting them.
To have performed so much, evinces on the part of Heyne
no little mastership in the great art of husbanding time.
Heeren gives us sufficient details on this subject; explains
Heyne's adjustment of his hours and various occupations : how
he rose at five o'clock, and worked all the day, and all the
year, with the regularity of a steeple clock ; nevertheless, how
patiently he submitted to interruptions from strangers, or
extraneous business ; how briefly, yet smoothly, he contrived
to despatch such interruptions; how his letters were indorsed
when they came to hand ; and lay in a special drawer till they
were answered : nay we have a description of his whole " local-
ity," his bureau and book-shelves and portfolios, his very bed
and strong-box are not forgotten. To the busy man, especially
the busy man of letters, these details are far from uninterest-
ing; if we judged by the result, many of Heyne's arrangements
might seem worthy not of notice only, but of imitation.
His domestic circumstances continued, on the whole, highly
favorable for such activity; though not now more than for-
merly were they exempted from the common lot ; but still had
several hard changes to encounter. In 1775 he lost his The-
resa, after long ill-health ; an event which, stoic as he was,
struck heavily and dolefully on his heart. He forbore not to
shed some natural tears, though from eyes little used to the
melting mood. Nine days after her death, he thus writes to
a friend, with a solemn mournful tenderness, which none of us
will deny to be genuine : —
•'* I have looked upon the grave that covers the remains of
my Theresa : what a thousand-fold pang, beyond the pitch of
human feeling, pierced through my soul ! How did my limbs
LIFE OF HEYNE. 343
tremble as I approached this holy spot ! Here, then, reposes
what is left of the dearest that Heaven gave me ; among the
dust of her four children she sleeps. A sacred horror covered
the place. I should have sunk altogether in my sorrow, had
it not been for my two daughters that were standing on the
outside of the churchyard; I saw their faces over the wall,
directed to me with anxious fear. This called me to myself ;
I hastened in sadness from the spot where I could have con-
tinued forever ; where it cheered me to think that one day I
should rest by her side ; rest from all the carking care, from
all the griefs which so often have embittered to me the enjoy-
ment of life. Alas ! among these griefs must I reckon even
her love, the strongest, truest, that ever inspired the heart of
woman, which made me the happiest of mortals, and yet was
a fountain to me of a thousand distresses, inquietudes and
cares. To entire cheerfulness perhaps she never attained ; but
for what unspeakable sweetness, for what exalted enrapturing
joys, is not Love indebted to Sorrow ! Amidst gnawing anxie-
ties, with the torture of anguish in my heart, I have been made
even by the love which caused me this anguish, these anx-
ieties, inexpressibly happy ! When tears flowed over our
cheeks, did not a nameless, seldom-felt delight stream through
my breast, o})pressed equally by joy and by sorrow ! "
But Heyne was not a man to brood over past griefs, or lin-
ger long where nothing was to be done but mourn. In a short
time, according to a good old plan of his, having reckoned up
his grounds of sorrow, he faiiiy wrote down on paper, over
against them, his " grounds of consolation ; " concluding with
these pious words, '' So for all these sorrows too, these trials,
do I thank thee, my God ! And now, glorified friend, will I
again turn nie with undivided heart to my duty ; thou thyself
sniilest approval on me ! " i^ay, it was not many months
before a new marriage came on the anvil; in which matter,
truly, He^'ne conducted himself with the most philosophic
indiiference ; leaving his friends, by whom the project had
been started, to bring it to what issue they pleased. It was a
scheme concerted by Zimmermann (the author of Solitude, a
man little known to Heyne), and one lieich a Leipzig Book-
344 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
seller, who had met at the Pyrmont Baths. Brandes, the
Hanoverian Minister, successor of IMuuchhaiisen in the man-
agement of the University concerns, was there also with a
daughter; upon her the projectors cast their eye, Heyne,
being consulted, seems to have comported himself like clay in
the hands of the potter ; father and fair one, in like manner,
were of a compliant humor, and thus was the business achieved ;
and on the 9th of April, 1777, Heyne could take home a bride,
won with less difficulty than most men have in choosing a
pair of boots. Nevertheless, she proved an excellent wife to
him ; kept his house in the cheerfulest order ; managed her
step-children and her own like a true mother ; and loved, and
faithfully assisted her husband in whatever he undertook.^
Considered in his private relations, such a man might well
reckon himself fortunate.
In addition to Heyne's claims as a scholar and teacher,
Heeren would hav3 us regard him as an unusually expert man
of business and negotiator ; for which line of life he himself
seems, indeed, to have thought that his talent was more pecul-
iarly fitted. In proof of this, we have long details of his
procedure in managing the Library, the Royal Society, the
University generally, and his incessant and often rather com-
plex correspondence with Miinchhausen, Brandes, or other
ministers who presided over this department. Without de-
tracting from Heyne's skill in such matters, what struck us
more in this narrative of Heeren's was the singular contrast
which the " Georgia Aiigusta," in its interior arrangement, as
well as its external relations to the Government, exhibits with
our own Universities, The prime minister of the country
writes thrice weekly to the director of an institution for learn-
ing ! He oversees all ; knows the character, not only of every
professor, but of every pupil that gives any pi-omise. He is
continually purchasing books, drawings, models ; treating for
this or the other help or advantage to the establishment. He
has his eye over all Germany ; and nowhere does a man of any
decided talent show himself, but he strains every nerve to
acquire him. And seldom even can he succeed ; for the Hano-
verian assiduity seems nothing singular ; every state in Ger-
LIFE OF EEYXE. 845
many has its minister for education, as well as Hanover.
They correspon.l, they inquire, they negotiate; everywhere
there seems a canvassing, less for places than for the best men
to fill them. Heyne himself has his Seminarium, a private
class of the nine most distinguished students in the University ;
these he trains with all diligence, and is in due time most
probably enabled, by his connections, to place in stations lit
for them. A hundred and thirty-five professors are said to
have been sent from this Seminarium during his presidency.
These things we state without commentary : we believe that
the experience of all English and Scotch and Irish University-
men will, of itself, furnish one. The state of education in
Germany, and the structure of the establishments for conduct-
ing it, seems to us one of the most promising inquiries that
could at this moment be entered on.
But to return to Heyne. We have said, that in his private
circumstances he might reckon himself fortunate. His public
relations, on a more splendid scale, continued, to the last, to
be of the same happy sort. By degrees, he had risen to be,
both in name and office, the chief man of his establishment;
his character stood high with the learned of all countries ; and
the best fruit of external reputation, increased respect in his
own circle, was not denied to him. The burghers of Gottingen,
so fond of their University, could not but be proud of Heyne ;
nay, as the time passed on, they found themselves laid under
more than one specific obligation to him. He remodelled and
reanimated their Gymnasium (Town-School), as he had before
done that of Ilfeld ; and what was still more important, in the
rude times of the French War, by his skilful application, he
succeeded in procuring from Napoleon, not only a protection
for the University, but immunity from hostile invasion for
the whole district it stands in. Nay, so happily were matters
managed, or so happily did they turn of their own accord, that
Gottingen rather gained than suffered by the War : under
Jerome of Westphalia, not only were all benefices punctually
paid, but improvements even were effected ; among other
things, a new and very handsome extension, which had long
been desired, was built for the Library, at the charge of Gov-
S46 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
ernment. To all these claims for public regard, add Heyne's
now venerable age, and we can fancy how, among his towns-
men and fellow-collegians, he must have been cherished, nay
almost worshipped. Already had the magistracy, by a special
act, freed him from all public assessments ; but in 1809, on his
eightieth birthday, came a still more emphatic testimony ; for
Kitter Franz, and all the public Boards, and the Faculties in
corpore, came to him in procession with good wishes ; and
students reverenced him ; and young ladies sent him garlands,
stitched together by their own fair fingers ; in short, Gottingen
was a place of jubilee ; and good old Heyne, who nowise
affected, yet could not dislike these things, was among the
happiest of men.
In another respect we must also reckon him fortunate : that
he lived till he had completed all his undertakings ; and then
departed peacefully, and without sickness, from which, indeed,
his whole life had been remarkably free. Three months before
his death, in April, 1812, he saw the last Volume of his Works
in print ; and rejoiced, it is said, with an affecting thankful-
ness, that so much had been granted him. Length of life was
not now to be hoped for ; neither did Heyne look forward to
the end with apprehension. His little German verses, and
Latin translations, composed in sleepless nights, at this ex-
treme period, are, to us, by far the most touching part of his
poetry; so melancholy is the spirit of them, yet so mild;
solemn, not without a shade of sadness, yet full of pious resig-
nation. At length came the end; soft and gentle as his
mother could have wished it for him. The 11th of July was
a public day in the Royal Society ; Heyne did his part in it ;
spoke at large, and with even more clearness and vivacity
than usual.
"Next day," says Heeren, "was Sunday: I saw him in the
evening for the last time. He was resting in his chair, ex-
hausted by the fatigue of yesterday. On Monday morning, he
once more entered his class-room, and held his Seminarium.
In the afternoon he prepared his letters, domestic as well
as foreign ; among the latter, one on business ; sealed them
all but one, written in Latin, to Professor Thorlacius in
LIFE OF HEYNE. 847
Copenhagen, which I found open, but finished, on his desk.
At supper (none but his elder daughter was with him) he
talked cheerfully ; and, at his usual time, retired to rest. In
the night, the servant girl, that slept under his apartment, heard
him walking up and down ; a common practice with him when
he could not sleep. However, he had again gone to bed. Soon
after five, he arose, as usual ; he joked with the girl when she
asked him how he had been overnight. She left him, to make
ready his coffee, as was her wont ; and, returning with it in a
short quarter of an hour, she found him sunk down before his
washing-stand, close by his work-table. His hands were wet ;
at the moment when he had been washing them, had death
taken him into his arms. One breath more, and he ceased to
live : when the hastening doctor opened a vein, no blood would
flow."
Heyne was interred with all public solemnities : and, in
epicedial language, it may be said, without much exaggera-
tion, that his country mourned for him. At Chemnitz, his
birthplace, there assembled, under constituted authority, a
grand meeting of the magnates, to celebrate his memory; the
old school-album, in which the little ragged boy had inscribed
his name, was produced ; grandiloquent speeches were deliv-
ered ; and " in the afternoon, many hundreds went to see the
poor cottage " where his father had weaved, and he starved
and learned. How generous !
To estimate Heyne's intellectual character, to fix accurately
his rank and merits as a critic and philologer, we cannot but
consider as beyond our province, and at any rate superfluous
here. By the general consent of the learned in all countries,
he seems to be acknowledged as the first among recent schol-
ars ; his immense reading, his lynx-eyed skill in exposition
and emendation are no longer anywhere controverted ; among
ourselves his taste in these matters has been praised by Gibbon,
and by Parr pronounced to be "exquisite." In his own coun-
try, Heyne is even regarded as the founder of a new epoch
in classical study ; as the first who with any decisiveness at-
tempted to translate faiily beyond the letter of the Classics;
348 CKITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
to read in the writings of the Ancients, not their language
alone, or even their detached opinions and records, but their
spirit and character, their way of life and thought ; how the
World and Nature painted themselves to the mind in those
old ages ; how, in one word, the Greeks and the Romans were
men, even as we are. Such of our readers as have studied
any one of Heyue's works, or even looked carefully into the
Lectures of the Schlegels, the most ingenious and popular com-
mentators of that school, will be at no loss to understand what
we mean.
By his inquiries into antiquity, especially by his labored in-
vestigation of its politics and its mythology, Heyne is believed
to have carried the torch of philosophy towards, if not into,
the mysteries of old time. What Winkelmann, his great con-
temporary, did, or began to do, for ancient Plastic Art, the
other with equal success began for ancient Literature.^ A high
praise, surely ; yet, as we must think, one not unfounded, and
which, indeed, in all parts of Europe, is becoming more and
more confirmed.
So much, in the province to which he devoted his activity, is
Heyne allowed to have accomplished. Nevertheless, we must
not assert that, in point of understanding and spiritual endow-
ment, he can be called a great, or even, in strict speech, a com-
plete man. Wonderful perspicacity, unwearied diligence, are
not denied him ; but to philosophic order, to classical adjust-
* It is a curious fact, that these two men, so singularly correspondent in
their early sufferings, subsequent distinction, line of study, and rugged enthu-
siasm of cliaracter, were at one time, while both as yet were under the horizon,
brought into partial contact. " An acquaintance of another sort," says Heeren,
" tlie young Heyne was to make in the Briihl Library ; with a person whose
iniportauce he could not then anticipate. One frequent visitor of this estal)-
lisliment was a certain almost wholly unknown man, whose visits could not
be specially desirable for the librarians, such endless labor did he cost them,
lie seemed insatiable in reading ; and called for so many books, that his recep-
tion there grew rather of the coolest. It was Juhnnn Winlcfhnnnn. Meditat-
ing his journey for Italy, he was then laying in preparation for it. Thus did
these two men become, if not confidential, yet acquainted ; who at that time,
both still in darkness and poverty, could little suppose, that in a few years
they were to be the teachers of cultivated Europe, and the ornaments of
their nation."
LIFE OF HEYNE. 849
ment, clearness, polish, whether in word or thought, he seldom
attains ; nay, many times, it must be avowed, he involves him-
self in tortuous long-winded verbosities, and stands before us
little better than one of that old school which his admirers
boast that he displaced. He appears, we might also say, as if
he had wings but could not well use them. Or indeed, it miglit
be that, writing constantly in a dead language, he came to
write heavily ; working forever on subjects where learned
armor-at-all-points cannot be dispensed with, he at last grew
so habituated to his harness that he would not walk abroad
without it ; nay perhaps it had rusted together, and could not
be unclasped ! A sad fate for a thinker ! Yet one which
threatens many commentators, and overtakes many.
As a man encrusted and encased, he exhibits himself, more-
over, to a certain degree, in his moral character. Here too, as
in his intellect, there is an awkwardness, a cumbrous inertness ;
nay, there is a show of dulness, of hardness, which nowise in-
triusically belongs to him. He passed, we are told, for less
religious, less affectionate, less enthusiastic than he was. His
heart, one would think, had no free course, or had found itself
a secret one ; outwardly he stands before us cold and still, a
very wall of rock ; yet within lay a well, from which, as we
have witnessed, the stroke of some Moses'-wand (the death of
a Theresa) could draw streams of pure feeling. Callous as the
man seems to us, he has a sense for all natural beauty ; a mer-
ciful sympathy for his fellow-men : his own early distresses
never left his memory ; for similar distresses his pity and help
were, at all times, in store. This form of character may also
be the fruit partly of his employments, partly of his sufferings,
and perhaps is not very singular among commentators.
For the rest, Heeren assures us, that in practice Heyne was
truly a good man ; altogether just ; diligent in his own honest
business, and ever ready to forward that of others ; compas-
sionate ; tliough quick-tempered, placal)le ; friendly, and satis-
fied witli sini])le pleasures. He delighted in roses, and always
kept a bouquet of them in water on his desk. His house was
embowered among roses ; and in his old days he used to wander
through the bushes with a pair of scissors. "Farther,'' says
350 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Heeren, " in spite of his short sight, he was fond of the fields
and skies, and could lie for hours reading on the grass." A
kindly old man ! With strangers, hundreds of whom visited
him, he was uniformly courteous ; though latterly, being a
little hard of hearing, less fit to converse. In society he strove
much to be polite ; but had a habit (which ought to be general)
of yawning, when people spoke to him and said nothing.
On the whole, the Germans have some reason to be proud
of Heyne : who shall deny that they have here once more
produced a scholar of the right old stock ; a man to be ranked,
for honesty of study and of life, with the Scaligers, the Bent-
leys, and old illustrious men, who, though covered with aca-
demic dust and harsh with polyglot vocables, were true men of
endeavor, and fought like giants, with such weapons as they
had, for the good cause ? To ourselves, we confess, Heyne,
highly interesting for what he did, is not less but more so for
what he was. This is another of the proofs, which minds like
his are from time to time sent hither to give, that the man is
not the product of his circumstances, but that, in a far higher
degree, the circumstances are the product of the man. While
beneficed clerks and other sleek philosophers, reclining on
their cushions of velvet, are demonstrating that to make a
scholar and man of taste, there must be co-operation of the
upper classes, society of gentlemen-commoners, and an income
of four hundred a year ; — arises the son of a Chemnitz weaver,
and with the very wind of his stroke sweeps them from the
scene. Let no man doubt the omnipotence of Nature, doubt
the majesty of man's soul ; let no lonely unfriended son of
genius despair ! Let him not despair; if he have the will, the
right will, then the power also has not been denied him. It is
but the artichoke that will not grow except in gardens. Tha
acorn is cast carelessly abroad into the wilderness, yet it rises
to be an oak ; on the wild soil it nourishes itself, it defies the
tempest, and lives for a thousand years.
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS.*
[1829.]
In this stage of society, the playwright is as essential and
acknowledged a character as the millwright, or cartwright, or
any other wright whatever ; neither can we see why, in general
estimation, he should rank lower than these his brother arti-
sans, except perhaps for this one reason : that the former
working in timber and iron, for the wants of the body, pro-
duce a completely suitable machine ; while the latter, working
in thought and feeling, for the wants of the soul, produces a
machine which is twcompletely suitable. In other respects,
we confess we cannot perceive that the balance lies against
him : for no candid man, as it seems to us, will doubt but the
talent which constructed a Virglnius or a Bertram, might have
sufficed, had it been properly directed, to make not only wheel-
barrows and wagons, but even mills of considerable complicacy.
However, if the public is niggardly to the playwright in one
point, it must be proportionably liberal in another ; according
1 FoREiGX Review, No. 6. — 1. Die Ahnfrau (The Ancestress). A
Tragedy, in five Acts. By F. Grillparzer. Fourth Edition. Vieuua, 1823.
Konig Ottnkars Gliick unde Ende (King Ottocar's Fortune and End). A
Tragedy, in five Acts. By F. Grillparzer. Vienna, 1825.
Sappho. A Tragedy, in five Acts. By F. Grillparzer. Third Edition.
Vienna, 1822.
2. Faust. A Tragedy, in five Acts. By August Klingemaun. Leipzig
and Altenburg, 1815.
Ahn.tupr. A Tragedy, in five Acts. By August Klingemann. Bruns-
wick, 1827.
3. MuUners Drnmatische Werke. Erste recltmdssige, voUstiindige und vom Ver-
/asser verbesxprte Cesainmt-Atisgabe. (Milliner's Dramatic Works. First legal
collective Edition, complete and revised by the Author.) 7 vola. Bruns-
wick, 1828.
352 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
to Adam Smith's observation, that trades which are reckoned
less reputable have higher money wages. Thus, one thing
compensating the otlier, the playwright may still realize an
existence; as, in fact, we find that he does: for playwrights
were, are and probably will always be ; unless, indeed, in pro-
cess of years, the whole dramatic concern be finally abandoned
by mankind; or, as in the case of our Pufich and Mathews,
every player becoming his own playwright, this trade may
merge in the other and older one.
The British nation has its own playwrights, several of them
cunning men in their craft : yet here, it would seem, this sort
of carpentry does not flourish; at least, not with that pre-
eminent vigor which distinguishes most other branches of our
national industry. In hardware and cotton goods, in all sorts
of chemical, mechanical, or other material processes, England
outstrips the world ; nay in many departments of literary
manufacture also, as, for instance, in the fabrication of Novels,
she ma}'' safely boast herself peerless : but in the matter of the
Drama, to whatever cause it be owing, she can claim no such
superiority. In theatrical produce she yields considerably to
France ; and is, out of sight, inferior to Germany. Nay, do
not we English hear daily, for the last twenty years, that the
Drama is dead, or in a state of suspended animation ; and are
not medical men sitting on the case, and propounding their
remedial appliances, weekly, monthly, quarterly, to no manner
of purpose ? Whilst in Germany the Drama is not only, to all
appearance, alive, but in the very flush and heyday of super-
abundant strength ; indeed, as it were, still only sowing its
first wild oats ! For if the British Playwrights seem verging
to ruin, and our Knowleses, Maturins, Shiels and Shees stand
few and comparatively forlorn, like firs on an Irish bog, the
Playwrights of Germany are a strong, triumphant body ; so
numerous that it has bc^en calculated, in case of war, a regi-
ment of foot might be raised, in which, from the colonel down
to the drummer, every olhcer and private sentinel might show
his drama or dramas.
To investigate the origin of so marked a superiority would
lead us beyond our purpose. Doubtless the proximate cause
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 353
must lie in a superior demand for the article of dramas ; which
superior demand again may arise either from the climate of
Germany, as Montesquieu might believe; or perhaps more
naturally and immediately from the political condition of that
country ;. for man is not only a working but a talking animal,
and where no Catholic Questions, and Parliamentary Reforms,
and Select Vestries are given him to discuss in his leisure
hours, he is glad to fall upon plays or players, or whatever
comes to hand, whereby to fence himself a little against the
inroads of Ennui. Of the fact, at least, that such a superior
demand for dramas exists in Germany, we have only to open a
newspaper to find proof. Is not every Litteraturhlatt and Ktinst-
blatt stuffed to bursting with theatricals ? Nay, has not the
" able Editor " established correspondents in every capital city
of the civilized world, who report to him on this one matter
and on no other ? For, be our curiosity what it ma}'', let us
have profession of " intelligence from Munich," " intelligence
from Vienna," '-intelligence from Berlin," is it intelligence of
anything but of green-room controversies and negotiations, of
tragedies and operas and farces acted and to be acted ? Xot
of men, and their doings, by hearth and hall, in the firm earth ;
but of mere effigies and shells of men, and their doings in the
world of pasteboard, do these unhappy correspondents write.
Unhappy we call them ; for, with all our tolerance of play-
wrights, we cannot but think that there are limits, and very
strait ones, within which their activity should be restricted.
Here in England, our "theatrical reports" are nuisance
enough ; and many persons who love their life, and therefore
" take care of their time, which is the stuff life is made of,"
regularly lose several columns of their weekly newspaper in
that way : but our case is pure luxury, compared with that of
the Germans, who instead of a measurable and sutferable spi-
cing of theatric matter, are obliged, metaphorically speaking, to
breakfast and dine on it; have in fact nothing else to live on
but that highly unnutritive victual. We ourselves are occa-
sional readers of German newspapers ; and have often, in the
spirit of Christian humanity, meditated presenting to the whole
body of German editors a project, — which, however, must
VOL. XIII, 23
854 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
certainly have ere now occurred to themselves, and for some
reason been found inapplicable : it was, to address these corre-
spondents of theirs, all and sundry, in plain language, and put
the question. Whether, on studiously surveying the Universe
from their several stations, there was nothing in the heavens
above, or the earth beneath, or the waters under the earth,
nothliKj visible but this one business, or rather shadow of busi-
ness, that had an interest for the minds of men ? If the corre-
spondents still answered that nothing was visible, then of
course they must be left to continue in this strange state ;
prayers, at the same time, being put up for them in all
churches.
However, leaving every able Editor to fight his own battle,
we address ourselves to the task in hand : meaning here to in-
quire a very little into the actual state of the dramatic trade
in Germany, and exhibit some detached features of it to the
consideration of our readers. For, seriously speaking, low as
the province may be, it is a real, active and ever-enduring prov-
ince of the literary republic ; nor can the pursuit of many
men, even though it be a profitless and foolish pursuit, ever be
without claim to some attention from us, either in the way of
furtherance or of censure and correction. Our avowed object
is to promote the sound study of Foreign Literature ; which
study, like all other earthly undertakings, has its negative as
well as its positive side. We have already, as occasion served,
borne testimony to the merits of various German poets ; and
must now say a word on certain German poetasters ; hoping
that it may be chiefly a regard to the former which has made
us take even this slight notice of the latter : for the bad is in
itself of no value, and only worth describing lest it be mis-
taken for the good. At the same time, let no reader tremble,
as if we meant to overwhelm him, on this occasion, with a
whole mountain of dramatic lumber, poured forth in torrents,
like shot rubbish, from the playhouse garrets, where it is
mouldering and evaporating into nothing, silently and without
harm to any one. Far be this from us ! Nay, our own knowl-
edge of this subject is in the highest degree limited ; and,
indeed, to exhaust it, or attempt discussing it with scientific
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 855
precision, would be an impossible enterprise. "What man is
there that could assort the whole furniture of Milton's Limho
of Vanity ; or where is the Hallam that would undertake to
write us the Constitutional History of a Rookery ? Let the
courteous reader take heart, then ; for he is in hands that will
not, nay what is more, that cannot, do him much harm. One
brief shy glance into this huge bivouac of Playwrights, all
sawing and planing with such tumult ; and we leave it, proba-
bly for many years.
The German Parnassus, as one of its own denizens re-
marks, has a rather broad summit ; yet only two Dramatists
are reckoned, within the last century, to have mounted thith-
er : Schiller and Goethe : if we are not, on the strength of
his Minna von Bamhelvi and Emilie Galotti, to account Les-
sing also of the number. On the slope of the Mountain may
be found a few stragglers of the same brotherhood ; among
these, Tieck and Maler Miiller, firmly enough stationed at
considerable elevations ; while far below appear various hon-
est persons climbing vehemently, but against precipices of
loose sand, to whom we wish all speed. But the reader will
understand that the bivouac we speak of, and are about to
enter, lies not on the declivity of the Hill at all ; but on the
level ground close to the foot of it ; the essence of a Play-
wright being that he works not in Poetry, but in Prose wliich
more or less cunningly resembles it.
And here pausing for a moment, the reader observes that
he is in a civilized country ; for see, on the very boundary-
line of Parnassus, rises a gallows with the figure of a man
hung in chains ! It is the figure of August von Kotzebue ;
and has swung there for many years, as a warning to all
too audacious Playwrights ; who nevertheless, as we see, pay
little heed to it. Ill-fated Kotzebue, once the darling of
theatrical Europe ! This was the prince of all Playwrights,
and could manufacture Plays with a speed and felicity sur-
passing even Edinburgh ISTovels. For his muse, like other
doves, hatched twins in the month; and the world gazed on
them with an admiration too deep for mere words. "What
is all past or present popularity to this ? "Were not these
356 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Plays translated into almost every language of articulate-
speaking men ; acted, at least, we may literally say, in every
theatre from Kamtschatka to Cadiz ? Nay, did they not melt
the most obdurate hearts in all countries ; and, like the music
of Orpheus, draw tears down iron cheeks ? We ourselves have
known the flintiest men, who professed to have wept over
them, for the first time in their lives. So was it twenty years
ago ; how stands it to-day ? Kotzebue, lifted up on the hol-
low balloon of popular applause, thought wings had been
given him that he might ascend to the Immortals : gay he
rose, soaring, sailing, as with supreme dominion ; but in the
rarer azure deep, his windbag burst asunder, or the arrows
of keen archers pierced it ; and so at last we find him a com-
pound-pendulum, vibrating in the character of scarecrow, to
guard from forbidden fruit ! 0 ye Playwrights, and literary
quacks of every feather, weep over Kotzebue, and over your-
selves ! Know that the loudest roar of the million is not
fame ; that the windbag, are ye mad enough to mount it, will
burst, or be shot through with arrows, and your bones too
shall act as scarecrows.
But, quitting this idle allegorical vein, let us at length pro-
ceed in plain English, and as beseems mere prose Reviewers,
to the work laid out for us. Among the hundreds of German
Dramatists, as they are called, three individuals, already known
to some British readers, and prominent from all the rest in
Germany, may fitly enough stand here as representatives of
the whole Playwright class ; whose various craft and produce
the procedure of these three may in some small degree serve
to illustrate. Of Grillparzer, therefore, and Klingemann, and
Milliner, in their order.
Franz Grillparzer seems to be an Austrian ; which country
is reckoned nowise fertile in poets ; a circumstance that may
perhaps have contributed a little to his own rather rapid
celebrity. Our more special acquaintance with Grillparzer
is of very recent date ; though his name and samples of his
ware have for some time been hung out, in many British and
foreign Magazines, often with testimonials which might have
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 857
beguiled less time-worn customers. Neither, after all, have
we found these testimonials falser than other such are, but
rather not so false; for, indeed, Grill parzer is a most inoffen-
sive man, nay positively rather meritorious ; nor is it with-
out reluctance that we name him under this head of Play-
wrights, and not under that of Dramatists, which he aspires
to. Had the law with regard to mediocre poets relaxed it-
self since Horace's time, all had been well with Grillparzer;
for undoubtedly there is a small vein of tenderness and grace
running through him ; a seeming modesty also, and real love
of his art, which gives promise of better things. But gods
and men and columns are still equally rigid in that un-
happy particular of mediocrity, even pleasing mediocrity ;
and no scene or line is yet known to us of Grillparzer's
which exhibits anything more. iVbn eoncessere, therefore, is
his sentence for the present ; and the louder his well-mean-
ing admirers extol him, the more emphatically should it be
pronounced and repeated. Nevertheless Grillparzer's claim
to the title of Playwright is perhaps more his misfortune
than his crime. Living in a country where the Drama en-
grosses so much attention, he has been led into attempting
it, without any decisive qualification for such an enterprise;
and so his allotment of talent, which might have done good
service in some prose department, or even in the sonnet, elegy,
song or other outlying province of Poetry, is driven, as it
were, in spite of fate, to write Plays ; which, though regu-
larly divided into scenes aifd separate speeches, are essen-
tially monological ; and though swarming with characters, too
often express only one character, and that no very extraordi-
nary one, — the character of Franz Grillparzer himself. What
is an increase of misfortune too, he has met with applause
in this career; which therefore he is likely to follow far-
ther and farther, let nature and his stars say to it what they
will.
The characteristic of a Playwright is, that he writes in
Prose ; which Prose he palms, probably first on himself, and
then on the simpler part of the public, for Poetry : and the
manner in which he effects this legerdemain constitutes his
S53 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
specific distinction, fixes the species to which he belongs
in the genus Playwright. But it is a universal feature of
him that he attempts, by prosaic, and as it were mechanical-
means, to accomplish an end which, except by poetical genius,
is absolutely not to be accomplished. For the most part,
he has some knack, or trick of the trade, which by close
inspection can be detected, and so the heart of his mysteiy!
be seen into. He may have one trick, or many ; and the
more cunningly he can disguise these, the more perfect is
he as a craftsman ; for were the public once to penetrate
into this his sleight-of-hand, it were all over with him, —
Othello's occupation were gone. No conjurer, when we once
understand his method of fire-eating, can any longer pass for
a true thaumaturgist, or even entertain us in his proper
character of quack, though he should eat Mount Vesuvius
itself. But happily for Playwrights and others, the public
is a dim-eyed animal; gullible to almost all lengths, — nay,
which often seems to prefer being gulled.
Of Grillparzer's peculiar knack and recipe for play-making,
there is not very much to be said. He seems to have tried
various kinds of recipes, in his time ; and, to his credit be
it spoken, seems little contented with any of them. By much
the worst Play of his, that we have seen, is the Ahnfrau
(Ancestress) ; a deep tragedy of the Castle-Spectre sort ; the
whole mechanism of which was discernible and condemnable
at a single glance. It is nothing but the old story of Fate ;
an invisible Nemesis visiting tfie sins of the fathers upon
the children to the third and fourth generation ; a method
almost as common and sovereign in German Art, at this day,
as the method of steam is in British mechanics ; and of
which we shall anon have more occasion to speak. In his
Preface, Grillparzer endeavors to palliate or deny the fact of
his being a Schicksal-Dichter (Fate-Tragedian) ; but to no pur-
pose ; for it is a fact grounded on the testimony of the seven
senses : however, we are glad to observe that, with this one
trial, he seems to have abandoned the Fate-line, and taken
into better, at least into different ones. With regard to the
Ahnfrau itself, we may remark that few things struck us so
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. £59
much as this little observation of Count Borotin's, occurring
in the middle of the dismalest night-thoughts, so unexpect-
edly, as follows : —
BERTHA.
Und der Hitnmel, sternelos,
Starrt aus leeren AugenJwhlen
In das ungeheure Grab
Schwarz herah !
GRAF.
Wie sich dock die Stunden dehnen !
Was ist wohl die Glocke, Bertha f
BERTHA (is just Condoling with him, in these words) :
And the welkm, starless,
Glares from em]>ty eye-holes,
Black, down on that boundless grave I
How the hours do linger !
What d'cloch is 't, prithee, Bertha ?
A more delicate turn, we venture to say, is rarely to be met
with in tragic dialogue.
As to the story of the Ah?ifrau, it is, naturally enough, of
the most heart-rending descri})tion. This Ancestress is a
lady, or rather the ghost of a lady, for she has been defunct
some centuries, who in life had committed what we call an
''indiscretion; " which indiscretion the unpolite husband pun-
ished, one would have thought sufficiently, by running her
tlirough the body. However, the Sch'uksal of Grillparzor
does not think it sufficient; but farther dooms the fair peni-
tent to walk as goblin, till the last branch of her family be
extinct. Accordingly she is heard, from time to time, slam-
ming doors and the like, and now and then seen with dreadful
goggle-eyes and other ghost-appurtenances, to the terror not
only of servant people, but of old Count Borotin, her now
360 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
sole male descendant, whose afternoon nap she, on one occa-
sion, cruelly disturbs. This Count Borotin is really a worthy
prosing old gentleman ; only he had a son long ago drowned
in a fish-pond (body not found) ; and has still a liighly accom-
plished daughter, whom there is none offering to wed, except
one Jaromir, a person of unknown extraction, and to all appear-
ance of the lightest purse ; nay, as it turns • out afterwards,
actually the head of a Banditti establishment, which had long
infested the neighboring forests. However, a Captain of Foot
arrives at this juncture, utterly to root out these Bobbers ;
and now the strangest things come to light. For who should
this Jaromir prove to be but poor old Borotin's drowned
son; not drowned, but stolen and bred up by these Out-
laws ; the brother, therefore, of his intended ; a most truculent
fellow, who fighting for his life unwittingly kills his own fa-
ther, and drives his bride to poison herself ; in which wise, as
was also Giles Scroggins's case, he *•' cannot get married." The
reader sees, all this is not to be accomplished without some
jarring and tumult. In fact, there is a frightful uproar every-
where throughout that night ; robbers dying, musketry discharg-
ing, women shrieking, men swearing, and the Ahnfrau herself
emerging at intervals, as the genius of the whole discord.
But time and hours bring relief, as they always do. Jaro-
mir in the long-run likewise succeeds in dying; whereupon
the whole Borotin lineage having gone to the devil, the An-
cestress also retires thither, — at least makes the upper world
rid of her presence ; and the piece ends in deep stillness. Of
this poor Ancestress we shall only say farther: Wherever
she be, requiascat ! requiescat !
As we mentioned above, the Fate-method of manufacturing
tragic emotion seems to have yielded Grillparzer himself lit-
tle contentment ; for after this Ahnfrau, we hear no more of
it. His Konig Ottokars Gluck und Ende (King Ottocar's For-
tune and End) is a much more innocent piece, and proceeds
in quite a different strain ; aiming to subdue us not by old
women's fables of Destiny, but by the accumulated splendor
of thrones and principalities, the cruel or magnanimous pride
of Austrian Emperors and Bohemian conquerors, the wit of
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 861
cliiyalrous courtiers, and beautiful but shrewish queens ; the
whole set off by a proper intermixture of coronation-ceremonies,
Hungarian dresses, whiskered halberdiers, alarms of battle, and
the pomp and circumstance of glorious war. There is even
some attempt at delineating character in this Play : certain
of the dramatis persona} are evidently meant to differ from cer-
tain others, not in dress and name only, but in nature and
mode of being ; so much indeed they repeatedly assert, or
hint, and do their best to make good, — unfortunately, how-
ever, with very indifferent success. In fact, these dramatis
personoe are rubrics and titles rather than persons ; for most
part, mere tlieatrical automata, w^ith only a mechanical exist-
ence. The truth of the matter is, Grillparzer cannot commu-
nicate a poetic life to any character or object ; and in this,
Avere it in no other way, he evinces the intrinsically prosaic
nature of his talent. These personages of his have, in some
instances, a certain degree of metaphysical truth ; that is to
say, one portion of their structure, psychologically viewed,
corresponds with the other ; — so far all is well enough : but
to unite these merely scientific and inanimate qualities into a
living vian is work not for a Playwright, but for a Dramatist.
Nevertheless, KlJuig Ottolcar is comparatively a harmless trag-
e([y. It is full of action, striking enough, though without any
discernible coherence ; and with so much both of flirting and
fighting, with so many weddings, funerals, processions, encamp-
ments, it must be, we should think, if the tailor and decora^
tionist do their duty, a very comfortable piece to see acted ;
especially on the Vienna boards, where it has a national inter-
est, Rodolph of Hapsburg being a main personage in it.
The model of this Ottokar we imagine to have l)eeu Schiller's
Piccolomini ; a poem of similar materials and object; but dif-
fering from it as a living rose from a mass of dead rose-loaves,
or even of broken Italian guniflowers. It seems as though
Grillparzer had hoped to subdue us by a sufficient multitude
of wonderful scenes and circumstances, without inquiring, with
any painful solicitude, whether the soul and moaning of them
were presented to us or not. Herein truly, we believe, lies
the peculiar knack or playwright-mystery of Ottokar : that its
362 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
effect is calculated to depend chiefly on its quantity ; on the
mere number of astonishments, and joyful or deplorable adven-
tures there brought to light; abundance in superficial contents
compensating the absence of selectness and calUda junctura.
Which second method of tragic manufacture we hold to be
better than the first, but still far from good. At the same
time it is a very common method, both in Tragedy and else-
where ; nay, we hear persons whose trade it is to write metre,
or be otherwise " imaginative," professing it openly as the
best they know. Do not these men go about collecting "fea-
tures ; " ferreting out strange incidents, murders, duels, ghost-
apparitions, over the habitable globe ? Of which features and
incidents when they have gathered a sufl&cient stock, what
more is needed than that they be ample enough, high-colored
enough, though huddled into any case (Novel, Tragedy or
Metrical Romance) that will hold them all ? Nevertheless
this is agglomeration, not creation ; and avails little in Litera-
ture. Quantity, it is a certain fact, will not make up for defect
of quality ; nor are the gayest hues of any service, unless there
be a likeness painted from them. Better were it for Ko7iig
Ottokar had the story been twice as short and twice as expres-
sive. For it is still true, as in Cervantes' time, nunca lo hueno
fue mucho. What avails the dram of brandy, while it swims
chemically united with its barrel of wort ? Let the distiller
pass it and repass it through his limbecs ; for it is the drops
of pure alcohol that we want, not the gallons of Water, which
may be had in every ditch.
On the whole, however, we remember Kdnig Ottokar without
animosity ; and to prove that Grillparzer, if he could not make
it poetical, might have made it less prosaic, and has in fact
something better in him than is here manifested, we shall
quote one passage, which strikes us as really rather sweet and
natural. King Ottocar is in the last of his fields, no prospect
before him but death or captivity ; and soliloquizing on his
past misdeeds : —
" I have not borne me wisely in thy World,
Thou great, all-judging God ! Like storm and tempest
I traversed thy fair garden, wasting it :
GERMAN. PLAYWRIGHTS. 868
T la thine to waste, for thou alone ca,nst heaL
Was evil not my aim, yet how did I,
Poor worm, presume to ape the Lord of Worlds,
And through the Bad seek out a way to the Good I
" My fellow-man, sent thither for his joy.
An End, a Self, within thy World a World, —
For thou hast fashioned him a marvellous work,
With lofty brow, erect iu look, strange sense,
And clothed him in the garment of thy Beauty,
And wondrously encircled him with wonders ;
He hears, and sees, and feels, has pain and pleasure ;
He takes him food, and cunning powers come forth,
And work and work, within their secret chambers,
And build him up his House : no royal Palace
Is comparable to the frame of Man !
And I have cast them forth from me by thousands,
For whims, as men throw rubbish from their door.
And none of all these slain but had a Mother
Who, as she bore him in sore travail.
Had clasped him fondly to her fostering breast;
A Father who had blessed him as his pride.
And nurturing, watched over him long years :
If he but hurt the skin upon his finger,
There would they run, with anxious look, to bind it,
And tend it, cheering him, until it healed ;
And it was but a finger, the skin o' the finger!
And I have trod men down in heaps and squadron*.
For the stern iron op'ning out a way
To their warm living hearts. — 0 God,
Wilt thou go into judgment with me, spare
My suffering people." ^
Passages of this sort, scattered here and there over Grill-
pavzer's Plays, and evincing at least an amiable tenderness
of natural disposition, make us regret the more to condemn
him. In fact, we have hopes that he is not born to be forever
a Playwright. A true though feeble vein of poetic talent he
really seems to possess ; and such purity of heart as may yet,
with assiduous study, lead hira into his proper field. For we
> K&ntg Ottokar, 160, 181.
364 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
do reckon him a conscientious man, and honest lover of Art ;
nay this incessant fluctuation in his dramatic schemes is itself
a good omeu. Besides this Ahnfrau and Ottokar, he has writ-
ten two dramas, Sappho and Der Goldene Vliess (The Golden
Fleece), on quite another principle ; aiming apparently at some
Classic model, or at least at some French reflex of such a
model. Sappho, which we are sorry to learn is not his last
piece, but his second, appears to us very considerably the most
faultless production of his we are yet acquainted with. There
is a degree of grace and simplicity in it, a softness, polish and
general good taste, little to be expected from the author of the
Ahnfrau : if he cannot bring out the full tragic meaning of
Sappho's situation, he contrives, with laudable dextei-ity, to
avoid the ridicule that lies within a single step of it ; his
Drama is weak and thin, but innocent, lovable ; nay the last
scene strikes us as even poetically meritorious. His Goldene
Vliess we suspect to be of similar character, but have not yet
found time and patience to study it. We repeat our hope of
one day meeting Grillparzer in a more honorable calling than
this of Playwright, or even fourth-rate Dramatist; which
titles, as was said above, we have not given him without
regret ; and shall be truly glad to cancel for whatever better
one he may yet chance to merit.
But if we felt a certain reluctance in classing Grillparzer
among the Playwrights, no such feeling can have place with
regard to the second name on our list, that of Doctor August
Klingemann. Dr. Klingemann is one of the most indisputable
Playwrights now extant ; nay so superlative is his vigor in
this department, we miglit even designate him the Playwright.
His manner of proceeding is quite different from Grillpar-
zer's ; not a wavering ever-changed method, or combination of
methods, as the other's was ; but a fixed principle of action,
which he follows with unflinching courage ; his own mind
being to all appearance highly satistied with it. If Grillparzer
attempted to overpower us, now by the method of Fate, now by
that of pompous action, and grandiloquent or lachrymose senti-
ment, heaped on us in too rich abundance, Klingemann, with-
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 865
out neglecting any of these resources, seems to place his chief
dependence on a surer and readier stay, — on his magazines
of rosin, oil-paper, vizards, scarlet-di'apery and gunpowder.
What thunder and lightning, magic-lantern transparencies,
death's-heads, fire-showers and plush-cloaks can do, is here
done. Abundance of churchyard and chapel scenes, in the
most tempestuous weather ; to say nothing of battle-fields,
gleams of scoured arms here and there in the wood, and even
occasional shots heard in the distance. Then there are such
scowls and malignant side-glances, ashy palenesses, stampings
and hysterics, as might, one would think, wring the toughest
bosom into drops of pity. For not only are the looks and ges-
tures of these people of the most heart-rending description, but
their words and feelings also (for Klingemann is no half-artist)
are of a piece with them : gorgeous inflations, the purest inno-
cence, highest magnanimity ; godlike sentiment of all sorts ;
everywhere the finest tragic humor. The moral too is genu-
ine ; there is the most anxious regard to virtue ; indeed a dis-
tinct patronage both of Providence and the Devil. In this
manner does Dr. Klingemann compound his dramatic electua-
ries, no less cunningly than Dr. Kitchiner did his "peptic
persuaders ; " and truly of the former we must say, that their
operation is nowise unpleasant ; nay to our shame be it spoken,
we have even read these Plays with a certain degree of satis-
faction ; and shall declare that if any man wish to amuse him-
self irrationally, here is the ware for his money.
Klingemann's latest dramatic undertaking is Ahasuer ; a
purely original invention, on which he seems to pique himself
somewhat; confessing his opinion that, now when the '-birth-
pains " are over, the character of Ahasuer may possibly do good
service in many a future drama. We are not prophets, or sons
of prophets ; so shall leave this prediction resting on its own
basis. Ahasuer, the reader will be interested to learn, is no
other than the Wandering Jew or Shoemaker of Jerusalem :
concerning whom there are two things to be remarked. The
first is, the strange name of the Shoemaker : why do Klinge-
mann and all the Germans call the man Ahasuer, when his
authentic Christian name is John; Joannes a Temporibus
CKITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Chrtsti, or, for brevity's sake, simply Joannes a Temporihus ?
This should be looked into. Our second remark is of the cir-
cumstance that no Historian or Narrator, neither Schiller,
Strada, Thuanus, Monro, nor Dugald Dalgetty, makes any
mention of Ahasuer's having been present at the Battle of
Liitzen. Possibly they thought the fact too notorious to need
mention. Here, at all events, he was; nay, as we infer, he
must have been at Waterloo also ; and probably at Trafalgar,
though in which Fleet is not so clear ; for he takes a hand in
all great battles and national emergencies, at least is witness
of them, being bound to it by his destiny. Such is the pecul-
iar occupation of the Wandering Jew, as brought to light in
this Tragedy • his other specialties, — that he cannot lodge
above three nights in one place ; that he is of a melancholic
temperament; above aU, that he cannot die, not by hemp
or steel, or Prussic-acid itself, but must travel on till the gen-
eral consummation, — are familiar to all historical readers.
Ahasuer's task at this Battle of Liitzen seems to have been a
very easy one : simply to see the Lion of the North brought
down ; not by a cannon-shot, as is generally believed, but by
the traitorous pistol-bullet of one Heinyn von Warth, a bigoted
Catholic, who had pretended to desert from the Imperialists,
that he might find some such opportunity. Unfortunately,
Heinyn, directly after this feat, falls into a sleepless, half-rabid
state ; comes home to Castle Warth, frightens his poor Wife
and worthy old noodle of a Father; then skulks about, for
some time, now praying, oftener cursing and swearing; till at
length the Swedes lay hold of him and kill him. Ahasuer, as
usual, is in at the death : in the interim, however, he has
saved Lady Heinyn from drowning, though as good as poisoned
her with the look of his strange stony eyes ; and now his busi-
ness to all appearance being over, he signifies in strong lan-
guage that he must begone; thereupon he ''steps solemnly
into the wood ; Wasaburg looks after him surprised : the rest
kneel round the corpse ; the Bequiem faintly continues ; " and
what is still more surprising, " the curtain falls." Such is the
simple action and stern catastrophe of this Tragedy ; concern-
ing which it were superfluous for us to speak farther in the
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 867
w^ay of criticism. We shall only add, that there is a dreadful
lithographic print in it, representing "Ludwig Devrient as
Ahasuer ; " in that very act of " stepping solemnly into the
wood ; " and uttering these final words : " Ich aher wandle
welter — iveiter — welter I" We have heard of Herr Devrient
as of the best actor in Germany ; and can now bear testimony,
if there be truth in this plate, that he is one of the ablest-
bodied men. A most truculent, rawboned figure, "with bare
legs and red-leather shoes ; " huge black beard ; eyes turned
inside out ; and uttering these extraordinary words : " But / go
on — on — on ! "
i^ow, however, we must give a glance at Klingemann's
other chief performance in this line, the Tragedy of Faust.
Dr. Klingemann admits that the subject has been often
treated ; that Goethe's Faxist in particular has " dramatic
points ( dramatlsche Momente) : " but the business is to give it
an entire dramatic superficies, to make it an acht dramatlsche,
a " genuinely dramatic " tragedy. Setting out with this laud-
able intention, Dr. Klingemann has produced a Faust, which
differs from that of Goethe in more than one particular. The
hero of this piece is not the old Faust, doctor in philosophy ;
driven desperate by the uncertainty of human knowledge ; but
plain John Faust, the printer, and even the inventor of gun-
powder ; driven desperate by his ambitious temper, and a total
deficiency of cash. He has an excellent wife, an excellent
blind father, both of whom would fain have him be peaceable,
and work at his trade ; but being an adept in the black-art, he
determines rather to relieve himself in that way. Accordingly,
he proceeds to make a contract with the Devil, on what we
should consider pretty advantageous terms ; the Devil being
bound to serve him in the most effectual manner, and Faust at
liberty to commit four mortal sins before any hair of his head
can be harmed. However, as will be seen, tlie Devil proves
Yorkshire ; and Faust, naturally enough, finds himself quite
jockeyed in the long-run.
Another characteristic distinction of Klingemann is his
manner of embodying this same Evil Principle, when at last
he resolves on introducing him to sight; for all these con-
368 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
tracts and preliminary matters are very properly managed
behind the scenes ; only the main points of the transaction
being indicated to the spectator by some thunder-clap, or the
like. Here is no cold mocking Mephistopheles ; but a swagger-
ing, jovial, West-India-lookiiig "Stranger," with a rubicund,
indeed quite brick-colored face, which Faust at first mistakes
for the effect of hard-drinking. However, it is a remark-
able feature of this Stranger, that always on the introduc-
tion of any religious topic, or the mention of any sacred
name, he strikes his glass down on the table, and generally
breaks it.
For some time, after his grand bargain, Faust's affairs go
on triumphantly, on the great scale, and he seems to feel
pretty comfortable. But the Stranger shows him "his wife,"
Helena, the most enchanting creature in the world; and the
most cruel-hearted, — for, notwithstanding the easy temper
of her husband, she will not grant Faust the smallest encour-
agement, till he have killed Kathe, his own living helpmate,
against whom he entertains no manner of grudge. Neverthe-
less, reflecting that he has a stock of four mortal sins to draw
upon, and may well venture one for such a prize, he determines
on killing Kathe. But here matters take a bad turn : for hav-
ing poisoned poor Kathe, he discovers, most unexpectedly,
that she is in the family-way ; and therefore that he has com-
mitted not one sin but two ! Nay, before the interment can
take place, he is farther reduced, in a sort of accidental self-
defence, to kill his father ; thus accomplishing his third mor-
tal sin ; with which third, as we shall presently discover, his
whole allotment is exhausted ; a fourth, that he knew not of,
being already on the score against him ! From this point, it
cannot surprise us that bad grows worse : catchpoles are out
in pursuit of him, "black masks " dance round him in a most
suspicious manner, the brick-faced Stranger seems to laugh at
him, and Helena will nowhere make her appearance. That
the sympathizing reader may see with his own eyes how poor
Faust is beset at this juncture, we shall quote a scene or
two. The first may, properly enough, be that of those " black
masks."
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. S69
Scene VII.
A lighted Hall.
In tlie distance is heard quick dancing -music. Masks pass from time
to time over the Stage, but all dressed in black, and with vizards per-
fectly close. After a pause, Faust plunges wildly in, with a full gob-
let in his hand.
Faust [rushing stormfully into the foreground].
Ha ! Poisou, 'stead of wine, that I intoxicate me 1
Your wine makes sober, —burning fire bring us!
Off with your drink ! — and blood is in it too !
[Shuddering, he dashes the goblet from his hand.
My father's blood, — I 've drunk my fill of that !
[ With increasing tumult.
Yet curses on him ! curses, that he begot me !
Curse on my mother's bosom, that it bore me !
Curse on the gossip-crone tliat stood by her,
And did not strangle me at my first scream !
How could I help this being that was given me f
Accursed art thou, Nature, that hast rnock'd me I
Accursed I, that let myself be mock'd ! —
And thou, strt)ng Being, tliat, to make thee sport,
Enclosedst the tire-soul in this dungeon,
That so despairing it might strive for freedom —
Accur . . . [He shrinks terror-struck.
No, not the fourth . . . the blackest sin !
No ! no ! [In the excess of his outbreaking anguish, he hides
his face in his hands.
Oh, I am altogether wretched !
Tliree black Masks come toicards him.
First Mask. Hey I merry friend !
Second Mask. Hey! merry brother !
Third Mask [reiterating tvith a cutting tone]. Merry!
Faust [breaking out in wild humor, and looking round among
them]. Hoy ! merry, then !
First Mask. "Will any one catch flies?
Second Mask. A long life yet; — to iiii(hii';-lit all the way!
VOL. XI ir. - I
370 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Thiud Mask. And after that, such pleasure without end !
[The music suddenly ceases, and a dock strikes thrice.
Faust [astonished] . What is it ?
First Mask. Wants a quarter, Sir, of twelve I
Second Mask. Then we have time !
Third Mask. Ay, time enough for jigging !
First Mask. And not till midnight comes the shot to pay I
Faust [shuddering]. What want ye?
First Mask [clasps his hand abruptly].
Hey ! To dance a step with thee I
Faust [plucks his hands hack]. Off! — Fire ! !
First Mask. Tush ! A spark or so of brimstone !
Second Mask. Art dreaming, brother f
Third Mask. Holloa ! Music, there !
[The music begins again in the distance.
First Mask [secretly laughing]. The spleen is biting him!
Second Mask. Hark ! at the gallows,
What jovial footing of it !
Third Mask. Thither must I ! [Exit.
First Mask. Below, too ! down in Purgatory ! Hear ye ?
Second Mask. A stirring there f 'T is time, then ! Hui, your
servant !
First Mask [to Faust]. TUl midnight !
[Exeunt both Masks hastily.
Faust [clasping his brow] . Ha ! What begirds me here ?
[ Stepj)ing vehemen t ly forward.
Down with your masks ! [ Violent knocking without.
What horrid uproar next !
Is madness coming on me ? —
Voice [violently from without]. Open, in the King's name !
[The music ceases. Thunder-clap.
Faust [staggers hack].
I have a heavy dream ! — Sure ^t is not doomsday ?
Voice [as bejore]. Here is the Tnurderer ! Open! Open, then !
Faust [wipes his brow]. Has agony unmanned me ? —
Scene VIII.
Bailiffs. Where is he ? where ? -^-
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 371
From these merely terrestrial constables the jovial Stranger
easily delivers Faust : but now comes the long-looked-for tete-
a-tete with Helena.
Scene XII.
Faust leads Helena on the stage. She also is close-masked. The other
Masks withdraw.
Faust [warm and glowing]. No longer strive, proud beauty !
Helena. Ha, wild stonner I
Faust. My bosom burns — !
Helena. The time is not yet come. —
— And so forth, through four pages of flame and ice, till at
last,
Faust [insisting]. Off with the mask, then!
Helena [still wilder] . Hey ! the marriage-hour ! -^
Faust. Off with the mask ! !
Helena. 'T is striking ! !
Faust. One kiss !
Helena. Take it ! !
[The mask and head-dress fall from her ; and she grins at
him from a death'' s-head : loud thunder; and the music
ends, as with a shriek, in dissonances.
Faust [staggers back] . 0 horror ! — Woe !
Helena. The couch is ready, there I
Come, Bridegroom, to thy fire-nuptials!
[She sinks, with a crashing thunder-peal, into the ground,
out of ichich issue flames.
All this is bad enough; but mere child's-play to the "Thir-
teenth Scene," the last of this strange eventful history: with
some parts of wliieh we propose to send our readers weeping
to their beds.
872 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Scene XIII.
The Stranger hurls Faust, whose face is deadly pale, hack to the stage,
hy the hair.
Faust. Ha, let rae fly ! — Come ! Come !
Stranger [with wild thundering tone]. *T is over now I
Faust. That horrid visage ! —
[Throwing himself, in a tremor, on the Stranger's breast.
Thou art my Friend I
Protect me ! !
Stranger [laughing dloud\. Ha ! ha ! ha !
Faust. Oh, save me ! !
Stranger [clutches him with irresistible force ; whirls him round,
so that Faust's face is towards the spectators, whilst his own is
turned away ; and thus he looks at him, and bawls with thun-
dering voice] . 'T is I ! ! —
[A clap of thunder. Faust, with gestures of deepest horror,
rushes to the ground, uttering an inarticulate cry. The
other, after a pause, continues, with cutting coolness :
Is that the mighty Hell-subduer,
That threatened me ? — Ha, me ! ! [ With highest contempt.
Worm of the dust I
I had reserved thy torment for — myself! ! —
Descend to other hands, be sport for slaves —
Thou art too small for me ! !
Faust [rises erect, and seems to recover his strength].
Am nut I Faust ?
Stranger. Thou, no !
Faust, [rising in his whole vehemence].
Accursed ! Ha, I am ! I am 1
Down at my feet ! — I am thy master !
Stranger. No more ! !
Faust [wildly]. More ? Ha ! My Bargain ! 1
Stranger. Is concluded I
Faust. Three mortal sius. —
Stranger. The Fourth too is committed I
Faust. My Wife, my Child, and my old Father's blood — I
Stranger [holds up a Parchment to him]. And licro thy own ! —
Faust. That is my coveuanti
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 873
Stranger. This signature — was thy most damning sin I
Faust Iraging]. Ha, spirit of lies ! ! &c. &c.
Stranger [in highest fury]. Down, thou accursed!
{He drags him by the Imir towards the background ; at this
moment, amid violent thunder and lightning, the scene
changes into a horrid wilderness ; in the background of
which, a yawning Chasm : into this the Devil hurls Faust;
on all sides fire rains down, so that the whole interior of
the Cavern seems burning : a black veil descends over both,
so soon as Faust is got under.
Faust [huzzaing in wild defiance]. Ha, down ! Down !
[Thunder, lightning and fire. Both sink. The curtain falls.
On considering all whicli supernatural transactions, the
bewildered reader has no theory for it, except that Faust
must, in Dr. Cabanis's phrase, have labored under " obstruc-
tions in the epigastric region," and all this of the Devil, and
Helena, and so much murder and carousing, have been noth-
ing but a waking dream, or other atrabilious phantasm ;
and regrets that the poor Printer had not rather applied to
some Abernethy on the subject, or even, by one sufficient dose
of Epsom-salt, on his own prescription, put an end to the
whole matter, and restored himself to the bosom of his afflicted
family.
Such, then, for Dr. Klingemann's part, is his method of
constructing Tragedies ; to which method it may perhaps be
objected that there is a want of originality in it ; for do not
our own British Playwrights follow precisely the same i)lan ?
"We might answer that, if not his plan, at least his infinitely
siiperior execution of it must distinguish Klingemann : but we
rather think his claim to originality rests on a different ground ;
on the ground, namely, of his entire contentment with him-
self and with this his dramaturgy ; and the cool heroism with
which, on all occasions, he avows that contentment. Here is
no poor cowering underfoot Playwright, begging the public for
God's sake not to give him the whipping which he deserves;
but a bold perpendicular Playwright, avowing himself as such;
nay mounted ou the top of his joinery, and therefrom cxcr-
374 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
cising a sharp critical superintendence over the German Drama
generally. Klingemann, we understand, has lately executed
a theatrical Tour, as Don Quixote did various Sallies; and
thrown stones into most German Playhouses, and at various
German Play writers ; of which we have seen only his assault
on Tieck ; a feat comparable perhaps to that " never-imagined
adventure of the Windmills." Fortune, it is said, favors the
brave ; and the prayer of Burns's Kilmarnock weaver is not
always unheard of Heaven. In conclusion, we congratulate
Dr. Klingemann on his Manager-dignity in the Brunswick
Theatre ; a post he seems made for, almost as Bardolph was
for the Eastcheap waitership.
But now, like his own Ahasuer, Dr. Klingemann must " go
on — on — on : " for another and greater Doctor has been kept
too long waiting, whose Seven beautiful Volumes of Drama-
tische Werke might well secure him a better fate. Dr. Miillner,
of all these Playwrights, is the best known in England ; some
of his works have even, we believe, been translated into our
language. In his own country, his fame, or at least notoriety,
is also supreme over all : no Playwright of this age makes
such a noise as Miillner ; nay, many there are who affirm that
he is something far better than a Playwright. Critics of tlie
sixth and lower magnitudes, in every corner of Germany, have
put the question a thousand times : Whether Miillner is not a
Poet and Dramatist ? To which question, as the higher author-
ities maintain an obstinate silence, or, if much pressed, reply
only in groans, these sixth-magnitude men have been obliged
to make answer themselves ; and they have done it with an
emphasis and vociferation calculated to dispel all remaining
doubts in the minds of men. Ill Milliner's mind, at least, they
have left little ; a conviction the more excusable, as the play-
going vulgar seem to be almost unanimous in sharing it ; and
thunders of applause, nightly through so many theatres, return
him loud acclaim.
Such renown is pleasant food for the hungry appetite of a
man, and naturally he rolls it as a sweet morsel under his
tongue : but, after all, it can profit him but little ; nay, many
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 875
times, what is sugar to the taste may be sugar-of-lead when it
is swallowed. Better were it for Milliner, we think, had fainter
thunders of applause and from fewer theatres greeted him.
For what good is in it, even were there no evil ? Though a
thousand caps leap into the air at his name, his own stature is
no hair's-breadth higher ; neither even can the final estimate
of its height be thereby in the smallest degree enlarged. From
gainsayers these greetings provoke only a stricter scrutiny ;
the matter comes to be accurately known at last ; and he who
has been treated with foolish liberality at one period must
make up for it by the want of bare necessaries at another. ISTo
one will deny that Milliner is a person of some considerable
talent : we understand he is, or was once, a Lawyer ; and can
believe that he may have acted, and talked, and written, very
prettily in that capacity : but to set up for a Poet was quite a
different enterjirise, in which we reckon that he has altogether
mistaken his road, and that these mob-cheers have led him
farther and farther astray.
Several years ago, on the faith of very earnest recommen-
dation, it was our lot to read one of Dr. Milliner's Tragedies,
the Alha 71 riser inn ; with which, such was its effect on us, we
could willingly enough have terminated our acquaintance with
Dr. Milliner. A palpable imitation of Schiller's Braut von
Messina ; without any philosophy or feeling that was not
either perfectly commonplace or perfectly false, often both
the one and the other ; inflated, indeed, into a certain hollow
bulk, but altogether without greatness ; being built throughout
on mere rant and clangor, and other elements of the most
indubitable Prose : such a work could not but be satisfactory
to us respecting Dr. Milliner's genius as a Poet ; and time
being precious, and the world wide enough, we had privately
determined that we and Dr. Milliner were each henceforth
to pursue his own course. Nevertheless, so considerable has
been the progress of our worthy friend since then, both at
home and abroad, that his labors are again forced on our
notice : for we reckon the existence of a true Poet in any
country to be so important a fact, that even tlie slight proba-
bility of such is worthy of investigation. Accordingly we
376 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
have again perused the Albandserinn, and along with it faith-
fully examined the whole Dramatic Works of ^liillner, pub-
lished in Seven Volumes, on beautiful paper, in small shape
and every way very fit for handling. The whole tragic works,
we should rather say : for three or four of his comic perform-
ances sufficiently contented us ; and some two volumes of
farces, we confess, are still unread. We have also carefully
gone through, and with much less difficulty, the Prefaces,
Appendices, and other prose sheets, wherein the Author ex-
hibits the ^^fata lihell'i ;" defends himself from unjust criti-
cisms, reports just ones, or himself makes such. The toils
of this task we shall not magnify, well knowing that man's
life is a fight throughout : only having now gathered what
light is to be had on this matter, we proceed to speak forth
our verdict thereon ; fondly hoping that we shall then have
done with it, for an indefinite period of time.
Dr. Miillnei", then, we must take liberty to believe, in spite
of all that has been said or sung upon the subject, is no
Dramatist ; has never written a Tragedy, and in all human
probability will never write one. Grounds for this harsh,
negative opinion, did the burden of proof lie chiefly on our
side, we might state in extreme abundance. There is one
ground, however, which, if our observation be correct, would
virtually include all the rest. Dr. Mullner's whole soul and
character, to the deepest root we can trace of it, seems prosaic,
not poetical ; his Dramas, therefore, like whatever else he
])rodaces, must be manufactured, not created ; nay, we think
that his principle of manufacture is itself rather a poor and
second-hand one. Vain were it for any reader to search in
these Seven Volumes for an opinion any deeper or clearer, a
sentiment any finer or higher, than may conveniently belong
to the commonest practising advocate : except stilting heroics,
which the man himself half knows to be false, and every otiier
man easily waves aside, there is nothing here to disturb the
quiescence either of heart or head. This man is a Doctor
utriusque Juris, most probably of good juristic talent ; and
nothing more whatever. His language too, all accurately
measured into feet, and good current German, so far as a
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 877
foreigner may judge, bears similar testimony. Except the
rhyme aud metre, it exhibits no poetical symptom : without
being verbose, it is essentially meagre and watery ; no idio-
matic expressiveness, no melody, no virtue of any kind ; the
commonest vehicle for the commonest meaning. Not that our
Doctor is destitute of metaphors and other rhetorical further-
ances ; but that these also are of the most trivial character :
old threadbare material, scoured up into a state of shabby-
gentility ; mostly turning on " light " and " darkness ; " " flashes
through clouds," " tire of heart," " tempest of soul," and the
like, which can profit no man or woman. In short, we must
repeat it, Dr. Miillner has yet to show that there is any
particle of poetic metal in him ; that his genius is other than
a sober clay-pit, from which good bricks may be made ; but
where to look for gold or diamonds were sheer waste of
labor.
When we think of our own Maturin and Sheridan Knowles,
and the gala-day of popularity which they also once enjoyed
with us, we can be at no loss for the genus under which
Dr. Miillner is to be included in critical physiology. Never-
theless, in marking him as a distinct Playwright, we are bound
to mention that in general intellectual talent he shows himself
very considerably superior to his two German brethren. He
has a much better taste than Klingemann ; rejecting the aid
of plush and gunpowder, we may say altogether; is even at
the pains to rhyme great part of his Tragedies ; and, on the
whole, writes with a certain care and decorous composure,
to which the Brunswick Manager seems totally indifferent.
IMoreover, he appears to surpass Grillparzer, as well as Klinge-
mann, in a certain force both of judgment and passion ; which
indeed is no very mighty affair; Grillparzer being naturally
but a treble-pipe in these matters ; and Klingemann, blowing
through such an enormous coach-horn, that the natural note
goes for nothing, becomes a mere vibration in that all-subduing
volume of sound. At the same time, it is singular enough
that neither Grillparzer nor Klingemann should be nearly so
tough reading as Miillner ; which, however, we declare to be
the fact. As to Klingemann, he is even an amusing artist ;
378 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
there is such a briskness and heart in him ; so rich is he, nay
so exuberant in riches, so full of explosions, fire-flashes, exe-
crations and all manner of catastrophes ; and then, good soul,
he asks no attention from us, knows his trade better than to
dream of asking any. Grillparzer, again, is a sadder and per-
haps a wiser companion ; long-winded a little, but peaceable
and soft-hearted: his melancholy, even when he pules, is in
the highest degree inoffensive, and we can often weep a tear
or two /or him, if not with him. But of all Tragedians, may
the indulgent Heavens deliver us from any farther traf&c with
Dr. Milliner ! This is the lukewarm, which we could wish to
be either cold or hot. Mullner will not keep us awake, while
we read him ; yet neither will he, like Klingemann, let us
fairly get asleep. Ever and anon, it is as if we came into
some smooth quiescent country ; and the soul flatters herself
that here at last she may be allowed to fall back ou her
cushions, the eyes meanwhile, like two safe postilions, com-
fortably conducting her through that flat region, in which are
nothing but flax-crops and milestones ; and ever and anon
some jolt or unexpected noise fatally disturbs her ; and look-
ing out, it is no waterfall or mountain chasm, but only the
villanous highway, and squalls of October wind. To speak
without figure, Dr. Mullner does seem to us a singularly op-
pressive writer ; and perhaps for this reason : that he hovers
too near the verge of good writing ; ever tempting us with
some hope that here is a touch of Poetry; and ever disap-
pointing us with a touch of pure Prose. A stately sentiment
comes tramping forth with a clank that sounds poetic and
heroic : we start in breathless expectation, waiting to rever-
ence the heavenly guest ; and, alas, he proves to be but an
old stager dressed in new buckram, a stager well known to
us, nay often a stager that has already been drummed out of
most well-regulated communities. So is it ever with Dr. Miill-
ner : no feeling can be traced much deeper in him than the
tongue; or perhaps when we search more strictly, instead of
an ideal of beauty, we shall find some vague aim after strength,
or in defect of this, after mere size. And yet how cunningly
he manages the counterfeit ! A most plausible, fair-spoken,
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 379
close-shaven man : a man whom you must not, for decency 's-
sake, throw out of the window ; and yet you feel that, being
palpably a Turk in grain, his intents are wicked and not
charitable !
But the grand question with regard to MUllner, as with regard
to those other Playwrights, is : Where lies his peculiar sleight-
of-hand in this craft ? Let us endeavor, then, to find out his
secret, — his recipe for play-making ; and communicate the
same. for behoof of the British nation. Mullner's recipe is
no mysterious one ; floats, indeed, on the very surface ; might
even be taught, one would suppose, on a few trials, to the
humblest capacity. Our readers may perhaps recollect Zacha-
rias Werner, and some short allusion, in our First Number, to
a highly terrific piece of his, entitled The Tiventy-fourth of
February. A more detailed account of the matter may be
found in Madame de Stael's Allemagne ; in the Chapter which
treats of that infatuated Zacharias generally. It is a story of
a Swiss peasant and bankrupt, called Kurt Kuruh, if we mis-
take not ; and of his wife, and a rich travelling stranger lodged
with them ; which latter is, in the night of the Twenty- fourth
of February, wilfully and feloniously murdered by the two
former ; and proves himself, in the act of dying, to be their
own only son, who had returned home to make them all com-
fortable, could they only have hcCd a little more patience. But
the foul deed is already accomplished, with a rusty knife or
scythe ; and nothing of course remains but for the whole batch
to go to perdition. For it was written, as the Arabs say, " on
the iron leaf : " these Kuruhs are doomed men ; old Kuruh,
the grandfather, had committed some sin or other ; for which,
like the sons of Atreus, his descendants are " i)rosecuted with
the utmost rigor : " nay so punctilious is Destiny, that this
very Twenty-fourth of February, the day when that old sin
was enacted, is still a fatal day with the family ; and this very
knife or scythe, the criminal tool on that former occasion, is
ever the instrument of new crime and punishment ; the Kuruhs,
during all that half-century, never having carried it to the
smithy to make hobnails ; but kept it hanging on a peg, most
injudiciously we think, almost as a sort of bait and bonus to
380 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Satan, a ready-made fulcrum for whatever machinery he might
bring to bear against them. This is the tragic lesson taught
in Werner's Twenty-fourth of February ; and, as the whole
dramatis personam are either stuck through with old iron, or
hanged in hemp, it is surely taught with some considerable
emphasis.
Werner's Play was brought out at Weimar, in 1809 ; under
the direction or permission, as he brags, of the great Goethe
himself ; and seems to have produced no faint impression on a
discerning public. It is, in fact, a piece nowise destitute of
substance and a certain coarse vigor ; and if any one has so
obstinate a heart that he must absolutely stand in a slaughter-
house, or within wind of the gallows before tears will come, it
may have a very comfortable effect on him. One symptom of
merit it must be admitted to exhibit, — an adaptation to the
general taste ; for the small fibre of originality which exists
here has already shot forth into a whole wood of imitations.
We understand that the Fate-line is now quite an established
branch of dramatic business in Germany ; they have their
Fate-dramatists, just as we have our gingham-weavers and inkle-
weavers. Of this Fate-manufacture we have already seen
one sample in Grillparzer's Ahnfrau: but by far the most ex-
tensive Fate-manufacturer, the head and prince of all Fate-
dramatists, is the Dr. Milliner at present under consideration.
]\Iullner deals in Fate, and Fate only ; it is the basis and
staple of his whole tragedy-goods ; cut off this one principle,
you annihilate his raw material, and he can manufacture no
more.
Mullner acknowledges his obligations to Werner; but, we
think, not half warmly enough. Werner was in fact the mak-
ing of him ; great as he has now become, our Doctor is nothing
but a mere mistletoe growing from that poor oak. itself already
lialf dead; had there been no Twenty-fourth of February, there
were then no Twenty-ninth of February, no Schuld, no Albnna-
serinn, most i)robably no Konig Yngurd. For the reader is to
understand that Dr. Mullner, already a middle-aged, and as
yet a perfectly undramatic man, began business with a direct
copy of this Twenty-fourth; a thing proceeding by Destiny,
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 881
and ending in murder, by a knife or scythe, as in the Kuruh
case ; with one improvement, indeed, that there was a grinding-
stone introduced into the scene, and the spectator had the
satisfaction of seeing the knife previously whetted. The Au-
thor, too, was honest enough publicly to admit his imitation;
for he named this Play the Twenty-ninth of February ; and, in
his Preface, gave thanks, though somewhat reluctantly, to
Werner, as to his master and originator. For some inscrutable
reason, this Twenty-ninth was not sent to the greengrocer, but
became popular : there was even the weakest of parodies writ-
ten on it, entitled Eumenides Diister (Eumenides Gloomy),
which Mullner has reprinted ; there was likewise " a Avish ex-
pressed " that the termination might be made joyous, not
grievous ; with which wish also the indefatigable wright has
complied ; and so, for the benefit of weak nerves, we have the
Wahn (Delusion), which still ends in tears, but glad ones.
In short, our Doctor has a peculiar merit with this Twenty-
ninth of his ; for who but he could have cut a second and a
third face on the same cherry-stone, said cherry-stone having
first to be borrowed, or indeed half-stolen ?
At this point, however. Dr. Mullner apparently began to set
up for himself ; and ever henceibrth he endeavors to persuade
his own mind and ours that his debt to Werner terminates
here. Nevertheless clear it is that fresh debt was every day
contracting. For had not this one Wernerian idea taken com-
plete hold of the Doctor's mind ; so that he was quite possessed
with it, had, we might say, no other tragic idea whatever ?
That a man on a certain day of the month shall fall into
crime ; for which an invisible Fate shall silently pursue him ;
punishing the transgression, most probably on the same day
of the month, annually (unless, as in the Tirenty-ninth, it be
leap-year, and Fate in tliis may be, to a certain extent, bilked) ;
and never resting till the poor wight himself, and perhaps his
last descendant, shall be swept away with the besom of de-
struction ; such, n;iore or less disguised, frequently without any
disguise, is the tragic essence, the vital principle, natural or
galvanic we are not deciding, of all Dr. jMiillner's Dramas.
Thus, in that everlasting Twenty-ninth of February, we have
382 CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
the principle in its naked state : some old Woodcutter or
Forester has fallen into deadly sin with his wife's sister, long
ago, on that intercalary day ; and so his whole progeny must,
wittingly or unwittingly, proceed in incest and murder; the
day of the catastrophe regularly occurring, every four years,
on the same Twenty-ninth ; till happily the whole are mur-
dered, and there is an end. So likewise in the Schuld (Guilt),
a much more ambitious performance, we have exactly the
same doctrine of an anniversary ; and the interest once more
turns on that delicate business of murder and incest. In
the Albandserinn (Fair Albanese), again, which may have the
credit, such as it is, of being Mullner's best Play, we find the
Fate-theory a little colored ; as if the drug had begun to dis-
gust, and the Doctor would hide it in a spoonful of syrup : it
is a dying man's curse that operates on the criminal ; which
curse, being strengthened by a sin of very old standing in the
family of the cursee, takes singular effect; the parties only
weathering parricide, fratricide, and the old story of incest,
by two self-banishments, and two very decisive self-murders.
Nay, it seems as if our Doctor positively could not act at all
without this Fate-panacea : in Konig Yngurd, we might almost
think that he had made such an attempt, and found that it
would not do. This Konig Yngurd, an imaginary Peasant-
King of Norway, is meant, as we are kindly informed, to pre-
sent us with some adumbration of Napoleon Bonaparte ; and
truly, for the two or three first Acts, he goes along with no
small gallantry, in what drill-sergeants call a dashing or swash-
ing style ; a very virtuous kind of man, and as bold as Ruy
Diaz or the Warwick Mastiff: when suddenly in the middle
of a battle, far on in the Play, he is seized with some caprice,
or whimsical qualm ; retires to a solitar}'' place among rocks,
and there in a most gratuitous manner, delivers himself over,
viva voce, to the Devil ; who, in^leed, does not appear personally
to take seisin of him, but yet, as afterwards comes to light,
has with great readiness accepted the gift. For now Yngurd
grows dreadfully sulky and wicked, does little henceforth but
bully men and kill them ; till at length, the measure of his
iniquities being full, he himself is bidlied and killed ; and the
GERxMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 883
Author, carried through by this his sovereign tragic elixir,
contrary to expectation, terminates his piece with reasonable
comfort.
This, then, is Dr. Milliner's dramatic mystery ; this is the
one patent hook by which he would hang his clay tragedies on
the upper spiritual world ; and so establish for himself a free
communication, almost as if by block-and-tackle, between the
visible Prose Earth and the invisible Poetic Heaven. The
greater or less merit of this his invention, or rather improve-
ment, for Werner is the real patentee, has given rise, we un-
derstand, to extensive argument. The small deer of criticism
seem to be much divided in opinion on this point ; and the
higher orders, as we have stated, declining to throw any light
whatever on it, the subject is still mooting with great anima-
tion. For our own share, we confess that we incline to rank
it, as a recipe for dramatic tears, a shade higher than the
Page's split onion in the Taming of the Shrew. Craftily hid
in the handkerchief, this onion was sufficient for the deception
of Christopher Sly; in that way attaining its object; which
also the Fate-invention seems to have done with the Chris-
topher Slys of Germany, and these not one but many, and
therefore somewhat harder to deceive. To this onion-supe-
riority we think Dr. M. is fairly entitled ; and with this it
were, perhaps, good for him that he remained content.
Dr. Milliner's Fate-scheme has been attacked by certain of
his traducers on the score of its hostility to the Christian
religion. Languishing indeed should we reckon the condition
of the Christian religion to be, could Dr. Milliner's play-joinery
produce any perceptible eifect on it. Nevertheless, we may
remark, since the matter is in hand, that this business of Fate
does seem to us nowise a Christian doctrine ; not even a Ma-
hometan or Heathen one. The Fate of the Greeks, though a
false, Avas a lofty hypothesis, and harmonized sufficiently with
the whole sensual and material structure of their theology :
a ground of deepest black, on which that gorgeous phantas-
magoria was fitly enough painted. Besides, with them the
avenging Power dwelt, at least in its visible manifestations,
among the high places of the earth ; visiting only kingly
384 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
houses and world criminals, from whom it might be supposed
the world, but for such miraculous inter fereuces, could have
exacted no vengeance, or found no protection and purification.
Never, that we recollect of, did the Eriunyes become mere
sheriff 's-officers, and Fate a justice of the peace, haling poor
drudges to the treadmill for robbery of hen-roosts, or scatter-
ing the earth with steel-traps to keep down poaching. And
what has all this to do with the revealed Providence of these
days ; that Power whose path is emphatically through the
great deep ; his doings and plans manifested, in completeness,
not by the year or by the century, on individuals or on nations,
but stretching through Eternity, and over the Infinitude which
he rules and sustains ?
But there needs no recourse to theological arguments for
judging this Fate-tenet of Dr. Miillner's. Its value, as a
dramatic principle, may be estimated, it seems to us, by this
one consideration : that in these days no person of either sex
in the slightest degree believes it ; that Dr. INIullner himself
does not believe it. We are not contending that fiction should
become fact, or that no dramatic incident is genuine, unless
it could be sworn to before a jury ; but simply that fiction
should not be falsehood and delirium. How shall any one,
in the drama, or in poetry of any sort, present a consistent
philosophy of life, which is the soul and ultimate essence of
all poetry, if he ajjd every mortal know tliat the whole moral
basis of his ideal world is a lie ? And is it other than a lie
that man's life is, was or could be, grounded on this pettifog-
ging principle of a Fate that pursues woodcutters and cowherds
with miraculous visitations, on stated days of the month ?
Can we, with any profit, hold the mirror up to Nature in this
wise ? When our mirror is no mirror, but only as it were a
nursery saucepan, and that long since grown rust}'' ?
We might add, were it of any moment in this case, that we
reckon Dr. Miillner's tragic knack altogetlier insufficient for
a still more couiprehensive reason ; simjjly for the reason that
it is a knack, a recipe, or secret of the craft, which, could it
be never so excellent, must by rej)eated use degenerate into a
mannerism, and therefore into a nuisance. But herein lies the
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 885
difference between creation and manufacture : the latter has
its manipulations, its secret processes, which can be learned
by apprenticeship ; the former has not. For in poetry we have
heard of no secret possessing the smallest effectual virtue, ex-
cept this one general secret : that the poet be a man of a purer,
higher, richer nature than other men ; which higher nature
shall itself, after earnest inquiry, have taught him the proper
form for embodying its inspirations, as indeed the imperish-
able beauty of these will shine, with more or less distinctness,
through any form whatever.
Had Dr. Milliner any visible pretension to this last great
secret, it might be a duty to dwell longer and more gravely
on his minor ones, however false and poor. As he has no
such pretension, it appears to us that for the present we may
take our leave. To give any farther analysis of his individual
dramas would be an easy task, but a stupid and thankless one.
A Harrison's watch, though this too is but an earthly machine,
may be taken asunder Avith some prospect of scieutihc advan-
tage ; but who would spend time in screwing and unscrewing
the mechanism of ten pepper-mills ? Neither shall we offer
any extract, as a specimen of the diction and sentiment that
reigns in these dramas. \Ve have said already that it is fair,
well-ordered stage-sentiment, this of his ; that the diction too
is good, well-scanned, grammatical diction ; no fault to be
found with either, except that they pretend to be poetry, and
are throughout the most unadulterated prose. To exhibit tliis
fact in extracts would be a vain . undertaking. Kot the few
sprigs of heath, but the thousand acres of it, characterize the
wilderness. Let any one who covets a trim heath-nosegay,
clutch at random into Mullner's Seven Volumes : for our-
selves, we would not deal farther in that article.
Besides his dramatic labors, Dr. jNIullner is known to the
public as a journalist. For some considerable time he has
edited a Literary Newspaper of his own originating, the Mitter-
nacht-Blatt (Midnight Paper) ; stray leaves of which we occa-
sionally look into. In this last capacity, we are happy to
observe, he shows to much more advantage : indeed, the jour-
nalistic office seems quite natural to him ; and would he take
VOL. XIIT. 25
386 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
any advice from us, whicli lie will not, here were the arena in
which, and not in the Fate-drama, he would exclusively con-
tinue to fence, for his bread or glory. He is not without a
vein of small wit ; a certain degree of drollery there is, of grin-
ning half-risible, half-impudent ; he has a fair hand at the
feebler sort of lampoon ; the German Joe Millers also seem
familiar to him, and his skill in the riddle is respectable ; so
that altogether, as we said, he makes a superior figure in this
line, which indeed is but despicably managed in Germany ; and
his Mitternacht-Blatt is, by several degrees, the most readable
paper of its kind we meet with in that country. Not that we,
in the abstract, much admire Dr. Milliner's newspaper pro-
cedure ; his style is merely the common tavern-style, familiar
enough in our own periodical literature ; riotous, blustering,
with some tincture of blackguardism ; a half-dishonest style,
and smells considerably of tobacco and spirituous liquor.
Neither do we find that there is the smallest fraction of valu-
able knowledge or opinion communicated in the Midnight
Paper ; indeed, except it be the knowledge and opinion that
Dr. Milliner is a great dramatist, and that all who presume to
think otherwise are insufficient members of society, we cannot
charge our memory with having gathered any knowledge from
it whatever. It may be too, that Dr. Miillner is not perfectly
original in his journalistic manner : we have sometimes felt
as if his light were, to a certain extent, a borrowed one ; a rush-
light kindled at the great pitch-link of our own Blackwood's
Magazine. But on this point we cannot take upon us to
decide.
One of Milliner's regular journalistic articles is the Kriegs-
zeitung, or War-intelligence, of all the paper-battles, feuds,
defiances and private assassinations, chiefly dramatic, which
occur in the more distracted portion of the German Literary
Republic. This Kriegszeitui^g Dr. Miillner evidently writes
with great gusto, in a lively braggadocio manner, especially
when touching on his own exploits; yet to us it is far the most
melancholy part of the Mitternacht-Blatt. Alas, this is not
what we search for in a German newspaper ; how " Herr
Sapphir," or Herr Carbuncle, or so many other Herren Dous-
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 887
terswivel, are all busily molesting one another! We ourselves
are pacific men ; make a point " to shun discrepant circles
rather than seek them : " and how sad is it to hear of so many
illustrious-obscure persons living in foreign parts, and hear
only, what was well known without hearing, that they also are
instinct with the spirit of Satan ! For what is the bone that
these Journalists, in Berlin and elsewhere, are worrying over ;
•what is the ultimate purpose of all this barking and snarl-
ing ? Sheer love of fight, you would say ; simply to make one
another's life a little bitterer ; as if Fate had not been cross
enough to the happiest of them. Were there any perceptible
subject of dispute, any doctrine to advocate, even a false one,
it would be something ; but, so far as we can discover, whether
from Sapphire and Company, or the " Kabob of Weissenfels "
(our own worthy Doctor), there is none. And is this their
appointed function ? Are Editors scattered over the country,
and supplied with victuals and fuel, purely to bite one another ?
Certainly not. But these Journalists, we think, are like the
Academician's colony of spiders. This French virtuoso had
found that cobwebs were worth something, that they could even
be woven into silk stockings : whereiipon he exhibits a very
handsome pair of cobweb hose to the Academy, is encouraged
to proceed with the manufacture ; and so collects some half-
bushel of spiders, and puts them down in a spacious loft, with
every convenience for making silk. But will the vicious crea-
tures spin a thread ? In place of it, they take to fighting with
their whole vigor, in contempt of the poor Academician's ut-
most exertions to part them ; and end not, till there is simply
one spider left living, and not a shred of cobweb woven, or
thenceforth to be expected ! Could the weavers of paragraphs,
like these of the cobweb, fairly exterminate and silence one
another, it would perhaps be a little more supportable. But
an Editor is made of sterner stuif. In general cases, indeed,
when the brains are out the man will die : but it is a well-known
fact in Journalistics, that a man may not only live, but support
wife and children by his labors in this line, years after the
brain (if there ever was any) has been completely abstracted,
or reduced by time and hard usage into a state of dry powder.
S88 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
What, then, is to be done ? Is there no end to this brawling ;
and will the unprofitable noise endure forever ? By way of
palliative, we have sometimes imagined that a CongTess of all
German Editors might be appointed, by proclamation, in some
central spot, say the Niirnberg Market-place, if it would hold
them all : here we would humbly suggest that the whole Jour-
nalistik might assemble on a given day, and under the eye
of proper marshals, sulRciently and satisfactorily horsewhip
one another, simultaneously, each his neighbor, till the very
toughest had enough both of whipping and of being whipped.
In this way, it seems probable, little or no injustice would be
done ; and each Journalist, cleared of gall for several months,
might return home in a more composed frame of mind, and
betake himself with new alacrity to the real duties of his
office.
But enough ! enough ! The humor of these men may be in.
fectious : it is not good for us to be here. Wandering over
the Elysian Fields of German Literature, not watching the
gloomy discords of its Tartarus, is what we wish to be em-
ployed in. Let the iron gate again close, and shut in the
pallid kingdoms from vicAv : we gladly revisit the upper air.
Not in despite towards the German nation, which we love
honestly, have we spoken thus of these its Playwrights and
Journalists. Alas, when we look around us at home, we feel
too well that the Germans might say to us : Neighbor, sweep
thy own floor ! Neither is it with any hope of bettering the
existence of these three individual Poetasters, still less with
the smallest shadow of wish to make it more miserable, that
we have spoken. After all, there must be Playwrights, as we
have said ; and these are among the best of the class. So long
as it pleases them to manufacture in this line, and any body
of German Thebans to pay them in groschen or plaudits for
their ware, let both parties persist in so doing, and fair befall
them ! But the duty of Foreign Reviewers is of a twofold
soi*t. For not only are we stationed on the coast of the coun-
f;ry, aa watchers and spials, to report whatsoever remarkable
thing becomes visible in the distance ; but we stand there also
as a sort of Tide-waiters and Preventive-service men, to con-
GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS. S89
tend, with our utmost vigor, that no improper article be landed.
These offices, it would seem, as in the material world, so also
in the literary and spiritual, usually fall to the lot of aged,
invalided, impoverished, or otherwise decayed persons ; but
that is little to the matter. As true British subjects, with
ready will, though it may be with our last strength, we are
here to discharge that double duty. Movements, we observe,
are making along the beach, and signals out seawards, as if
these Klingemanns and Mulluers were to be landed on our
soil : but through the strength of heaven this shall not be
done, till the " most thinking people " know what it is that is
lauding. For the rest, if any one wishes to import that sort
of produce, and finds it nourishing for his inward man, let him
do so, and welcome. Only let him understand that it is not
German Literature he is swallowing, but the froth and scum
of German Literature ; which scum, if he will only wait, we can
farther promise him that he may, ere long, enjoy in the new,
and perhaps cheaper form of sediment. And so let every one
be active for himself : —
" Noch ist ea Tag, da riihre sich der Mann ;
Di* Nadu trilt ein, wo niemand wirken kann.'^
VOLTAIRE.^
[1829.]
CoTjLD ambition always choose its own path, and were will
in human undertakings synonymous Avith faculty, all truly
ambitious men would be men of letters. Certainly, if we
examine that love of power, which enters so largely into most
practical calculations, nay which our Utilitarian friends have
recognized as the sole end and origin, both motive and reward,
of all earthly enterprises, animating alike the philanthropist,
the conqueror, the money-changer and the missionary, we
shall find that all other arenas of ambition, compared with
this rich and boundless one of Literature, meaning thereby
whatever respects the promulgation of Thought, are poor,
limited and ineffectual. For dull, unreflective, merely instinc-
tive as the ordinary man may seem, he has nevertheless, as a
quite indispensable appendage, a head that in some degree
considers and computes ; a lamp or rushlight of understanding
has been given him, which, through whatever dim, besmoked
and strangely diffractive media it may shine, is the ultimate
guiding light of his whole path : and here as well as there,
now as at all times in man's history, Opinion rules the world.
Curious it is, moreover, to consider in this respect, how
different appearance is from reality, and under what singu-
lar shape and circumstances the truly most important man of
1 FonEiGV Review, No. 6. — Mcmoires sur Voltaire et snr ses OmTnge/t, par
Longcliam/) ct Warjniere, ses Secretaires ; suivis de divers Ecrits inSdils de la
Marquise du Chateht, da President 1/enault, ^c. totis relatifs a Voltaire. (Me-
moirs concerning Voltaire and his Works, by Longchamp and WagniJ^re, his
Secretaries ; with various unpublished Pieces by the Marquise du Chatelet,
Ac. all relating to Voltaire.) 2 tomes. Paris, 1826.
VOLTAIRE. 891
any given period might be found. Could some Asmodeus, by
simply waving his arm, open asunder the meaning of the
Present, even so far as the Future will disclose it, what a
much more marvellous sight should we have, than that mere
bodily one through the roofs of Madiid ! For we know not
what we are, any more than what we shall be. It is a high,
solemn, almost awful thought for every individual man, that
his earthly influence, which has had a commencement, will
never through all ages, were he the very meanest of us, have
an end! What is done is done; has already blended itself
with the boundless, ever-living, ever-working Universe, and
will also work there, for good or for evil, openly or secretly,
throughout all time. But the life of every man is as the
w^ellspring of a stream, whose small beginnings are indeed
plain to all, but whose ulterior course and destination, as it
winds through the expanses of infinite years, only the Omnis-
cient can discern. Will it mingle with neighboring rivulets,
as a tributary ; or receive them as their sovereign ? Is it to
be a nameless brook, and will its tiny waters, among millions
of other brooks and rills, increase the current of some world-
river ? Or is it to be itself a Ehene or Danaw, whose goings-
forth are to the uttermost lands, its flood an everlasting
boundary-line on the globe itself, the bulwark and highway of
whole kingdoms and continents ? We know not ; only in
either case, we know, its path is to the great ocean ; its waters,
were they but a handful, are here, and cannot be annihilated
or permanently held back.
As little can we prognosticate, with any certainty, the
future influences from the present aspects of an individual.
How many Demagogues, Croesuses, Conquerors fill their own
age with joy or terror, with a tumult that promises to be
perennial; and in the next age die away into insignificance
and oblivion ! These are the forests of gourds, that overtop
tlie infant cedars and aloe-trees, but, like the Prophet's gourd,
wither on the third day. What was it to the Pharaohs of
Egypt, in that old era, if Jethro the Midianitish priest and
grazier accepted the Hebrew outlaw as his herdsman ? Yet
the Pharaohs, with all their chariots of war, are buried deep
S92 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
in the wrecks of time ; and that Moses still lives, not among
his own tribe only, but in the hearts and daily business of all
civilized nations. Or figure Mahomet, in his youthful years,
"travelling to the horse-fairs of Syria." Nay, to take an
infinitely higher instance : who has ever forgotten those lines
of Tacitus ; inserted as a small, transitory, altogether trifling
circumstance in the history of such a potentate as Nero ?
To us it is the most earnest, sad and sternly significant pas-
sage that we know to exist in writing : Ergo abolendo inimori
Nero subdidlt reos, et quoesitlssimis pcenis affecit, quos per fia-
gitia invisos, vulgus Christianos appellahat. Auctor nominis
ejus Christus, qui, Tiberio imperitante, per Frocuratorem Forir
Hum Pilatum suppllcio affectus erat. Repressaque in prcesens
exitiah'dls sxiperstitlo mrsus erumpebat, non modo per Judceam
originem ejus mall, sed per urbem etlam, quo cuncta undique
atrocla aut piudenda confluunt celebranturque. " So, for the
quieting of this rumor,* Nero judicially charged with the
crime, and punished with most studied severities, that class,
hated for their general wickedness, whom the vulgar called
Christians. The originator of that name was one Christ, who,
in the reign of Tiberius, suffered death by sentence of the
Procurator, Pontius Pilate. The baneful superstition, thereby
repressed for the time, again broke out, not only over Judea,
the native soil of that mischief, but in the City also, where
from every side all atrocious and abominable things collect
and flourish." ^ Tacitus was the wisest, most penetrating man
of his generation ; and to such depth, and no deeper, has he
seen into this transaction, the most important that has oc-
curred or can occur in the annals of mankind.
Nor is it only to those primitive ages, when religions took
tlieir rise, and a man of pure and high mind appeared not
merely as a teacher and philosopher, but as a priest and
prophet, that our observation applies. The same uncertainty,
in estimating present things and men, holds more or less in
all times ; for in all times, even in those which seem most
trivial, and open to research, human society rests on inscruta.-
1 Of his having set fire to Eome.
* Ta^iit. Annul, xv. 44.
VOLTAIRE. 893
hly deep foundations ; which he is of all others the most mis-
tiiken, who fancies he has explored to the bottom. Neither
is that sequence, which we love to speak of as "a chain of
causes," properly to be figured as a " chain " or line, but
rather as a tissue, or superficies of innumerable lines, ex-
tending in breadth as well as in length, and with a complexity,
which will foil and utterly bewilder the most assiduous com-;
putation. In fact, the wisest of us must, for by far the most
part, judge like the simplest; estimate importance by mere
magnitude, and expect that what strongly affects our own
generation will strongly affect those that are to follow. In
this way it is that Conquerors and political E evolutionists
come to iigure as so miglity in their influences ; whereas truly
there is no class of persons creating such an uproar in the
world, who in the long-run produce so very slight an impres-
sion on its affairs. When Tamerlane had finished building
his pyramid of seventy thousand human skulls, and was seen
"standing at the gate of Damascus, glittering in steel, with
his battle-axe on his shoulder," till his fierce hosts filed out
to new victories and new carnage, the pale on-looker might
have fancied that Xature was in her death-throes ; for havoc
and despair had taken possession of the earth, the sun of
manhood seemed setting in seas of blood. Yet, it might be,
on that very gala-day of Tamerlane, a little boy was playing
ninepins on the streets of Mentz, whose history was more
important to men than that of twenty Tamerlanes. The Tar>
tar Khan, with his shaggy demons of the wilderness, "passed
away like a whirlwind," to be forgotten forever ; and that
German artisan has wrought a benefit, wliich is yet immea-
surably expanding itself, and will continue to expand itself
through all countries and through all times. "What are the
conquests and expeditions of the whole corporation of cap-
tains, from Walter the Penniless to Napoleon Bonaparte, com-
pared with these " movable types " of Johannes Faust ?
Truly it is a mortifying thing for your Conqueror to reflect,
how perishable is the metal which he hammers Avith such vio-
lence : how the kind earth will soon shroud up his bloody
footprints ; and all that he achieved and skilfully piled to-
394 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
gether will be but like his own " canvas city " of a camp, —
this evening loud with life, to-morrow all struck and vanished,
" a few earth-pits and heaps of straw I " For here, as always,
it continues true, that the deepest force is the stillest ; that,
as in the Fable, the mild shining of the sun shall silently
accomplish what the fierce, blustering of the tempest has in
vain essayed. Above all, it is ever to be kept in mind, that
not by material, but by moral power, are men and their ac-
tions governed. How noiseless is thought ! No rolling of
drums, no tramp of squadrons, or immeasurable tumult of
baggage-wagons, attends its movements : in what obscure and
sequestered places may the head be meditating, which is one
day to be crowned with more than imperial authority; for
Kings and Emperors will be among its ministering servants ;
it will rule not over, but in, all heads, and with these its soli-
tary combinations of ideas, as with magic formulas, bend the
world to its will ! The time may come, when Napoleon him-
self will be better known for his laws than for his battles ;
and the victory of Waterloo prove less momentous than the
opening of the first Mechanics' Institute.
We have been led into such rather trite reflections, by these
Volumes of Memoirs on Voltaire ; a man in whose histor}^ the
relative importance of intellectual and pliysical power is again
curiously evinced. This also was a private person, by birth
nowise an elevated one ; yet so far as present knowledge
will enable us to judge, it may be said that to abstract Vol-
taire and his activity from the eighteenth century, were to
produce a greater difference in the existing figure of things,
tlian the want of any other individual, up to this day, could
have occasioned. Nay, with the single exception of Luther,
there is perhaps, in these modern ages, no other man of a
merely intellectual character, whose influence and reputation
have become so entirely European as that of Voltaire. In-
deed, like the great German Keformer's, his doctrines too,
almost from the first, have affected not only the belief of the
thinking world, silently propagating themselves from mind
to mind ; but in a high degree also, the conduct of the active
VOLTAIRE. 395
and political world ; entering as a distinct element into some
of the most fearful civil convulsions which European history-
has on record.
Doubtless, to his own contemporaries, to such of them at
least as had any insight into the actual state of men's minds,
Voltaire already appeared as a noteworthy and decidedly his-
torical personage : yet, perhaps, not the wildest of his admir-
ers ventured to assign him such a magnitude as he now figures
in, even with his adversaries and detractors. He has grown
in appai'ent importance, as we receded from him, as the nature
of his endeavors became more and more visible in their re-
sults. For, unlike many great men, but like all great agita-
tors, Voltaire everywhere shows himself emphatically as the
man of his century : uniting in his own person whatever spir-
itual accomplishments were most valued by that age ; at the
same time, with no depth to discern its ulterior tendencies,
still less with any magnanimity to attempt withstanding these,
his greatness and his littleness alike fitted him to produce an
immediate effect ; for he leads whither the multitude was of
itself dimly minded to run, and keeps the van not less by
skill in commanding, than by cunning in obeying. Besides,
now that we look on the matter from some distance, the
efforts of a thousand coadjutors and disciples, nay a series
of mighty political vicissitudes, in the production of which
these efforts had but a subsidiary share, have all come, natu-
rally in such a case, to appear as if exclusively his work ; so
that he rises before us as the paragon and epitome of a
whole spiritual period, now almost passed away, yet remark-
able in itself, and more than ever interesting to us, who
seem to stand, as it were, on the confines of a new and better
one.
Nay, had we forgotten that ours is the '• Age of the Press,"
when he who runs may not only read, but furnish us with
reading ; and simply counted the books, and scattered leaves,
thick as the autumnal in Vallombrosa, that have been written
and printed concerning this man, we might almost fancy him
the most important person, not of the eighteenth century, but
of all the centuries from Xoah's Flood downwards. We have
896 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
J^ives of Voltaire by friend and by foe : Condorcet, Duvernet,
Lepan, have each given us a whole ; portions, documents and
all manner of authentic or spurious contributions have been
supplied by innumerable hands ; of which we mention only
the labors of his various Secretaries : Collini's, published some
twenty years ago, and now these Two massive Octavos from
Longchamp and VVagniere. To say nothing of the Baron de
Grimm's Collections, unparalleled in more than one respect ;
or of the six-and-thirty volumes of scurrilous eavesdropping,
long since printed under the title of Memoires de Bachau^
mont ; or of the daily and hourly attacks and defences that
appeared separately in his lifetime, and all the judicial pieces,
whether in the style of apotheosis or of excommunication,
that have seen the light since then ; a mass of fugitive writ-
ings, the very diamond edition of which might fill whole
libraries. The peculiar talent of the French in all narrative,
at least in all anecdotic departments, rendering most of these
works extremely readable, still farther favored their circula-
tion both at home and abroad : so that now, in most countries,
Voltaire has been read of and talked of, till his name and
life hav-e grown familiar like those of a village acquaintance.
In England, at least, where for almost a century the study of
foreign literature has, we may say, confined itself to that of
the French, with a slight intermixture from the elder Italians,
Voltaire's writings, and such writings as treated of him, were
little likely to want readers. We suppose, there is no literary
era, not even any domestic one, concerning which Englishmen
in general have such information, at least have gathered so
many anecdotes and opinions, as concerning this of Voltaire.
Kor have native additions to the stock been wanting, and
these of a due variety in purport and kind : maledictions, ex-
])ostulations and dreadful death-scenes painted like Spanish
Sanbenitos, by weak well-meaning persons of the hostile class ;
eulogies, generally of a gayer sort, by oj)en or secret friends :
all this has been long and extensively carried on among us.
There is even an English Life of Voltaire ; ^ nay we remember
1 "By Frank Hall Standish, Esq." (London, 1821) ; a work which we can
rcconunend only to such as feel themselves in extreme want of informatioa
VOLTAIRE. 397
to have Seen portions of his writings cited in terrorem, and
with criticisms, in some pamphlet, "by a country gentleman,"
either on the Education of the People, or else on the question
of Preserving the Game.
With the " Age of the Press," and such manifestations of
it on this subject, we are far from quarrelling. We have
read great part of these thousand-and-first " Memoirs on Vol-
taire," by Longchamp and Wagniere, not without satisfaction ;
and can cheerfully look forward to still other " Memoirs "
following in their train. Nothing can be more in the course
of Nature than the wish to satisfy one's self with knowledge
of all sorts about any distinguished person, especially of our
own era ; the true study of his character, his spiritual indi-
viduality and peculiar manner of existence, is full of instruc-
tion for all mankind : even that of his looks, sayings, habi-
tudes and indifferent actions, were not the records of them
generally lies, is rather to be commended ; nay are not such
lies themselves, when they keep within bounds, and the sub-
ject of them has been dead for some time, equal to snipe-
shooting, or Colburn-Novels, at least little inferior, in tlie
great art of getting done with life, or, as it is technically
called, killing time ? For our own part, we say : Would that
every Johnson in the world had his veridical Boswell, or
leash of Bos wells ! We could then tolerate his Hawkins also,
though not veridical. With regard to Voltaire, in particular,
it seems to us not only innocent but profitable that the whole
truth regarding him should be well understood. Surely the
biography of such a man, who, to say no more of him, spent
his best efforts, and as many still think, successfully, in
assaulting the Christian religion, must be a matter of consid-
erable import ; what he did, and what he could not do ; how
he did it, or attempted it, that is, with what degree of
strength, clearness, especially with what moral intents, what
on this subject, and except in their own language unable to acquire any. It
is written very badly, though with sincerity, and not witliout considerable
indications of talent ; to all appearance, by a minor ; many of whose state-
ments and opinions (for he seems an inquiring, honest-hearted, rather decisive
character) must have begun to astonish even himself, several years agf».
898 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
theories and feelings on man and man's life, are questions
that will bear some discussing. To Voltaire individually, for
the last fifty-one years, the discussion has been indifferent
enough ; and to us it is a discussion not on one remarkable
person only, and chiefly for the curious or studious, but in-
volving considerations of highest moment to all men, and ^
inquiries which the utmost compass of our philosophy will be j
unable to embrace. '
Here, accordingly, we are about to offer some farther obser-
vations on this qucestio vexata ; not without hope that the
reader may accept them in good part. Doubtless, when we
look at the whole bearings of the matter, there seems little
prospect of any unanimity respecting it, either now, or within
a calculable period : it is probable that many will continue
for a long time to speak of this "universal genius," this
" apostle of Reason," and " father of sound Philosophy ; "
and many again, of this " monster of impiety," this " soph-
ist," and "atheist," and "ape-demon;" or, like the late Dr.
Clarke of Cambridge, dismiss him more briefly with informar
tion that he is " a driveller : " neither is it essential that
these two parties should, on the spur of the instant, reconcile
themselves herein. Nevertheless, truth is better than error,
were it only " on Hannibal's vinegar." It may be expected
that men's opinions concerning Voltaire, which is of some mo-
ment, and concerning Voltairism, which is of almost bound-
less moment, will, if they cannot meet, gradually at every
new comparison approach towards meeting ; and what is still
more desirable, towards meeting somewhere nearer the truth
than they actually stand.
With honest wishes to promote such approximation, there
is one condition, which above all others in tliis inquiry we
must beg the reader to impose on himself : the duty of fair-
ness towards Voltaire, of tolerance towards him, as towards all
men. This, truly, is a duty which we have the happiness to
hear daily inculcated ; yet which, it has been well said, no
mortal is at bottom disposed to practise. Nevertheless, if we
really desire to understand the truth on any subject, not
merely, as is much more common, to confirm our already exist-
VOLTAIRE. 899
ing opinions, and gratify this and the other pitiful claim of
vanity or malice in respect of it, tolerance may be regarded
as the most indispensable of all prerequisites ; the condition,
indeed, by which alone any real progress in the question be-
comes possible. In respect of our fellow-men, and all real
insight into their characters, this is especially true. No char-
acter, we may affirm, was ever rightly understood till it had
first been regarded with a certain feeling, not of tolerance only,
but of sympathy. For here, more than in any other case, it
is verified that the heart sees farther than the head. Let us
be sure, our enemy is not that hateful being we are too apt to
paint him. His vices and basenesses lie combined in far other
order before his own mind than before ours ; and under colors
which palliate them, nay perhaps exhibit them as virtues.
Were he the wretch of our imagining, his life would be a
burden to himself : for it is not by bread alone that the basest
mortal lives ; a certain approval of conscience is equally essen-
tial even to physical existence; is the fine all-pervading cement
by which that wondrous union, a Self, is held together. Since
the man, therefore, is not in Bedlam, and has not shot or
hanged himself, let us take comfort, and conclude that he is one
of two things : either a vicious dog in man's guise, to be muzzled
and mourned over, and greatly marvelled at ; or a real man,
and consequently not without moral worth, which is to be en-
lightened, and so far approved of. But to judge rightly of his
character, we must learn to look at it, not less with his eyes,
than with our own ; we must learn to pity him, to see him as
a fellow-creature, in a word, to love him ; or his real spiritual
nature will ever be mistaken by us. In interpreting Voltaire,
accordingly, it will be needful to bear some things carefully in
mind, and to keep many other things as carefully in abeyance.
Let us forget that our opinions were ever assailed by him, or
ever defended; that we have to thank him, or upbraid him,
for pain or for pleasure ; let us forget that we are Deists or
Millennarians, Bishops or Radical Reformers, and remember
only that we are men. This is a European subject, or there
never was one ; and musit, if we would in the least compre-
hend it, be looked at neither from the parish belfry, nor any
400 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Peterloo platform ; but, if possible, from some natural and
infinitely higher poiut of vision.
It is a remarkable fact, that throughout the last fifty years
of his life Voltaire was seldom or never name^, even by his
detractors, without the epithet '' great " being appended to
him ; so that, had the syllables suited such a junction, as they
did in the happier case of Charle-Ma gne, we might almost have
expected that, not Voltah'e, but Voltaire-ce-grand-homme would
be his designation with posterity. However, posterity is much
more stinted in its allowances on that score ; and a multitude
of things remain to be adjusted, and questions of very dubious
issue to be gone into, before such coronation-titles can be con-
ceded with any permanence. The million, even the wiser part
of them, are apt to lose their discretion, when " tumultuously
assembled ; " -for a small object, near at hand, may subtend a
large angle ; and often a Pennenden Heath has been mistaken
for a Field of Eunnymede ; whereby the couplet on that im-
mortal Dalhousie proves to be the emblem of many a man's
real fortune with the public: —
" And thou, Dalhousie, the great God of "War,
Lieuteuaut-Colonel to the Earl of Mar ; "
the latter end corresponding poorly with the beginning. To
ascertain what was the true significance of Voltaire's history,
both as respects himself and the world ; what was his specific
character and value as a man ; what has been the character
and value of his influence on society, of his appearance as an
active agent in the culture of Europe : all this leads us into
much deeper investigations ; on the settlement of which, how-
ever, the whole business turns.
To our own view, we confess, on looking at Voltaire's life,
the chief quality that shows itself is one for which adroitness
seems the fitter name. Greatness implies several conditions,
the existence of which in his case it might be difficult to de-
monstrate ; but of his claim to this other praise tliere can be
no disputing. Whatever be his aini^, high or low, just or the
contrary, he is, at all times and to the utmost degree, expert in
VOLTAIRE. 401
pursuing them. It is to be observed, moreover, that his aims
in general were not of a simple sort, and the attainment of
them easy : few literary men have had a course so diversified
with vicissitudes as Voltaire's. His life is not spent in a cor-
ner, like that of a studious recluse, but on the open theatre of
the world ; in an age full of commotion, when society is rending
itself asunder, Superstition already armed for deadly battle
against Unbelief ; in which battle he himself plays a dis-
tinguished part. From his earliest years, we find him in per-
petual communication with the higher personages of his time,
often with the highest : it is in circles of authority, of reputa-
tion, at lowest of fashion and rank, that he lives and works.
Ninon de I'EnclQs leaves the boy a legacy to buy books ; he is
still young, when he can say of his supper companions, " We
are all Princes or Poets." In after-life he exhibits himself in
company or correspondence with all manner of principalities
and powers, from Queen Caroline of England to the Empress
Catherine of Russia, from Pope Benedict to Frederick the
Great. Meanwhile, shifting from side to side of Europe, hid-
ing in the country, or living sumptuously in capital cities, he
quits not his pen ; with which, as with some enchanter's rod,
more potent than any king's sceptre, he turns and winds the
mighty machine of European Opinion ; approves himself, as
his schoolmaster had predicted, the Coryphee du Deisvie ; and,
not content with this elevation, strives, and nowise ineffec-
tually, to unite with it a poetical, historical, philosophic and
even scientific pre-eminence. Nay, Ave may add, a pecuniary
one ; for he speculates in the funds, diligently solicits pensions
and promotions, trades to America, is long a regular victualling-
contractor for armies ; and thus, by one means and another,
independently of literature which would never yield much
money, raises his income from 800 francs a year to more than
centuple that sum.^ And now, having, besides all this com-
mercial and economical business, written some thirty quartos,
the most popular tliat were ever written, he returns after long
exile to his native city, to be welcomed there almost as a re-
ligious idol ; and closes a life, prosperous alike in the building
1 See Tome ii. p 328 of these Mcmoires.
VOL. XIII. '26
402 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
of country-seats, an(5 the composition of Henriades and
Philosophical Dictionaries, by the most appropriate demise,
— by drowning, as it were, in an ocean of applause ; so
that as he lived for fame, he may be said to have died
of it.
Such various, complete success, granted only to a small por-
tion of men in any age of the world, presupposes at least,
with every allowance for good fortune, an almost unrivalled
expertness of management. There must have been a great
talent of some kind at work here; a cause proportionate to
the eifect. It is wonderful, truly, to observe with what per-
fect skill Voltaire steers his course through so many conflict-
ing circumstances : how he weathers this Cape Horn, darts
lightly through that Mahlstrom ; always either sinks his
enemy, or shuns him ; here waters, and careens, and traffics
with the rich savages ; there lies land-locked till the hurricane
is overblown ; and so, in spite of all billows, and sea-monsters,
and hostile fleets, finishes his long Manilla voyage, with
streamers flying, and deck piled with ingots ! To say nothing
of his literary character, of which this same dexterous address
will also be found to be a main feature, let us glance only at
the general aspect of his conduct, as manifested both in his
writings and actions. By turns, and ever at the right season,
he is imperious and obsequious ; now shoots abroad, from the
mountain-tops, Hyperion-like, his keen innumerable shafts ;
anon, when danger is advancing, flies to obscure nooks ; or,
if taken in the fact, swears it was but in sport, and that he
is the peaceablest of men. He bends to occasion ; can, to
a certain extent, blow hot or blow cold ; and never attempts
force, where cunning will serve his turn. The beagles of the
Hierarchy and of the Monarchy, proverbially quick of scent
and sharp of tooth, are out in quest of him ; but this is a lion-
fox which cannot be captured. By wiles and a thousand
doublings, he utterly distracts his pursuers ; he can burrow in
the earth, and all trace of him is gone.^ With a strange sys-
^ Of one such " taking to cover " we have a curioua and rather ridiculous
account iu this Work, by Longchamp. It was with the Dnchess du Maine
that he sought shelter, and on a very sliglit occasion : nevertheless he had
VOLTAIEE. 403
tem of anonymity and publicity, of denial and assertion, of
Mystification in all senses, has Voltaire surrounded himself.
He can raise no standing armies for his defence, yet he too
is a ''European Power," and not undefended; an invisible,
impregnable, though hitherto unrecognized bulwark, that of
Public Opinion, defends him. With great art, he maintains
this stronghold ; though ever and anon sallying out from it,
far beyond the permitted limits. But he has his coat of dark-
ness, and his shoes of swiftness, like that other Killer of
Giants. "We find Voltaire a supple courtier, or a sharp satir-
ist ; he can talk blasphemy, and build churches, according to
the signs of the times. Frederick the Great is not too high
for his diplomacy, nor the poor Printer of his Zadig too low ; *
he manages the Cardinal Fleuri, and the Cure of St. Sulpice ;
and laughs in his sleeve at all the world. We should pro-
nounce him to be one of the best politicians on record ; as we
have said, the adroit est of all literary men.
At the same time, Voltaire's worst enemies, it seems to us,
will not deny that he had naturally a keen sense for rectitude,
indeed for all virtue : the utmost vivacity of temperament
characterizes him ; his quick susceptibility for every form of
beauty is moral as well as intellectual. Xor was his practice
without indubitable and highly creditable proofs of this. To
the help-needing he was at all times a ready benefactor : many
were the hungry adventurers who profited of his bounty, and
then bit the hand that had fed them. If we enumerate his
generous acts, from the case of the Abbe Desfontaines down
to that of the "Widow Galas, and the Serfs of Saint Claude, we
shall find that few private men have had so wide a circle of
charity, and have watched over it so well. Should it be ob-
joct;-d that love of reputation entered largely into these pro-
ceedings, Voltaire can afford a handsome deduction on that
head : should the uncharitable even calculate that love of
to lie perdue, for two months, at tlie Castle of Sceanx ; and, ■with closed
windows, and burning caudles iu daylight, compose Zadiy, Bubouc, Menoion,
^■c. for his amusement.
* See in Longchamp (pp. 1.54-103) how, by natural legerdemain, a knave
may be caught, aud the cha.iye rendu a Jes inijirinicurs injulelei.
404 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
reputation was the sole motive, we can only remind them that
love of such reputation is itself the effect of a social, humane
disposition ; and wish, as an immense improvement, that all
men were animated with it. Voltaire was not without his
experience of human baseness ; but he still had a fellow-feeliug
for human sufferings ; and delighted, were it only as an honest
luxury, to relieve them. His attachments seem remarkably
constant and lasting : even such sots as Thiriot, whom nothing
but habit could have endeared to him, he continues, and after
repeated injuries, to treat and regard as friends. Of his equals
we do not observe him envious, at least not palpably and
despicably so ; though this, we should add, might be in him,
who was from the first so paramountly popular, no such hard
attainment. Against Montesquieu, perhaps against him alone,
he cannot help entertaining a small secret grudge ; yet ever
in public he does him the amplest justice ; V Arlequin-Grotitis of
the fireside becomes, on all grave occasions, the author of
the Esprit des Lois. Neither to his enemies, and even betrayers,
is Voltaire implacable or meanly vindictive : the instant of
their submission is also the instant of his forgiveness ; their
hostility itself provokes only casual sallies from him ; his
heart is too kindly, indeed too light, to cherish any rancor,
any continuation of revenge. If he has not the virtue to for-
give, he is seldom without the prudence to forget : if, in his
life-long contentions, he cannot treat his opponents with any
magnanimity, he seldom, or perhaps never once, treats them
quite basely ; seldom or never with that absolute unfaii'ness,
which the law of retaliation might so often have seemed to
justif3\ We would say that, if no heroic, he is at all times a
perfectly civilized man ; which, considering that his war was
with exasperated theologians, and a "war to the knife" on
their part, may be looked upon as rather a surprising circum-
stance. He exhibits many minor virtues, a due appreciation
of tlie highest ; and fewer faults than, in his situation, might
have been expected, and perhaps pardoned.
All this is well, and may fit out a highly expert and much-
esteemed man of business, in the widest sense of that term ;
but is still far from constituting a " great character." In fact,
VOLTAIRE. 405
there is one deficiency in Voltaire's original structure, whicli,
it appears to us, must be quite fatal to such claims for him :
we mean his inborn levity of nature, his entire want of Ear-
nestness. Voltaire was by birth a Mocker, and light Pococu-
rante; which natural disposition his way of life confirmed
into a predominant, indeed all-pervading habit. Far be it
from us to say, that solemnity is an essential of greatness ;
that no great man can have other than a rigid vinegar aspect
of countenance, never to be thawed or warmed by billows of
mirth ! There are things in this world to be laughed at, as
well as things to be admired ; and his is no complete mind,
that cannot give to each sort its due. Nevertheless, contempt
is a dangerous element to sport in ; a deadly one, if we habit-
ually live in it. How, indeed, to take the lowest view of this
matter, shall a man accomplish great enterprises ; enduring
all toil, resisting temptation, laying aside every weight, —
unless he zealously love what he pursues ? The faculty of
love, of admiration, is to be regarded as the sign and the
measure of high souls : unwisely directed, it leads to many
evils ; but without it, there cannot be any good. Eidicule, on
the other hand, is indeed a faculty much prized by its posses-
sors ; yet, intrinsically, it is a small faculty'- ; we may say, the
smallest of all faculties that other men are at the pains to
repay with any esteem. It is directly opposed to Thought, to
Knowledge, properly so called ; its nourishment and essence is
Denial, which hovers only on the surface, while Knowledge
dwells far below. Moreover, it is by nature selfish and mor-
ally trivial ; it cherishes nothing but our Vanity, which may
in general be left safely enough to shift for itself. Little
" discourse of reason," in any sense, is implied in Ridicule : a
scoffing man is in no lofty mood, for the time ; shows more of
tlie imp than of the angel. This too when his scoffing is what
we call just, and has some foundation on truth ; while again
the laughter of fools, that vain sound said in Scripture to
resemble the " crackling of thorns under the pot " (which they
cannot heat, but only soil and begrime), must be regarded, in
these latter times, as a very serious addition to the sum of
human wretchedness ; nor perhaps will it always, — when the
406 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
"Increase of Crime in the Metropolis" comes to be debated
again, — escape the vigilance of Parliament as hitherto.
We have, oftener than once, endeavored to attach some
meaning to that aphorism, vulgarly imputed to Shaftesbury,
which, however, we can find nowhere in his works, that ridi-
cule is the test of truth. But of all chimeras that ever advanced
themselves in the shape of philosophical doctrines, this is to
us the most formless and purely inconceivable. Did or could
the unassisted human faculties ever understand it, much more
believe it ? Surely, so far as the common mind can discern,
laughter seems to depend not less on the laugher than on the
laughee : and now, who gave laughers a patent to be always
just, and always omniscient ? If the philosophers of Nootka
Sound were pleased to laugh at the manoeuvres of Cook's sea-
men, did that render these manoeuvres useless ; and were the
seamen to stand idle, or to take to leather canoes, till the
laughter abated ? Let a discerning public judge.
But, leaving these questions for the present, we may observe
at least that all great men have been careful to subordinate
this talent or habit of ridicule ; nay, in the ages which we con-
sider the greatest, most of the arts that contribute to it have
been thought disgraceful for freemen, and confined to the ex-
ercise of slaves. With Voltaire, however, there is no such
subordination visible : by nature, or by practice, mockery has
grown to be the irresistible bias of his disposition ; so that for
him, in all matters, the first question is, not what is true, but
what is false ; not what is to be loved, and held fast, and ear-
nestly laid to heart, but what is to be contemned, and derided,
and sportfully cast out of doors. Here truly he earns abun-
dant triumph as an image-breaker, but pockets little real wealth.
Vanity, with its adjuncts, as we have said, finds rich solace-
ment ; but for aught better there is not much. Reverence,
the highest feeling that man's nature is capable of, the crown
of his whole moral manhood, and precious, like fine gold, were
it in the rudest forms, he seems not to understand, or have
heard of even by credible tradition. The glory of knowing
and believing is all but a stranger to him ; only with that of
questioning and qualifying is he familiar. Accordingly, he
VOLTAIRE. 407
sees but a little way into Nature : the mighty All, in its
beauty, and infinite mysterious grandeur, humbling the small
Me into nothingness, has never even for moments been re-
vealed to him ; only this or that other atom of it, and the dif-
ferences and discrepancies of these two, has he looked into
and noted down. His theory of the world, his picture of man
and man's life, is little ; for a Poet and Philosopher, even
pitiful. Examine it in its highest developments, you find it
an altogether vulgar picture ; simply a reflex, with more or
fewer mirrors, of Self and the poor interests of Self. " The
Divine Idea, that which lies at the bottom of Appearance,"
was never more invisible to any man. He reads History not
with the eye of a devout seer, or even of a critic ; but through
a pair of mere anti-catholic spectacles. It is not a mighty
drama, enacted on the theatre of Infinitude, with Suns for
lamps, and Eternity as a background ; whose author is God,
and whose purport and thousand-fold moral lead us up to the
" dark with excess of light " of the Throne of God ; but a poor
wearisome debating-club dispute, spun through ten centuries,
between the Encydopedie and the Sorbomie. Wisdom or folly,
nobleness or baseness, are merely superstitious or unbelieving :
God's Universe is a larger Patrimony of St. Peter, from which
it were well and pleasant to hunt out the Pope.
In this way, Voltaire's nature, which was originally vehe-
ment rather than deep, came, in its maturity, in spite of all
his wonderful gifts, to be positively shallow. We find no
heroism of character in him, from first to last ; nay there is
not, that we know of, one great thought in all liis six-and-
thirty quartos. The high worth implanted in him by Nature,
and still often manifested in his conduct, does not shine there
like a light, but like a coruscation. The enthusiasm, proper
to such a mind, visits him ; but it has no abiding virtue in his
thoughts, no local habitation and no name. There is in him a
rapidity, but at the same time a pettiness ; a certain violence,
and fitful abruptness, which takes from him all dignity. Of
his emportemens, and tragi-comical explosions, a thousand anec-
dotes are on record ; neither is he, in tliese cases, a terrific
volcano, but a mere bundle of rockets. He is nigh shooting
408 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
poor Dorn, the Frankfort constable ; actually fires a pistol,
into the lobby, at him ; and this, three days after that melaii-
choly business of the " (Euvre de Poeshie du Roi mon Maitre "
had been finally adjusted. A bookseller, who, with the natural
instinct of fallen mankind, overcharges him, receives from this
Philosopher, by way of payment at sight, a slap on the face.
Poor Longchamp, with considerable tact, and a praiseworthy
air of second-table respectability, details various scenes of this
kind : how Voltaire dashed away his combs, and maltreated
his wig, and otherwise fiercely comported himself, the very
first morning : how once, having a keenness of appetite, sharp-
ened by walking and a diet of weak tea, he became uncom-
monly anxious for supper*; and Clairaut and Madame du
Chatelet, sunk in algebraic calculations, twice promised to
come down, but still kept the dishes cooling, and the Philoso-
pher at last desperately battered open their locked door with
his foot ; exclaiming, " Vous etes done de concert poitr me
faire mour'ir?^'' — And yet Voltaire had a true kindness of
heart ; all his domestics and dependents loved him, and con-
tinued with him. He has many elements of goodness, but
floating loosely ; nothing is combined iu steadfast union. lb
is true, he presents in general a surface of smoothness, of cul-
tured regularity ; yet, under it, there is not the silent rock-
bound strength of a World, but the wild tumults of a Chaos
are ever bursting through, fie is a man of power, but not of
beneficent authority ; we fear, but cannot reverence him ; we
feel him to be stronger, not higher.
Much of this spiritual shortcoming and perversion might be
due to natural defect ; but much of it also is due to the age into
which he was cast. It was an age of discord and division ;
the approach of a grand crisis in human affairs. Already we
discern in it all the elements of the French Revolution; and
wonder, so easily do we forget how entangled and hidden the
meaning of the present generally is to us, that all men did not
foresee the comings-on of that fearful convulsion. On the one
hand, a high all-attempting activity of Intellect ; the most
peremptory spirit of inquiry abroad on every subject; things
human and things divine alike cited without misgivings before
VOLTAIEE. 409
the same boastful tribunal of so-called Reason, which means
here a merely argumentative Logic ; the strong in mind ex-
cluded from his regular influence in the state, and deeply con-
scious of that injury. On the other hand, a privileged few,
strong in the subjection of the many, yet in itself weak ; a
piebald, and for most part altogether decrepit battalion of
Clergy, of purblind Nobility, or rather of Courtiers, for as yet
the Nobility is mostly on the other side : these cannot fight
with Logic, and the day of Persecution is well-nigh done. The
whole force of law, indeed, is still in their hands ; but the far
deeper force, which alone gives efficacy to law, is hourly pass-
ing from them. Hope animates one side, fear the other ; and
the battle will be fierce and desperate. For there is wit with-
out wisdom on the part of the self-styled Philosophers ; fee-
bleness with exasperation on the part of their opponents ; pride
enough on all hands, but little magnanimity ; perhaps nowhere
any pure love of truth, only everywhere the purest, most
ardent love of self.
In such a state of things, there lay abundant principles of
discord : these two influences hung like fast-gathering electric
clouds, as yet on opposite sides of the horizon, but with a
malignity of aspect, which boded, whenever they might meet,
a sky of fire and blackness, thunder-bolts to waste the earth ;
and the sun and stars, though but for a season, to be blotted
out from the heavens. For there is no conducting medium
to unite softly these hostile elements ; there is no true virtue,
no true wisdom, on the one side or on the other. Kever per-
haps was there an epoch, in the history of the world, when
universal corruption called so loudly for reform ; and they who
undertook that task were men intrinsically so worthless. Kot
by Gracchi but by Catilines, not by Luthers but by Aretines,
was Europe to be renovated. The task has been a long and
bloody one ; and is still far from done.
In this condition of affairs, what side such a man as Vol-
taire was to take could not be doubtful. Whether he ought
to have taken either side ; whether he should not rather have
stationed himself in the middle ; the partisan of neither, per-
haps hated by both ; acTinowledging and forwarding, and
410 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
striying to reconcile, what truth was in each ; and preaching
forth a far deeper truth, which, if his own century had
neglected it, had persecuted it, future centuries would have
recognized as priceless : all this was another question. Of no
man, however gifted, can we require what he has not to give :
but Voltaire called himself Philosopher, nay the Philosopher.
And such has often, indeed generally, been the fate of great
men, and Lovers of Wisdom : their own age and country have
treated them as of no account ; in the great Corn-Exchange of
the world, their pearls have seemed but spoiled barley, and
been ignorainiously rejected. Weak in adherents, strong only
in their faith, in their indestructible consciousness of worth
and well-doing, they have silently, or in words, appealed to
coming ages, when their own ear would indeed be shut to the
voice of love and of hatred, but the Truth that had dwelt in
them would speak with a voice audible to all. Bacon left his
works to future generations, when some centuries should have
elapsed. " Is it much for me," said Kepler, in his isolation,
and extreme need, " that men should accept my discovery ?
If the Almighty waited six thousand years for one to see
what He had made, I may surely wait two hundred for one to
understand what I have seen ! " All this, and more, is im-
plied in love of wisdom, in genuine seeking of truth: the
noblest function that can be appointed for a man, but requir-
ing also the noblest man to fulfil it.
With Voltaire, however, there is no symptom, perhaps there
was no conception, of such nobleness ; the high call for which
indeed, in the existing state of things, his intellect may have
had as little the force to discern, as his heart had the force to
obey. He follows a simpler course. Heedless of remoter
issues, he adopts the cause of his own party ; of that class
with whom he lived, and was most anxious to stand well : he
enlists in their ranks, not without hopes that he may one day
rise to be their general. A resolution perfectly accordant
with his prior habits, and temper of mind ; and from which
his whole subsequent procedure, and moral aspect as a man,
naturally enough evolves itself. Not that we would say,
Voltaire was a mere prize-fighter; one of "Heaven's Swiss,"
VOLTAIRE. 411
contending for a cause which he only half, or not at all ap-
proved of. Far from it. Doubtless he loved truth, doubtless
he partially felt himself to be advocating truth ; nay we know
not that he has ever yet, in a single instance, been convicted
of wilfully perverting his belief; of uttering, in all his con-
troversies, one deliberate falsehood. Nor should this negative
praise seem an altogether slight one ; for greatly were it to be
wished that even the best of his better-intentioned opponents
had always deserved the like. Nevertheless, his love of
truth is not that deep infinite love, which beseems a Phi-
losopher; which many ages have been fortunate enough to
witness ; nay, of which his own age had still some examples.
It is a far inferior love, we should say, to that of poor Jean
Jacques, half -sage, half-maniac as he was ; it is more a pru-
dent calculation than a passion. Voltaire loves Truth, but
chiefly of the triumphant sort : we have no instance of his
fighting for a quite discrowned and outcast Truth ; it is chiefly
when she walks abroad, in distress it may be, but still with
queenlike insignia, and knighthoods and renown are to be
earned in her battles, that he defends her, that he charges
gallantly against the Cades and Tylers. Nay, at all times,
belief itself seems, with him, to be less the product of Medi-
tation than of Argument. His first question with regard to
any doctrine, perhaps his final test of its worth and genuine-
ness is : Can others be convinced of this ? Can I truck it in
the market for power ? " To such questioners," it has been
said, " Truth, who buys not, and sells not, goes on her way,
and makes no answer."
In fact, if we inquire into Voltaire's ruling motive, we shall
find that it was at bottom but a vulgar one : ambition, the
desire of ruling, by such means as he had, over other men.
He acknowledges no higher divinity than Public Opinion ; for
whatever he asserts or performs, the number of votes is the
measure of strength and value. Yet let us be just to him ;
let us admit that he in some degree estimates his votes, as
well as counts them. If love of fame, which, especially for
such a man, we can only call another modification of Vanity,
is always his ruling passion, he has a certain taste in grati-
412 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
fying it. His vanity, which cannot be extinguished, is ever
skilfully concealed ; even his just claims are never boisterously
insisted on ; throughout his whole life he shows no single fear
ture of the quack. Nevertheless, even in the height of his
glory, he has a strange sensitiveness to the judgment of the
world : could he have contrived a Dionysius' Ear, in the Rue
Traversiere, we should have found him watching at it, night
and day. Let but any little evil-disposed Abbe, any Freron
or Piron,
" Pauvre Piron, qui ne fut jamais rien,
Pas meitie Academicien,"
write a libel or epigram on him, what a fluster he is in ! We
grant he forbore much, in these cases ; manfully consumed his
own spleen, and sometimes long held his peace ; but it was
his part to have always done so. Why should such a man
ruffle himself with the spite of exceeding small persons ?
Why not let these poor devils write ; why should not they
earn a dishonest penny, at his expense, if they had no readier
way ? But Voltaire cannot part with his " voices," his '• most
sweet voices : " for they are his gods ; take these, and what
has he left ? Accordingly, in literature and morals, in all his
comings and goings, we find him striving, with a religious
care, to sail strictly with the wind. In Art, the Parisian
Parterre is his court of last appeal : he consults the Cafe de
Procope, on his wisdom or his folly, as if it were a Delphic
Oracle. The following adventure belongs to his fifty-fourth
year, when his fame might long have seemed abundantly
established. We translate from the Sieur Longchamp's thin,
half-roguish, mildly obsequious, most lackey-like Narrative :
"Judges could appreciate the merits of Semiramis, which
has continued on the stage, and always been seen there with
pleasure. Every one knows how the two principal parts in
this piece contributed to the celebrity of two great trage-
dians, Mademoiselle Dumesnil and M. le Kain. The enemies
of M. de Voltaire renewed their attempts in the subsequent rep-
resentations ; but it only the better confirmed his triumph.
Piron, to console himself for the defeat of his party, had
VOLTAIRE. 413
•ecourse to his usual remedy ; pelting the piece with some
paltry epigrams, which did it no harm.
" Nevertheless, M. de Voltaire, who always loved to correct
his works, and perfect them, became desirous to learn, more
specially and at first hand, what good or ill the public were
saying of his Tragedy ; and it appeared to him that he could
nowhere learn it better than in the Cafe de Procope, which was
also called the Autre (Cavern) de Procope, because it was very
dark even in full day, and ill-lighted in the evenings ; and be-
cause you often saw there a set of lank, sallow poets, who had
somewhat the air of apparitions. In this Cafe, wliich fronts
the Comedle Frungaise, had been held, for more than sixty
years, the tribunal of those self-called Aristarchs, who fancied
they could pass sentence without appeal, on plays, authors and
actors. M. de Voltaire wished to compear there, but in dis-
guise and altogether iticognito. It was on coming out from the
playhouse that the judges usually proceeded thither, to open
what they called their great sessions. On the second night of
Semiramis he borrowed a clergyman's clothes ; dressed him-
self in cassock and long cloak : black stockings, girdle, bands,
breviary itself ; nothing was forgotten. He clapt on a large
peruke, unpowdered, very ill-combed, which covered more than
the half of his cheeks, and left nothing to be seen but the
end of a long nose. The peruke was surmounted by a large
three-cornered hat, corners half bruised in. In this equipment,
then, the author of Semiramis proceeded on foot to the Cafe
de Procope, where he squatted himself in a corner ; and wait-
ing for the end of the pla}', called for a bavaroise, a small
roll of bread and the Gazette. It was not long till those
familiars of the Parterre and tenants of the Cafe stejit in.
They instantl}^ began discussing the new Tragedy. Its parti-
sans and its adversaries pleaded their cause witli warmth ;
each giving his reasons. Impartial jiersons also spoke their
sentiment; and repeated some fine verses of the piece. Dur-
ing all this time, jSE. de Voltaire, with spectacles on nose, head
stooping over tlie Gazette which he pretended to be reading,
was listening to the debate ; profiting by reasonable observa-
tions, suffering much to hear very absurd ones, and not answer
414 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
them, which irritated him. Thus, during an hour and a half,
had he the courage and patience to hear Semiramis talked of
and babbled of, without speaking a word. At last, all these
pretended judges of the fame of authors having gone their
ways, without converting one another, M. de Voltaire also
went off; took a coach in the Rue Mazarine, and returned
home about eleven o'clock. Though I knew of his disguise, I
confess I was struck and almost frightened to see him accou-
tred so. I took him for a spectre, or shade of Ninus, that was
appearing to me ; or, at least, for one of those ancient Irish
debaters, arrived at the end of their career, after wearing them-
selves out in school-syllogisms. I helped him to doff all that
apparatus, which I carried next morning to its true owner, — a
Doctor of the Sorbonne."
This stroke of art, which cannot in anywise pass for sub-
lime, might have its uses and rational purpose in one case,
and only in one: if Semiramis was meant to be a popular
show, that was to live or die by its first impression on the idle
multitude ; which accordingly we must infer to have been its
real, at least its chief destination. In any other case, we can-
not but consider this Haroun-Alraschid visit to the Cafe de
Procope as questionable, and altogether inadequate. If Semi-
ramis was a Poem, a living Creation, won from the empyrean
by the silent power and long-continued Promethean toil of its
author, what could the Cafe de Procope know of it, what could
all Paris know of it, " on the second night " ? Had it been
a Milton's Paradise Lost, they might have despised it till after
the fiftieth year ! True, the object of the Poet is, and must
be, to " instruct by pleasing," yet not by pleasing this man and
that man ; only by pleasing man, by speaking to the pure na-
ture of man, can any real " instruction," in this sense, be con-
veyed. Vain does it seem to search for a judgment of this
kind in the largest Cafe in the largest Kingdom, " on the
second night." The deep, clear consciousness of one mind
comes infinitely nearer it, than the loud outcry of a million
that have no such consciousness ; whose " talk," or whose
" babble," but distracts the listener ; and to most genuine
Poets has, from of old, been in a great measure indifferent.
VOLTAIRE. 416
For the multitude of voices is no authority; a thousand
voices may not, strictly examined, amount to one vote. Man-
kind in this world are divided into flocks, and follow their sev-
eral bell-wethers. Now, it is well known, let the bell-wether
rush through any gap, the rest rush after him, were it into
bottomless quagmires. Nay, so conscientious are sheep in this
particular, as a quaint naturalist and moralist has noted, " if
you hold a stick before the wether, so that he is forced to
vault in his passage, the whole flock will do the like when
the stick is withdrawn ; and the thousandth sheep shall be
seen vaulting impetuously over air, as the first did over an
otherwise impassable barrier ! " A farther peculiarity which,
in consulting Acts of Parliament, and other authentic records,
not only as regards " Catholic Disabilities," but many other
matters, you may find curiously verified in the human species
also ! — On the whole, we must consider this excursion to
Frocojje's literary Cavern as illustrating Voltaire in rather
pleasant style ; but nowise much to his honor. Fame seems a
far too high, if not the highest object with him ; nay some- *
times even popularity is clutched at : we see no heavenly
polestar in this voyage of his ; but only the guidance of a pro-
verbially uncertain ivind.
Voltaire reproachfully says of St. Louis, that he " ought to
have been above his age ; " but in his own case we can find few
symptoms of such heroic superiority. The same perpetual
appeal to his contemporaries, the same intense regard to repu-
tation, as he viewed it, prescribes for him both his enterprises
and his manner of conducting them. His aim is to please the
more enlightened, at least the politer part of the world ; and he
offers them simply what they most wish for, be it in theatri-
cal shows for their pastime, or in sceptical doctrines for their
edification. For this latter purpose, Ridicule is the weapon
he selects, and it suits him well. This was not the age of
deep thoughts; no Due de Richelieu, no Prince Conti, no
Frederick the Great would have listened to such : only sport-
ful contempt, and a thin conversational logic will avail. There
may be wool-quilts, which the latli-sword of Harlequin will
pierce, when the club of Hercules has rebounded from them in
416 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
vaiu. As little was this an age for high virtues ; no heroism,
in any form, is required, or even acknowledged ; but only, in
all forms, a certain bienseance.
To this rule also Voltaire readily conforms; indeed, he
finds no small advantage in it. For a lax public morality
not only allows him the indulgence of many a little private
vice, and brings him in this and the other windfall of menus
plaisii's, but opens him the readiest resource in many enter-
prises of danger. Of all men, Voltaire has the least dispo-
sition to increase the Army of Martyrs. No testimony will
he seal with his blood ; scarcely any will he so much as sign
with ink. His obnoxious doctrines, as we have remarked, he
publishes under a thousand concealments ; with underplots,
and wheels within wheels ; so that his whole track is in dark-
ness, only his works see the light. No Proteus is so nimble,
or assumes so many shapes : if, by rare chance, caught sleep-
ing, he whisks through the smallest hole, and is out of sight,
while the noose is getting ready. Let his judges take him to
task, he will shuffle and evade ; if directly questioned, he will
even lie. In regard to this last point, the Marquis de Con-
dorcet has set up a defence for him, which has at least the
merit of being frank enough,
"The necessity of lying in order to disavow any work,"
says he, " is an extremity equally repugnant to conscience and
nobleness of character : but the crime lies with those unjust
men, who render such disavowal necessary to the safety of
him whom they force to it. If you have made a crime of
what is not one ; if, by absurd or by arbitrary laws, you have
infringed the natural right, which all men have, not only to
form an opinion, but to render it public ; then you deserve
to lose the right which every man has of hearing the truth
from the mouth of another ; a right which is the sole basis
of that rigorous obligation, not to lie. If it is not permitted
to deceive, the reason is, that to deceive any one, is to do him
a wrong, or expose yourself to do him one ; but a wrong sup-
poses a right ; and no one has the right of seeking to secure
himself the means of committing an injustice." *
1 Vie de Voltaire, p. 32.
VOLTAIRE. 417
It is strange, how scientific discoveries do maintain them-
selves : here, quite in other hands, and in an altogether dif-
ferent dialect, we have the old Catholic doctrine, if it ever
was more than a Jesuitic one, "that faith need not be kept
with heretics." Truth, it appears, is too precious an article
for our enemies ; is fit only for friends, for those who will
pay us if we tell it them. It may be observed, however,
that granting Condorcet's premises, this doctrine also must
be granted, as indeed is usual with that sharp-sighted writer.
If the doing of right depends on the receiving of it ; if our
fellow-men, in this world, are not persons, but mere things,
that for services bestowed will return services, — steam-en-
gines that will manufacture calico, if we put in coals and
water, — then doubtless, the calico ceasing, our coals and
water may also rationally cease; the questioner threatening
to injure us for the truth, we may rationally tell him lies.
But if, on the other hand, our fellow-man is no steam-engine,
but a man ; united with us, and with all men, and with the
Maker of all men, in sacred, mysterious, indissoluble bonds,
in an All-embracing Love, that encircles alike the seraph
and the glow-worm; then will our duties to him rest on
quite another basis than this very humble one of quid pro
quo; and the Marquis de Condorcet's conclusion will be
false ; and might, in its practical extensions, be infinitely
pernicious.
Such principles and habits, too lightly adopted by Voltaire,
acted, as it seems to us, with hostile effect on his moral nature,
not originally of the noblest sort, but which, under other in-
fluences, might have attained to far greater nobleness. As it
is, we see in him simply a Man of the World, such as Paris
and the eighteenth century produced and approved of : a
polite, attractive, most cultivated, but essentially self-inter-
ested man ; not without highly amiable qualities ; indeed,
with a general disposition which we could have accepted
without disappointment in a mere Man of the World, but
must find very defective, sometimes altogether out of place,
in a Poet and Philosopher. Above this character of a Parisian
"nonorable man," he seldom or never rises; nay sometimes
TOL. XIII. 27
418 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
we find him hovering on the very lowest boundaries of it, or
perhaps even fairly below it. We shall nowise accuse him of
excessive regard for money, of any wish to shine by the in-
fluence of mere wealth : let those commercial speculations,
including even the victualling-contracts, pass for laudable
prudence, for love of independence, and of the power to do
good. But what are we to make of that hunting after pen-
sions, and even after mere titles ? There is an assiduity
displayed here, which sometimes almost verges towards sneak-
ing. Well might it provoke the scorn of Alfieri ; for there
is nothing better than the spirit of " a French plebeian " ap-
parent in it. Much, we know, very much should be allowed
for difference of national manners, which in general mainly
determine the meaning of such things : nevertheless, to our
insular feelings, that famous Trajan est-il content f especially
when we consider who the Trajan was, will always remain
an unfortunate saying. The more so, as Trajan himself
turned his back on it, without answer ; declining, indeed,
through life, to listen to the voice of this charmer, or disturb
his own ^' dme paisihle,'' for one moment, though with the best
philosopher in Nature. Nay, Pompadour herself was applied
to ; and even some considerable progress made, by that under-
ground passage, had not an envious hand too soon and fatally
intervened. D'Alembert says, there are two things that can
reach the top of a pyramid, the eagle and the reptile. Ap-
parently, Voltaire wished to combine both methods ; and he
had with one of them but indifferent success.
The truth is, we are trying Voltaire by too high a standard ;
comparing him with an ideal, which he himself never strove
after, perhaps never seriously aimed at. He is no great Man,
but only a great Persifletir ; a man for whom life, and all that
pertains to it, has, at best, but a despicable meaning ; who
meets its diflficulties not with earnest force, but with gay
agility ; and is found always at the top, less by power in
swimming, than by lightness in floating. Take him in his
character, forgetting that any other was ever ascribed to him,
and we find that he enacted it almost to perfection. Never
VOLTAIRE. 419
man better understood the whole secret of Persiflage ; mean-
ing thereby not only the external faculty of polite contempt,
but that art of general inward contempt, by which a man of
this sort endeavors to subject the circumstances of his Destiny
to his Volition, and be, what is the instinctive effort of all
men, though in the midst of material Necessity, morally Free.
Voltaire's latent derision is as light, copious and all-pervading
as the derision which he utters. Nor is this so simple an at-
tainment as we might fancy ; a certain kind and degree of
Stoicism, or approach to Stoicism, is necessary for the com-
pleted Persijieur ; as for moral, or even practical completion,
in any other way. The most indifferent-minded man is not
by nature indifferent to his own pain and pleasure : this is an
indifference which he must by some method study to acquire,
or acquire the show of ; and which, it is fair to say, Voltaire
manifests in a rather respectable degree.
Without murmuring, he has reconciled himself to most
things : the human lot, in this lower world, seems a strange
business, yet, on the whole, with more of the farce in it than
of the tragedy ; to him it is nowise heartrending that this
Planet of ours should be sent sailing through Space, like
a miserable aimless Ship-of-Fools, and he himself be a fool
among the rest, and only a very little wiser than they. He
does not, like Bolingbroke, "patronize Providence," though
such sayings as Si Dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait I'inveiiter,
seem now and then to indicate a tendency of that sort : but,
at all events, he never openly levies war against Heaven -, well
knowing that the time spent in frantic malediction, directed
thither, might be spent otherwise with more profit. There is,
j truly, no Werterism in him, either in its bad or its good sense.
If he sees no unspeakable majesty in heaven and earth,
neither does he see any unsufferable horror there. His view
of the world is a cool, gently scornful, altogether prosaic one :
his sublimest Apocalypse of Nature lies in the microscope and
telescope ; the Earth is a place for producing corn ; the Starry
Heavens are admirable as a nautical timekeeper. Yet, like
a prudent man, he has adjusted himself to his condition, such
as it is : he does not chant any Miserere over human life, cal-
420 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
culating that no charitable dole, but only laughter, would be
the reward of such an enterprise ; does not hang or drown him-
self, clearly understanding that death of itself will soon save
him that trouble. Affliction, it is true, has not for him any
precious jewel in its head ; on the contrary, it is an unmixed
nuisance ; yet, happily, not one to be howled over, so much as
one to be speedily removed out of sight : if he does not learn
from it Humility, and the sublime lesson of Resignation,
neither does it teach him hard-heartedness and sickly discon-
tent ; but he bounds lightly over it, leaving both the jewel and
the toad at a safe distance behind him.
Nor was Voltaire's history without perplexities enough to
keep this principle in exercise ; to try whether in life, as in
literature, the ridiculum were really better than the acre. We
must own, that on no occasion does it altogether fail him;
never does he seem perfectly at a nonplus ; no adventure is
so hideous, that he cannot, in the long-run, find some means
to laugh at it, and forget it. Take, for instance, that last
ill-omened visit of his to Frederick the Great. This was,
probably, the most mortifying incident in Voltaire's whole
life : an open experiment, in the sight of all Europe, to ascer-
tain whether French Philosophy had virtue enough in it to
found any friendly union, in such circumstances, even between
its great master and his most illustrious disciple ; and an ex-
periment which answered in the negative. As was natural
enough ; for Vanity is of a divisive, not of a uniting nature ;
and between the King of Letters and the King of Armies
there existed no other tie. They should have kept up an
interchange of flattery, from afar : gravitating towards one
another like celestial luminaries, if they reckoned themselves
such ; yet always with a due centrifugal force ; for if either
shot madly from his sphere, nothing but collision, and con-
cussion, and mutual recoil, could be the consequence. On the
whole, we must pity Frederick, environed with that cluster
of Philosophers : doubtless he meant rather well ; yet the
French at Rossbach, with guns in their hands, were but a
small matter, compared with these French in Sans-Souci.
Maupertuis sits sullen, monosyllabic; gloomy like the bear
VOLTAIRE. 421
of his own arctic zone : Voltaire is the mad piper that will
make him dance to tunes and amuse the people. In this royal
circle, with its parasites and bashaws, what heats and jeal-
ousies must there not have been ; what secret heart-burnings,
smooth-faced malice, plottings, counter-plottings, and laurel-
water pharmacy, in all its branches, before the ring of eti-
quette fairly burst asunder, and the establishment, so to speak,
exploded !
Yet over all these distressing matters Voltaire has thrown
a soft veil of gayety ; he remembers neither Dr. Akakia, nor
Dr. Akakia's patron, with any animosity ; but merely as actors
in the grand farce of life along with him, a new scene of which
has now commenced, quite displacing the other from the stage.
The arrest at Frankfort, indeed, is a sour morsel ; but this too
he swallows, with an effort. Frederick, as we are given to
understand, had these whims by kind ; was, indeed, a wonder-
ful scion from such a stock ; for what could equal the avarice,
malice and rabid snappishness of old Frederick William the
father ?
"He had a minister at the Hague, named Luicius," says the
wit : " this Luicius was, of all royal ministers extant, the worst
paid. The poor man, with a view to warm himself, had a
few trees cut down, in the garden of Honslardik, then belong-
ing to the House of Prussia ; immediately thereafter he re-
ceived despatches from the King his master, keeping back a
year of his salary. Luicius, in despair, cut his throat with
the only razor he had {avec le seul rasoir qu'il etit) : an old
lackey came to his assistance, and unfortunately saved his
life. At an after period, I myself saw his Excellency at the
Hague, and gave him an alms at the gate of that Palace
called La Vieille Cour, which belongs to the King of Prussia, '
where this unhappy Ambassador had lived twelve years."
With the Roi-Philosophe himself Voltaire in a little while
recommences correspoudence ; and, to all appearance, i)roceeds
quietly in his office of "buckwasher," that is, of verse-corrector
to his Majesty, as if nothing whatever had happened.
Again, what human pen can describe the troubles this
unfortunate philosopher had with his women? A gadding,
422 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
feather-brained, capricious, old-coquettish, embittered and em-
bittering set of wantons from the earliest to the last ! Widow
Denis, for example, that disobedient Niece, whom he rescued
from furnished lodgings and spare diet, into pomp and plenty,
how did she pester the last stage of his existence, for twenty-
four years long ! Blind to the peace and roses of Ferney ,
ever hankering and fretting after Parisian display ; not with-
out flirtation, though advanced in life ; losing money at play,
and purloining wherewith to make it good ; scolding his ser-
vants, quarrelling with his secretaries, so that the too indul-
gent uncle must turn ofE his beloved CoUini, nay almost be
run through the body by him, for her sake ! The good Wag-
niere, who succeeded this fiery Italian in the secretaryship,
and loved Voltaire with a most creditable affection, cannot,
though a simple, humble and philanthropic man, speak of
Madame Denis without visible overflowings of gall. He
openly accuses her of hastening her uncle's death by her
importunate stratagems to keep him in Paris, where was
her heaven. Indeed it is clear that, his goods and chattels
once made sure of, her chief care was that so fiery a patient
might die soon enough ; or, at best, according to her own con-
fession, " how she was to get him buried." We have known
superannuated grooms, nay effete saddle-horses, regarded with
more real sympathy in their home, than was the best of uncles
by the worst of nieces. Had not this surprising old man
retained the sharpest judgment, and the gayest, easiest tem-
per, his last days and last years must have been a continued
scene of violence and tribulation.
Little better, worse in several respects, though at a time
when he could better endure it, was the far-famed Marquise
du Chiitelet. Many a tempestuous day and wakeful night
had he with that scientific and too-fascinating shrew. She
speculated in mathematics and metaphysics ; but was an adept
also in far, very far different acquirements. Setting aside
its whole criminality, which, indeed, perhaps went for little
there, this literary amour wears but a mixed aspect ; short sun-
gleams, with long tropical tornadoes ; touches of guitar-music,
soon followed by Lisbon earthquakes. Marmontel, we remem-
VOLTAIRE. 428
ber, speaks of knives being used, at least brandished, and fot
quite other purposes than carving. Madame la Marquise was
no saint, in any sense ; but rather a Socrates's spouse, who
"Would keep patience, and the whole philosophy of gayety,
in constant practice. Like Queen Elizabeth, if she had the
talents of a man, she had more than the caprices of a woman.
We shall take only one item, and that a small one, in this
mountain of misery : her strange habits and methods of loco-
motion. She is perpetually travelling : a peaceful philosopher
is lugged over the world, to Cirey, to Luneville, to that pied h
terre in Paris ; resistance avails not ; here, as in so many other
cases, il faut se ranger. Sometimes, precisely on the eve of
such a departure, her domestics, exasperated by hunger and
ill-usage, will strike work, in a body ; and a new set has to be
collected at an hour's warning. Then Madame has been known
to keep the postilions cracking and sacre-ing at the gate from
dawn till dewy eve, simply because she was playing cards,
and the games went against her. But figure a lean and vivid-
tempered philosopher starting from Paris at last ; under cloud
of night ; during hard frost ; in a huge lumbering coach, or
rather wagon, compared with which, indeed, the generality
of modern wagons were a luxurious conveyance. With four
starved, and perhaps spavined hacks, he slowly sets forth,
" under a mountain of bandboxes : " at his side sits the wan-
dering virago ; in front of him a serving-maid, with additional
bandboxes " et divers effets de sa mattresse.^' At the next stage,
the postilions have to be beat up ; they come out swearing.
Cloaks and fur-pelisses avail little against the January cold ;
" time and hours " are, once move, the only hope ; but, lo, at
the tenth mile, this Tyburn-coach breaks down ! One many-
voiced discordant wail shrieks through the solitude, making
night hideous, — but in vain ; the axletree has given way, tho
vehicle has overset, and marchionesses, chambermaids, band-
boxes and philosophers, are weltering in inextricable chaos.
" The carriage was in the stage next Xangis, about half-way
to that town, when the hind axletree broke, and it tumbled on
the road, to M. de Voltaire's side : Madame du Chatelet, and
her maid, fell above him, with all thoir bundles and bandboxes,
424 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
for these were not tied to the front, but only piled up on both
hands of the maid ; and so, observing the laws of equilibrium
and gravitation of bodies, they rushed towards the corner
where M. de Voltaire lay squeezed together. Under so many
burdens, which half-sulfocated him, he kept shouting bitterly
(poussait des cris aigits) ; but it was impossible to change
place ; all had to remain as it was, till the two lackeys, one
of whom was hurt by the fall, could come up, with the pos-
tilions, to disencumber the vehicle ; they first drew out all
the luggage, next the women, then ]\[. de Voltaire. Nothing
coiild be got out except by the top, that is, by the coach-door,
which now opened upwards : one of the lackeys and a postil-
ion clambering aloft, and fixing themselves on the body of
the vehicle, drew them up, as from a well ; seizing the first
limb that came to hand, whether arm or leg; and then passed
them down to the two stationed below, who set them finally
on the ground." ^
What would Dr. Kitchiner, with his Traveller's Oracle, have
said to all this ? For there is snow on the ground : and four
peasants must be roused from a village half a league oif, before
that accursed vehicle can so much as be lifted from its beam-
ends ! Vain it is for Longchamp, far in advance, sheltered in
a hospitable though half-dismantled chateau, to pluck pigeons
and be in haste to roast them : they will never, never be eaten
to supper, scarcely to breakfast next morning! — Nor is it now
only, but several times, that this unhappy axletree plays them
foul ; nay once, beggared by Madame's gambling, they have
not cash to pay for mending it, and the smith, though they
are in keenest flight, almost for their lives, will not trust
them.
We imagine that these are trying things for any philosopher.
Of the thousand other more private and perennial grievances ;
of certain discoveries and explanations, especially, which it
still seems surprising that human ])hilosophy could have toler-
ated, we make no mention ; indeed, with regard to the latter,
few earthly considerations could tempt a Reviewer of sensi-
bility to mention them in this place.
I Vol. ii. p. 166.
VOLTAIRE. 425
The Marquise rlu Cliatelet, and her husband, have been
much wondered at in England: the calm magnanimity with
which M. le Marquis conforms to the custom of the country,
to the wishes of his helpmate, and leaves her, he himself
meanwhile fighting, or at least drilling, for his King, to range
over Space, in quest of loves and lovers ; his friendly dis-
cretion, in this particular; no less so, his blithe benignant
gullibility, the instant a contretems de famille renders his
countenance needful, — have had all justice done them among
us. His lady too is a wonder ; offers no mean study to psy-
chologists : she is a fair experiment to try how far that Deli-
cacy, which we reckon innate in females, is only incidental
and the product of fashion ; how far a woman, not merely im-
modest, but witliout the slightest fig-leaf of common decency
remaining, witli the whole character, in short, of a male de-
bauchee, may still have any moral worth as a woman. We
ourselves have wondered a little over both these parties ; and
over the goal to which so strange a " progress of society " might
be tending. But still more wonderful, not without a shade of
the sublime, has appeared to us the cheerful thraldom of this
maltreated philosopher ; and with what exhaustless patience,
not being wedded, he endured all these forced-marches,
whims, irascibilities, delinquencies and thousand-fold unrea-
sons ; braving " the battle and the breeze," on that wild Bay
of Biscay, for such a period. Fifteen long years, and was not
mad, or a suicide at the end of them ! But the like fate, it
would seem, though worthy D'Israeli has omitted to enumerate
it in his Calamities of Authors, is not unknown in literature.
Pope also had his Mrs. Martha Blount ; and, in the midst of
that warfare with united Duncedom, his daily tale of Egyp-
tian bricks to bake. Let us pity the lot of genius, in this
sublunary sphere !
Every one knows the earthly termination of Madame la
Marquise; and how, by a strange, almost satirical Nemesis,
she was taken in her own nets, and her worst sin became her
final punishment. To no purpose was the unparalleled credu-
lity of M. le Marquis ; to no purpose, the amplest toleration,
and even helpful knavery of M. de Voltaire ; " Ics assiduites de
426 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
M. de Saint-Lambert" and the unimaginable consultations to
whicli they gave rise at Cirey, wei-e frightfully parodied in
the end. The last scene was at Luneville, in the peaceable
court of King Stanislaus.
" Seeing that the aromatic vinegar did no good, we tried to
recover her from the sudden lethargy by rubbing her feet,
and striking in the palms of her hands ; but it was of no use :
she had ceased to be. The maid was sent off to Madame de
Boufflers's apartment, to inform the company that Madame du
Chatelet was worse. Instantly they all rose from the supper-
table: M. du Chatelet, M. de Voltaire, and the other guests,
rushed into the room. So soon as they understood the truth,
there was a deep consternation ; to tears, to cries succeeded a
mournful silence. The husband was led away, the other indi-
viduals went out successively, expressing the keenest sorrow.
M. de Voltaire and M. de Saint-Lambert remained the last by
the bedside, from which they could not be drawn away. At
length, the former, absorbed in deep grief, left the room, and
with difficulty reached the main door of the Castle, not know-
ing whither he went. Arrived there, he fell down at the foot
of the outer stairs, and near the box of a sentry, where his
head came on the pavement. His lackey, who was following,
seeing him fall and struggle on the ground, ran forward and
tried to lift him. At this moment, M. de Saint Lambert, re-
tiring by the same way, also arrived; and observing M. de
Voltaire in that situation, hastened to assist the lackey. No
sooner was M. de Voltaire on his feet, than opening his eyes,
dimmed with tears, and recognizing M. de Saint-Lambert, he
said to him, with sobs and the most pathetic accent : ' Ah,
my friend, it is you that have killed her ! ' Then, all on a
sudden, as if he were starting from a deep sleep, he exclaimed
in a tone of reproach and despair : * Eh ! tnon Dien ! Mon-
sieur, de quoi vous avisiez-vous de lui faire un enfant ? ' They
parted thereupon, Avithout adding a single word ; and retired
to their several apartments, overwhelmed and almost annihi-
lated by the excess of their sorrow." *
Among all threnetical discourses on record, this last, between
1 Vol. ii. p. 250.
VOLTAIRE. 427
men overwhelmed and almost annihilated by the excess of
their sorrow, has probably an unexampled character. Some
days afterwards, the first paroxysm of "reproach and despair"
being somewhat assuaged, the sorrowing widower, not the glad
legal one, composed this quatrain : —
" L'univers a perdu la sublime Emilie.
Elle aima les pluisirs, les arts, la v€rite ;
Les dieux, en lui dormant leur dine et leitr g^nie,
N'avaient gard£ pour eux que I'immmtalite."
After which, reflecting, perhaps, that with this sublime Emilia,
so meritoriously singular in loving pleasure, "his happiness
had been chiefly on paper," he, like the bereaved Universe,
consoled himself, and went on his way.
Woman, it has been sufiiciently demonstrated, was given to
man as a benefit, and for mutual support ; a precious ornament
and staff whereupon to lean in many trying situations : but to
Voltaire she proved, so unlucky was he in this matter, little
else than a broken reed, which only ran into his hand. We
confess that, looking over the manifold trials of this poor
philosopher with the softer, or as he may have reckoned it,
the harder sex, — from the Dutchwoman who published his
juvenile letters, to the Kiece Denis who as good as kOled him
with racketing, — we see, in this one province, very great
scope for almost all the cardinal virtues. And to these
internal convulsions add an incessant series of controversies
and persecutions, political, religious, literary, from without ;
and we have a life quite rent asunder, horrent with asperi-
ties and chasms, where even a stout traveller might have
faltered. Over all which Chaniouni-Needles and Staubbach-
Falls the great Persifleur skims along in this his little poetical
air-ship, more softly than if he travelled the smoothest of
merely prosaic roads.
Leaving out of view the worth or worthlessness of such a
temper of mind, we are bound, in all seriousness, to say, both
that it seems to have been Voltaire's highest conception of
moral excellence, and that he has pursued and realized it with
no small success. One great praise therefore he deserves, —
that of unity with himself ; that of having an aim, and stead-
428 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
fastly endeavoring after it, nay, as we have found, of attaining
it ; for his ideal Voltaire seems, to an unusual degree, mani-
fested, made practically apparent in the real one. There can
be no doubt but this attainment of Persifieur, in the wide
sense we here give it, was of all others the most admired and
sought after in Voltaire's age and country ; nay, in our own
age and country we have still innumerable admirers of it, and
unwearied seekers after it, on every hand of us ; nevertheless,
we cannot but believe that its acme is past; that the best
sense of our generation has already weighed its significance,
and found it wanting. Voltaire himself, it seems to us, were
he alive at this day, would find other tasks than that of
mockery, especially of mockery in that style : it is not by
Derision and Denial, but by far deeper, more earnest, diviner
means that aught truly great has been effected for mankind ;
that the fabric of man's life has been reared, through long
centuries, to its present height. If we admit that this chief
of Persifieurs had a steady conscious aim in life, the still
higher praise of- having had a right or noble aim cannot be
conceded him without many limitations, and may, plausibly
enough, be altogether denied.
At the same time, let it not be forgotten, that amid all these
blighting influences, Voltaire maintains a certain indestructible
humanity of nature ; a soul never deaf to the cry of wretched-
ness ; never utterly blind to the light of truth, beauty, good-
ness. It is even, in some measure, poetically interesting to
observe this fine contradiction in him : the heart acting with-
out directions from the head, or perhaps against its directions ;
the man virtuous, as it were, in spite of himself. For, at all
events, it will be granted that, as a private man, his existence
was beneficial, not hurtful, to his fellow-men : the Calases,
the Sirvens, and so many orphans and outcasts whom he
cherished and protected, ought to cover a multitude of sins.
It was his own sentiment, and to all appearance a sincere
one —
" jTat fait un pen de hien : c'est mon meilleur ouvrage."
Perhaps there are few men, with such principles and such
temptations as his were, that could have led such a life ; few
VOLTAIRE. 429
that could have done his work, and come through it with
cleaner hands. If we call him the greatest of all PersifieurSy
let us add that, morally speaking also, he is the best : if he
excels all men in universality, sincerity, polished clearness of
Mockery, he perhaps combines with it as much worth of heart
as, in any man, that habit can admit of.
It is now well-nigh time that we should quit this part of our
subject : nevertheless, in seeking to form some picture of Vol-
taire's practical life, and the character, outward as well as
inward, of his appearance in society, our readers will not
grudge us a few glances at the last and most striking scene
he enacted there. To our view, that final visit to Paris has
a strange half-frivolous, half-fateful aspect; there is, as it
were, a sort of dramatic justice in this catastrophe, that he,
who had all his life hungered and thirsted after public favor,
should at length die by excess of it ; sliould find the door of
his Heaven-on-earth unexpectedly thrown wide open, and enter
there, only to be, as he himself said, " smothered under roses."
Had Paris any suitable thedgony or theology, as Eome and
Athens had, this might almost be reckoned, as those Ancients
accounted of death by lightning, a sacred death, a death from
the gods , from their many-headed god, Popularity. In the
benignant quietude of Ferney, Voltaire had lived long, and as
his friends calculated, might still have lived long, but a series
of trifling causes lures him to Paris, and in three months he is
no more. At all hours of his history, he might have said with
Alexander: "0 Athenians, what toil do I undergo to please
you ! " and the last pleasure his Athenians demand of him is,
that he would die for them.
Considered with reference to the world at large, this jour-
ney is farther remarkable. It is the most splendid triumph
of that nature recorded in these ages ; the loudest and showi-
est homage ever paid to Avhat we moderns call Literature ; to
a man that had merely thought, and published his thoughts.
Much false tumult, no doubt, there was in it ; yet also a cer-
tain deeper significance. It is interesting to see how universal
and eternal in man is love of wisdom ; how the highest and
430 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
tlxe lowest, how supercilious princes, and rude peasants, and
all men must alike show honor to Wisdom, or the appearance
of Wisdom ; nay, properly speaking, can show honor to noth-
ing else. For it is not in the power of all Xerxes' hosts to
bend one thought of our proud heart: these "may destroy
the case of Anaxarclius ; himself they cannot reach : " only to
spiritual worth can the spirit do reverence ; only in a soul
deeper and better than ours can we see any heavenly mystery,
and in humbling ourselves feel ourselves exalted. That the
so ebullient enthusiasm of the French was in this case per-
fectly well directed, we cannot undertake to say : yet we
Tejoioe to see and know that such a principle exists peren-
nially in man's inmost bosom ; that there is no heart so
sunk and stupefied, none so withered and pampered, but the
felt presence of a nobler heart will inspire it and lead it
captive.
Few royal progresses, few Eoman triumphs, have equalled
this long triumph of Voltaire. On his journey, at Bourg-en-
Bresse, "he was recognized," says Wagniere, "while the horses
were changing, and in a few moments the whole town crowded
about the carriage ; so that he was forced to lock himself for
some time in a room of the inn." The Maitre-de-poste ordered
his postilion to yoke better horses, and said to him with a
broad oath: " Vabon train, creve mes chevaux, je m'enf-^; iu
menes M. de Voltaire!" At Dijon, there were persons of
distinction that wished even to dress themselves as waiters,
that they might serve him at supper, and see him by this
stratagem.
" At the barrier of Paris," continues Wagniere, '' the officers
asked if we had nothing with us contrary to the King's regula-
tions : * On my word, gentlemen, Ma foi. Messieurs, replied
M. de Voltaire, *I believe there is nothing contraband here
except myself.' I alighted from the carriage, that the inspec-
tor might more readily examine it. One of the guards said to
his comrade : C^est pardieu I M. de Voltaire. He plucked at
the coat of the person who was searching, and repeated the
same words, looking fixedly at me. I could not help laugh-
ing ; then all gazing with th^ greatest astooishment mingled
VOLTAIRE. 481
with respect, begged M. de Voltaire to pass on whither he
pleased." ^
Intelligence soon circulated over Paris ; scarcely could the
arrival of Kien-Long, or the Grand Lama of Thibet, have
excited greater ferment. Poor Longchamp, demitted, or rather
dismissed from Voltaire's service eight-and-twenty years be-
fore, and now, as a retired map-dealer (having resigned in
favor of his son), living quietly "dans un petit logement a
part,'^ a fine smooth, garrulous old man, — heard the news
next morning in his remote logement, in the Estrapade ; and
instantly huddled on his clothes, though he had not been out
for two days, to go and see what truth was in it.
" Several persons of my acquaintance, whom I met, told me
that they had heard the same. I went purposely to the Cafe
Frocope, where this news formed the subject of conversation
among several politicians, or men of letters, who talked of it
with warmth. To assure myself still farther, I walked thence
towards the Quai des Theatins, where he had alighted the
night before, and, as was said, taken up his lodging in a man-
sion near the church. Coming out from the Rue de la Seine,
I saw afar off a great number of people gathered on the Quai,
not far from the Pont-Royal. Approaching nearer, I observed
that this crowd was collected in front of the Marquis de Vil-
lette's Hotel, at the corner of the Rue de Beaune. I inquired
Avhat the matter was. The people answered me, that M. de
Voltaire was in that house ; and they were waiting to see him
when he came out. They were not sure, however, whether he
would come out that day ; for it was natural to think that an-^
old man of eighty-four might need a day or two of rest. From
that moment, I no longer doubted the arrival of M, de Vol-
taire in Paris." ^
By dint of address, Longchamp, in process of time, contrived
to see his old master ; had an interview of ten minutes ; was
for falling at his feet; and wept with sad presentiments at
parting. Ten such minutes were a great matter ; for Voltaire
had his levees and couchees, more crowded than those of any
Emperor; princes and peers thronged his antechamber; and
1 Vol. i. p. 121. » Vol. ii. p. 353.
432 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
when he •went abroad, his carriage was as the nucleus of a
comet, whose train extended over whole districts of the city.
He himself, says Wagniere, expressed dissatisfaction at much
of this. Nevertheless, there were some plaudits which, as he
confessed, went to his heart. Condorcet mentions that once a
person in the crowd, inquiring who this great man was, a poor
woman answered, " C'est le sauveur des Calas." Of a quite
different sort was the tribute paid him by a quack, in the
Place Louis Quinze, haranguing a mixed multitude on the art
of juggling with cards : " Here, gentlemen," said he, " is a
trick I learned at Ferney, from that great man who makes so
much noise among you, that famous M. de Voltaire, the mas-
ter of us all ! " In fact, mere gaping curiosity, and even ridi-
cule, was abroad, as well as real enthusiasm. The clergy too
were recoiling into ominous groups ; already some Jesuitic
drums ecclesiastic had beat to arms.
Figuring the lean, tottering, lonely old man in the midst of
all this, how he looks into it, clear and alert, though no longer
strong and calm, we feel drawn towards him by some tie of
aifection, of kindly sympathy. Longchamp says, he appeared
" extremely worn, though still in the possession of all his
senses, and with a very firm voice." The following little
sketch, by a hostile journalist of the day, has fixed itself
deeply with us : —
" M. de Voltaire appeared in full dress, on Tuesday, for the
first time since his arrival in Paris. He had on a red coat
lined with ermine ; a large peruke, in the fashion of Louis
XIV., black, unpowdered; and in which his withered visage
was so buried that you saw only his two eyes shining like car-
buncles. His head was surmounted by a square red cap in
the form of a crown, which seemed only laid on. He had in
his hand a small nibbed cane ; and the public of Paris, not
accustomed to see him in this accoutrement, laughed a good
deal. This personage, singular in all, wishes doubtless to
have nothing in common with ordinary men." ^
This head — this wondrous microcosm in the grande per-
ncgue a la Louis XIV. — was SO soon to be distenanted of all
1 Vol. ii. p. 466.
VOLTAIRE. 433
its cunning gifts; these eyes, shining like carbuncles, were
so soon to be closed in long night! — We must now give the
coronation ceremony, of which the reader may have heard so
iiiu(3h : borrowing from this same sceptical hand, which, how-
ever, is vouched for by Waguiere ; as, indeed. La Harpe's more
heroical narrative of that occurrence is well known, and hardly
differs from the following, except in style : —
" On Monday, M. de Voltaire, resolving to enjoy the triumph
which had been so long promised him, mounted his carriage,
that azure-colored vehicle, bespangled with gold stars, which a
Avag called the chariot of the empyrean ; and so repaired to
the Academic Frauc^aise, which that day had a special meet-
ing. Twenty-two members vv^ere present. Xone of the pre-
lates, abbes or other ecclesiastics who belong to it, would
attend, or take part in these singular deliberations. The sole
exceptions were the Abbes de Boismont and Millot ; the one a
court rake-hell (roue), with nothing but the guise of his pro-
fession ; the other a varlet (culstre), having no favor to look
for, either from the Court or the Church.
" The Academie went out to meet M. de Voltaire : he was
led to the Director's seat, which that office-bearer and the
meeting invited him to accept. His portrait had been hung
up above it. The company, without drawing lots, as is the
custom, proceeded to work, and named him, by acclamation.
Director for the April quarter. The old man, once set a-going,
Avas about to talk a great deal ; but they told him, that they
valued his health too much to hear him, — that they would
reduce him to silence. M. d'Alembert accordingly occupied
the session, by reading his Eloge de Despreaux, which had
already been communicated on a public occasion, and where he
had inserted various flattering things for the present visitor.
" M. de Voltaire then signified a wish to visit the Secretary
of the Aeadeuiie, whose apartments are above. Witli tl:is
gentleman he stayed some time ; and at last set out for the
Cojnedie Fran^aise. The court of the Louvre, vast as it is, was
full of people waiting for him. So soon as his notnble vehicle
came in sight, the cry arose, Le voilu ! The Savoyards, the
a|!ple-women, all the rabble of the quarter had at.;sembled there ;
VOL. XIII. 26
434" CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
and the acclamations, Vive Voltaire/ resounded as if they
"would never end. The Marquis de Villette, who had arrived
before, came to hand him out of his carriage, where the Pro-
cureur Clos was seated beside him : both these gave him their
arms, and could scarcely extricate him from the press. On his
entering the playhouse, a crowd of more elegance, and seized
with true enthusiasui for genius, surrounded him : the ladies,
above all, threw themselves in his way, and stopped it, the
better to look at him ; some were seen squeezing forward to
touch his clothes ; some plucking hair from his fur. M. le
Due de Chartres,^ not caring to advance too near, showed,
though at a distance, no less curiosity than others.
" The saint, or rather the god, of the evening, was to oc-
cupy the box belonging to the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber,*
opposite that of the Comte d'Artois. Madame Denis and
Madame de Villette Avere already there ; and the pit was in
convulsions of joy, awaiting the moment when the poet should
appear. There was no end till he placed himself on the front
seat, beside the ladies. Then rose a cry : La Couronne ! and
Brizard, the actor, came and put the garland on his head. *' Ah,
Heaven ! will you kill me, then ? {Ah, Dieu ! vous voulez done
me /aire mourir ?)" cvied M. de Voltaire, weeping with joy,
and resisting this honor. He took the crown in his hand,
and presented it to Belle-et-Bonne : ' she withstood ; and the
Prince de Beauvau, seizing the laurel, replaced it on the head
of our Sophocles, who could refuse no longer.
" The piece (Ireyie) was played, and with more applause than
usual, though scarcely with enough to correspond to this tri-
umph of its author. Meanwhile the players were in straits
as to what they should do ; and during their deliberations the
tragedy ended ; the curtain fell, and the tumult of the people
was extreme, till it rose again, disclosing a shoAV like that of
the Centenaire. M. de Voltaire's bust, which had been placed
shortly before in t\\e foyer (green-room) of the Comedie Fran-
9aise, had been brought upon the stage, and elevated on a
1 Afterwards Egalit(?.
- He himself, as is perhaps too well known, was one.
8 The Marquise de Villette, a foster-child of his.
VOLTAIRE. 435
pedestal ; the whole body of comedians stood round it in a semi-
circle, with palms and garlands in their hands ; there was a
crown already on the bust. The pealing of musical flour-
ishes, of drums, of trumpets, had announced the ceremony ;
and Madame Vestris held in her hand a paper, which was soon
understood to contain verses, lately composed by the Marquis de
Saint-Marc. She recited them with an emphasis proportioned
to the extravagance of the scene. They ran as follows : —
' Aux yeux de Paris enchante,
Regois en cejoiir nn hommage.
Que confirmeni d'dge en age
La severe posterite !
' Non, tu n'as pas hesoin d'atteindre au noir rivage
Pour jouir dcs honneurs de V immortalite !
' Voltaire, re<^ois la couronne
Que Von vient de te presenter ;
II est beau de. la m^riter,
Quaiid c'est la France gui la donne!' ^
This was encored : the actress recited it again. Next, each of
them went forward and laid his garland round the bust. Made-
moiselle Fanier, in a fanatical ecstasy, kissed it, and all the
others imitated her.
" This long ceremony, accompanied with infinite vivats, being
over, the curtain again dropped ; and when it rose for Nanine,
one of M. de Voltaire's comedies, his bust was seen on the
right-hand side of the stage, where it remained during the
whole play.
"M. le Comte d'Artois did not choose to show himself too
openly ; but being informed, according to his orders, as soon
as M. de Voltaire appeared in the theatre, he had gone thither
incognito ; and it is thought that the old man, once wlioii he
went out for a moment, had the honor of a short interview
with his Eoyal Highness.
" Kaniyie finished, comes a new hurly-burly ; a now trial for
the modesty of our philosopher ! He had got into his carriage,
1 As Drvfleu said of Swift, so ma^ we say : Our cousin Saint-Marc has no
turn for poetry.
436 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
but the people would not let him go ; they threw themselves
on the horses, they kissed them : some young poets even cried
out to unyoke these animals, and draw the modern Apollo
home with their own arms ; unhappily, there were not enthu-
siasts enough to volunteer this service, and he at last got leave
to depart, not without vlvats, which he may have heard on the
Pont-Royal, and even in his own house. . . .
" M. de Voltaire, on reaching home, wept anew ; and mod-
estly protested that if he had known the people were to play
so many follies, he would not have gone."
On all these wonderful proceedings we shall leave our readers
to their own reflections ; remarking only, that this happened
on the 30th of March (1778), and that on the SOtli of May,
about the same hour, tlie object of such extraordinary adula-
tion was in the article of death ; the hearse already prepared
to receive his remains, for which even a grave had to be stolen.
" He expired," says Wagniere, " about a quarter past eleven at
night, with the most perfect tranquillity, after having suffered
the crudest pains, in consequence of those fatal drugs, which
his own imprudence, and especially that of the persons who
should have looked to it, made him swallow. Ten minutes
before his last breath, he took the hand of Morand, his valet-
de-chambre, who was watching by him ; pressed it, and said,
* Adieu, mon cher Morand, je me meurs. Adieu, my dear Morand,
I am gone.' These are the last words uttered by M. de Vol-
taire." ^
^ On this sickness of Voltaire, and his death-bed deportment, many foolish
books have been written ; concerning which it is not necessary to say anything.
The conduct of the Parisian clergy, on that occasion, seems totally unworthy
of their cloth ; nor was their reward, so far as concerns these individuals, in-
appropriate : that of finding themselves once more bilked, once more pfrxiflcs
by that strange old man, in his last decrepitude, who, in his strength, had
wrought them and others so many griefs. Surely the parting agonies of a
fellow-mortal, when the spirit of our brother, rapt in the whirlwinds and
thick ghastly vapors of death, clutches blindly for help, and no help is there,
are not the scenes where a wise faith would. seek to exult, when it can no
longer hope to alleviate ! For the rest, to touch farther on those their idle
tales (jf dying horrors, remorse and tlie like ; to write of such, to believe them,
or disbelieve them, or in anywise discuss them, were but a contiimation of tlio
same ineptitude. He who, after the imperturbable exit of so many Cartouches
VOLTAIRE. 437
We have still to consider this man in his specially intel-
lectual capacity ; which, as with every man of letters, is to be
regarded as the clearest, and, to all practical intents, the most
important aspect of him. Voltaire's intellectual endowment
and acquirement, his talent or genius as a literary man, lies
opened to us in a series of Writings, unexampled, as we believe,
in two respects, — their extent, and their diversity-. Perhaps
there is no writer, not a mere compiler, but writing from his
own invention or elaboration, who has left so many volumes
behind him ; and if to the merely arithmetical, we add a criti-
cal estimate, the singularity is still greater ; for these volumes
are not written without an appearance of due care and prepa-
ration ; perhaps there is not one altogether feeble and confused
treatise, nay one feeble and confused sentence, to be found in
them. As to variety, again, they range nearly over all human
subjects ; from Theology down to Domestic Economy ; from the
Familiar Letter to the Political History ; from the Pasquinade
to the Epic Poem. Some strange gift, or union of gifts, must
have been at work here ; for the result is, at least, in the highest
degree uncommon, and to be wondered at, if not to be admired.
If, through all this many-colored versatility, we try to deci-
and Thurtells, in every age of the world, can continue to regard the manner
of a man's death as a test of his religious orthodoxy, may hoast himself im-
prcgnal>le to merely terrestrial logic. Voltaire had enough of suffering, and
of mean enough suffei'ing to encounter, without any addition from theological
despair. His hist interview witli the clergy, who had heen sent for by his
friends, that the rites of burial might not be denied liim, is thus described by
AVngnicre, as it has been by all other credible reporters of it : —
" Two days before tliat mournful death, M. TAbbe' Mignot, his nephew,
went to seek the Cure' of Saint-Sulpice and the AI)be' Guaticr, and brought
them into his uncle's sick-room; who, being informed that the Al)be Guaticr
was there, ' Ah, well ! ' said he, ' give him my compliments and my thanks.'
Tlie Abbe spoke some words to him, exhorting him to patience. The Curt^
of Saint-Sulpice then came forward, having announced himself, and asked of
M. de Voltaire, elevating his voice, if he acknowleged the divinity of our Lord
.lesus Christ ? The sick man pushed one of his liauds against the Cure"s calotle
(coif), shoving him back, and cried, turning abruptly to the other side, ' Let
me die in peace (Laisse.z-moi mowir enpaix) !' The Cun^ seemingly considered
his person soiled, and his coif dishonored, by the touch of ir jjliiiosopher. Ho
made the sick-nurse give him a little brushing, and then went out with the
Abbe' Guatier." Vol. i. p. 161.
438 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
pher the essential, distinctive features of Voltaire's intellect,
it seems to us that we find there a counterpart to our theory
of his moral character ; as, indeed, if that theory was accurate,
■we must do : for the thinking and the moral nature, distin-
guished by the necessities of speech, have no such distinction
in themselves ; but, rightly examined, exhibit in every ease
the strictest sympathy and correspondence, are, indeed, but
different phases of the same indissoluble unity, — a living
mind. In life, Voltaire was found to be without good claim
to the title of philosopher ; and now, in literature, and for
similar reasons, we find in him the same deficiencies. Here
too it is not greatness, but the very extreme of expertness,
that we recognize ; not strength, so much as agility ; not depth,
but superficial extent. That truly surprising ability seems
rather the unparalleled combination of many common talents,
than the exercise of any finer or higher one : for here too the
v/ant of earnestness, of intense continuance, is fatal to him.
He has the eye of a lynx; sees deeper, at the first glance,
than any other man ; but no second glance is given. Thus
Truth, which to the philosopher, has from of old been said to
live in a well, remains for the most part hidden from him ;
we may say forever hidden, if we take the highest, and only
philosophical species of Truth ; for this does not reveal itself
to any mortal, without quite another sort of meditation than
Voltaire ever seems to have bestowed on it. In fact, his
deductions are uniformly of a forensic, argumentative, imme-
diately practical nature ; often true, we will admit, so far as
they go ; but not the whole truth ; and false, when taken for
the whole. In regard to feeling, it is the same with him : he
is, in general, humane, mildly affectionate, not without touches
of nobleness; but light, fitful, discontinuous; "a smart free-
thinker, all things in an hour." He is no Poet and Philoso-
pher, but a popular sweet Singer and Haranguer : in all senses,
and in all styles, a Concionator, which, for the most part, will
turn out to be an altogether different character. It is true, in
this last province he stands unrivalled ; for such an audience,
the most fit and perfectly persuasive of all preachers : but in
many far higher provinces, he is neither perfect nor unrivalled j
VOLTAIllE. 439
has been often surpassed ; was surpassed even in his own age
and nation. For a decisive, thorough-going, in any measure
gigantic force of thought, he is far inferior to Diderot : with
all the liveliness he has not the soft elegance, with more than
the wit he has but a small portion of the wisdom, that belonged
to Fontenelle : as in real sensibility, so in the delineation of
it, in pathos, loftiness and earnest eloquence, he cannot,
making all fair abatements, and there are many, be compared
with Eousseau.
Doubtless, an astonishing fertility, quickness, address ; an
openness also, and universal susceptibility of mind, must have
belonged to him. As little can we deny that he manifests an
assiduous perseverance, a capability of long-continued exertion,
strange in so volatile a man ; and consummate skill in hus-
banding and wisely directing his exertion. The very knowl-
edge he had amassed, granting, which is but partly true, that
it was superficial remembered knowledge, might have distin-
guished him as a mere Dutch commentator. From Newton's
Principla to the Shaster and Vedam, nothing has escaped him :
he has glanced into all literatures and all sciences; nay studied
in them, for he can speak a rational word on all*. It is known,
for instance, that he understood Newton when no other man
in France understood him : indeed, his countrymen may call
Voltaire their discoverer of intellectual England; — a dis-
covery, it is true, rather of the Curtis than of the Columbus
sort, yet one which in his day still remained to be made. Nay
from all sides he brings new light into his country ; now, for
the first time, to the upturned wondering eyes of Frenchmen
in general, does it become clear that Thought has actually a
kind of existence in other kingdoms ; that some glimmerings
of civilization had dawned here and there on the human
species, prior to the Siede de Louis Quatorr:e. Of Voltaire's
acquaintance with History, at least with what he called His-
tory, be it civil, religious, or literary ; of his innumerable,
indescribable collection of facts, g;ithered from all sources, —
from European Chronicles and State Papers, from eastern
Zends and Jewish Talmuds, we need not remind any reader.
It has been objected that his information was often borrowed
440 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
at second-hand ; that he had his plodders and pioneers, -whom,
as living dictionaries, he skilfully consulted in time of need.
This also seems to be partly true, but deducts little from our
estimate of him : for the skill so to borrow is even rarer than
the power to lend. Voltaire's knowledge is not a mere show-
room of curiosities, but truly a museum for purposes of
teaching ; every object is in its place, and there for its uses :
nowhere do we find confusion or vain display ; everywhere
intention, instructiveness and the clearest order.
Perhaps it is this very power of Order, of rapid, perspicu-
ous Arrangement, that lies at the root of Voltaire's best gifts ;
or rather, we should say, it is that keen, accurate intellectual
vision, from which, to a mind of any intensity, Order naturally
arises. The clear quick vision, and the methodic arrangement
which springs from it, are looked upon as peculiarly French
qualities ; and Voltaire, at all times, manifests them in a more
than French degree. Let him but cast his eye over any sub-
ject, in a moment he sees, though indeed only to a short depth,
yet with instinctive decision, where the main bearings of it
for that short depth lie ; what is, or appears to be, its logical
coherence ; hoAv causes connect themselves with effects ; how
the whole is to be seized, and in lucid sequence represented
to his own or to other minds. In this respect, moreover, it is
happy for him that, below the short depth alluded to, his view
does not properly grow dim, but altogether terminates : thus
there is nothing farther to occasion him misgivings ; has he
not already sounded into that basis of bottomless Darkness
on which all things firmly rest ? What lies below is delusion,
imagination, some form of Superstition or Folly ; which he,
nothing doubting, altogether casts away. Accordingly, he is
the most intelligible of writers ; everywhere transparent at a
glance. There is no delineation or disquisition of his, tliat
lias not its whole purport written on its forehead ; all is pre-
cise, all is rightly adjusted ; that keen spirit of Order shows
itself in the whole, and in every line of tlie whole.
If we say that this power of Arrangement, as applied both
to the acquisition and to the communication of ideas, is Vol-
taire's most serviceable faculty in all his enterprises, we say
VOLTAIRE. 441
nothing singular : for take the word in its largest acceptation,
and it comprehends the whole office of Understanding, logi-
cally so called ; is the means whereby man accomplishes what-
ever, in the way of outward force, has been made possible for
him ; conquers all practical obstacles, and rises to be the "king
of this lower world." It is the organ of all that Knowledge
which can properly be reckoned synonymous with Power ; for
hereby man strikes with wise aim, into the infinite agencies
of Nature, and multiplies his own small strength to unlimited
degrees. It has been said also that man may rise to be the
" god of this lower world ; " but that is a far loftier height,
not attainable by such j)ower-knowledge, but by quite an-
other sort, for which Voltaire in particular shows hardly any
aptitude.
In truth, readily as we have recognized his spirit of Method,
with its many uses, we are far from ascribing to him any per-
ceptible portion of that greatest praise in thinking, or in writ-
ing, the praise of philosophic, still less of poetic Method;
which, especially the latter, must be the fruit of deep feeling
as well as of clear vision, — of genius as well as talent; and
is much more likely to be found in the compositions of a
Hooker or a Shakspeare than of a Voltaire. The JNIethod dis-
cernible in Voltaire, and this on all subjects whatever, is a
purely business IMethod. The order that arises from it is
not Beaut3% but, at best, Regularity. His objects do not lie
round him in pictorial, not always in scientific grouping; but
rather in commodious rows, where each may be seen and
come at, like goods in a well-kept warehouse. We might say,
there is not the deep natural symmetry of a forest oak, but
the simple artificial symmetry of a parlor chandelier. Com-
pare, for example, the plan of the Henr'wde to that of our so
barbarous Hamlet. The plan of the former is a geometrical
diagram by Fermat ; that of the latter a cartoon by Kapliacl.
Tlie Hcnriade, as we see it completed, is a polislied, square-
built Tuileries : Hamlet is a mysterious star-paved A'alhalla
and dwelling of the gods.
Nevertheless, Voltaire's style of Method is, as we have
said, a business one ; and for his purposes more available than
442 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
any other. It carries him swiftly through his work, and car-
ries his reader swiftly through it ; there is a prompt intelli-
gence between the two; the whole meaning is communicated
clearly, and comprehended without effort. From this also it
may follow, that Voltaire will please the young more than
he does the old ; that the first perusal of him will please
better than the second, if indeed any second be thought neces-
sary. But what merit (and it is considerable) the pleasure
and profit of this first perusal presupposes, must be honestly
allowed him. Herein, it seems to us, lies the grand quality in
all his performances. These Histories of his, for instance, are
felt, in spite of their sparkling rapidity, and knowing air of
philosophic insight, to be among the shallowest of all histo-
ries ; mere bead-rolls of exterior occurrences, of battles, edifices,
enactments, and other quite superficial phenomena ; yet being
clear bead-rolls, well adapted lor memory, and recited in a
•lively tone, we listen with satisfaction, and learn somewhat;
learn much, if we began knowing nothing. Nay sometimes
the summary, in its skilful though crowded arrangement, and
brilliant well-defined outlines, has almost a poetical as well
as a didactic merit. Charles the Twelfth may still pass for
a model in that often-attempted species of Biography : the
clearest details are given in the fewest words ; we have
sketches of strange men and strange countries, of wars, ad-
ventures, negotiations, in a style which, for graphic brevity,
rivals that of Sallust. It is a line-engraving, on a reduced
scale, of that Swede and his mad life ; without colors, yet not
without the foreshortenings and perspective observances, nay
not altogether without the deeper harmonies, which belong to
a true Picture. In respect of composition, whatever may be
said of its accuracy or worth otherwise, we cannot but reckon
it greatly the best of Voltaire's Histories.
In his other prose works, in his Novels, and innumerable
Essays and fugitive pieces, the same clearness of order, the
same rapid precision of view, again forms a distinguishing
merit. His Zadigs and BaJ)Oucs and Candides, which, con-
sidered as products of imagination perhaps rank higher with
foreigners than any of his professedly poetical performances,
VOLTAIRE. 443
are instinct with this sort of intellectual life: the sharpest
glances, though from an oblique point of sight, into at least
the surface of human life, into the old familiar world of busi-
ness; which truly, from his oblique station, looks oblique
enough, and yields store of ridiculous combinations. The
Wit, manifested chiefly in these and the like performances,
but ever flowing, unless purposely restrained, in boundless
abundance from Voltaire's mind, has been often and duly
celebrated. It lay deep-rooted in his nature ; the inevitable
produce of such an understanding with such a character, and
was from the first likely, as it actually proved in the latter
period of his life, to become the main dialect in which he
spoke and even thought. Doing all justice to the inexhausti-
ble readiness, the quick force, the polished acuteness of Vol-
taire's Wit, we may remark, at the same time, that it was no-
wise the highest species of employment for such a mind as
his ; that, indeed, it ranks essentially among the lowest spe-
cies even of Ridicule. It is at all times mere logical pleasan-
try ; a gayety of thfe head, not of the heart ; there is scarcely
a twinkling of Humor in the whole of his numberless sallies.
Wit of this sort cannot maintain a demure sedateness ; a grave
yet infinitely kind aspect, warming the inmost soul with true
loving mirth ; it has not even the force to laugh outright, but
can only sniff and titter. It grounds itself, not on fond sport-
ful sympatliy, but on contempt, or at best on indifference. It
stands related to Humor as Prose does to Poetry ; of whicli,
in this department at least, Voltaire exhibits no symptom.
The most determinedly ludicrous composition of his, the Pu-
celle, which cannot, on other grounds, be recommended to any
reader, has no higher merit than that of an audacious carica-
ture. True, he is not a buffoon ; seldom or never vioLatcs
the rules, we shall not say of propriety, yet of good breeding -.
to this negative praise he is entitled. But as for any high
claim to positive praise, it cannot be made good. We look
in vain, through his whole writings, for one lineament of a
Quixote or a Shandy ; even of a Iludibras or Battle of the
Books. Indeed it has been more than once observed, that
Humor is not a national gift with the French in late times ;
444 CllITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
that since Montaigne's day it seems to have well-nigh vanished
from among them.
Considered in his technical capacity of Poet, Voltaire need
not. at present, detain us very long. Here too his excellence
is chiefly intellectual, and shown in the way of business-like
method. Everything is well calculated for a given end ; there
is the utmost logical fitness of sentiment, of incident, of gen-
eral contrivance. Nor is he without an enthusiasm that
sometimes resembles inspiration ; a clear fellow-feeling for
the personages of his scene he always has ; with a chameleon
susceptibility he takes some hue of every object ; if he cannot
he that object, he at least plausibly enacts it. Thus we have
a result everywhere consistent with itself ; a contrivance, not
without nice adjustments and brilliant aspects, which pleases
with that old pleasure of " difficulties overcome," and the visi-
ble correspondence of means to end. That the deeper portion
of our soul sits silent, unmoved under all this ; recognizing no
universal, everlasting Beauty, but only a modish Elegance, less
the work of a poetical creation than a prbcess of the toilette,
need occasion no surprise. It signifies only that Voltaire was
a French poet, and wrote as the French people of that day
required and approved. We have long known that French
poetry aimed at a dilferent result from ours ; that its splendor
was what we should call a dead, artificial one ; not the mani-
fold soft sunmer glories of Nature, but a cold splendor, as of
polished metal.
On the whole, in reading Voltaire's poetry, that adventure
of the Cafe de Procope should ever be held in mind. He was
not without an eye to have looked, had he seen others looking,
into the deepest nature of poetry ; nor has he failed here and
there to cast a glance in that direction : but what preferment
could such enterprises earn for him in the Cafe de Procope ?
What could it profit his all-precious "fame" to pursue them
farther ? In the end, he seems to have heartily reconciled him-
S-4f to use and wont, and striven only to do better what he saw
all others doing. Yet his private poetical creed, which could
not be a catholic one, was, nevertheless, scarcely so bigoted
as might have been looked for. That censure of Shakspeare,
VOLTAIRE. 445
which elicited a re-censure in England, perhaps rather deserved
a " recommendatory epistle," all things being considered. He
calls Shakspeare " a genius full of force and fertility, of na-
ture and sublimity," though unhappily " without the smallest
spark of good taste, or the smallest acquaintance with the
rules ; " which, in Voltaire's dialect, is not so false ; Shakspeare
having really almost no Parisian bon gout whatever, and walk-
ing through ^Hhe rules" so often as he sees good, with the
most astonishing tranquillity. After a fair enough account of
Hamlet, the best of those ^^ farces monstrueuses qu'on appelLe
tragedies" where, however, there are " scenes so beautiful,
passages so grand and so terrible," Voltaire thus proceeds to
resolve two great problems : —
" The first, how so many wonders could accumulate in a
single head ; for it must be confessed that all the divine Shak-
speare's plays are written in this taste : the second, how men's
minds could have been elevated so as to look at these plays
with transport ; and how they are still followed after, in a
century which has produced Addison's Cato ?
" Our astonishment at the lirst wonder will cease, when we
understand that Shakspeare took all his tragedies from his-
tories or romances ; and that in this case he onl}'' turned into
verse the romance of Claudius, Gertrude and llavdet, written
in full by Saxo Grammaticus, to whom be the praise.
''' The second part of the problem, that is to say, the pleasure
mon take in these tragedies, presents a little more diihculty ;
but here is (en void) the solution, according to the deep reflec-
tions of certain philosophers.
" The English chairmen, the sailors, hackney-coachmen, shop-
porters, butchers, clerks even, are passionately fond of shows ;
give them cock-fights, bull-baitings, fencing-matches, burials,
duels, gibbets, witchcraft, apparitions, they run thither in
crowds; nay there is move than one paniiaau as curious as
the populace. The citizens of London found, in Shakspeare's
tragedies, satisfac^tion enough for such a turn of mind. The
courtiers were obliged to follow the torrent : how can yovi help
admiring what the more sensible jiart of the town admires ?
There was nothing better for a hundred and iifty years : the
44G CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
admiration grew "witli age, and became an idolatry. Somer
touches of genius, some happy verses full of force and nature,,
which you remember in spite of yourself, atoned for the re-
mainder, and soon the whole piece succeeded by the help of
some beauties of detail." *
Here, truly, is a comfortable little theory, which throws
light on more than one thing. However, it is couched in mild
terms, comparatively speaking. Frederick the Great, for ex-
ample, thus gives his verdict : —
" To convince yourself of the wretched taste that up to this
day prevails in Germany, you have only to visit the public
theatres. You will there see, in action, the abominable plays
of Shakspeare, translated into our language ; and the whole
audience fainting with rapture (se pdmer d'aise) in listening
to those ridiculous farces, worthy of the savages of Canada.
I call them such, because they sin against all the rules of the
theatre. One may pardon those mad sallies in Shakspeare, for
the birth of the arts is never the point of their maturity. But
here, even now, we have a Goetz de Berlichingen, which has
just made its appearance on the scene ; a detestable imitation
of those miserable English pieces ; and the pit applauds, and
demands with enthusiasm the repetition of these disgusting
ineptitudes (de ces degoutantes platiUides)." *
We have not cited these criticisms with a view to impugn
them ; but simply to ascertain where the critics themselves are
standing. This passage of Frederick's has even a touch of
pathos in it ; may be regarded as the expiring cry of " Gout "
in that country, who sees himself suddenly beleaguered by
strange, appalling Supernatural Influences, which he mistakes
for Lapland witchcraft or Cagliostro juggler}^; which never-
theless swell up round him, irrepressible, higher, ever higher ;
and so he drowns, grasping his opera-hat, in an ocean of " r/e-
goutantes platitudes." On the whole, it would appear that
Voltaire's view of poetry was radically different from ours ;
tliat, in fact, of what we should strictly call poefry, he had
1 (Euires, t. xlvii. p. 300.
' De In Litterature Allcmande ; Berlin, 1780. We quote from the compila*
tion, Goethe in den Zeugnissen der MitUbenden, a. 124.
VOLTAIRE. 447
almost no view whatever. A Tragedy, a Poem, with him is
not to be " a manifestation of man's Eeason in forms suitable
to his Sense ; " but rather a highly complex egg-dance, to be
danced before the King, to a given tune and without breaking
a single egg. Nevertheless, let justice be shown to him, and
to French poetry at large. This latter is a peculiar growth of
our modern ages ; has been laboriously cultivated, and is not
without its own value. We have to remark also, as a curious
fact, that it has been, at one time or other, transplanted into
all countries, England, Germany, Spain ; but though under
the sunbeams of royal protection, it would strike root nowhere.
Nay, now it seems falling into the sere and yellow leaf in its
own natal soil : the axe has already been seen near its root ;
and perhaps, in no great lapse of years, this species of poetry
may be to the French, what it is to all other nations, a pleas-
ing reminiscence. Yet the elder French loved it with zeal ;
to them it must have had a true worth : indeed we can under-
stand how, when Life itself consisted so much in Display,
these representations of Life may have been the only suitable
ones. And now, when the nation feels itself called to a more
grave and nobler destiny among nations, the want of a new
literature also begins to be felt. As yet, in looking at their
too purblind, scrambling controversies of Romanticists and
Classicists, we cannot find that our ingenious neighbors have
done much more than make a commencement in this enter-
prise ; however, a commencement seems to be made : they are
in what may be called the eclectic state ; trying all things,
German, English, Italian, Spanish, with a candor and real love
of improvement, which give the best omens of a still higher
success. From the peculiar gifts of the French, and their
peculiar spiritual position, we may expect, had they once more
attained to an original style, many important benefits, and im-
portant accessions to the Literature of the World. ^lean while,
in considering and duly estimating what that people has in
past times accomplished, Voltaire must always be reckoned
among their most meritorious Poets. Inferior in what we may
call general poetic temperament to Piacine ; greatly inferior, in
some points of it, to Corneille, he has an intellectual vivacity,
448 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
a quickness both of sight and of invention, which belongs to
neither of these two. We believe that, among foreign na-
tions, his Tragedies, such works as Zaire and Mahomet, are
considerably the most esteemed of this school.
However, it is nowise as a Poet, Historian or Novelist, that
Voltaire stands so prominent in Europe ; but chiefly as a reli-
gious Polemic, as a vehement opponent of the Christian Faith.
Viewed in this last character, he may give rise to many grave
reflections, only a small portion of which can here be so much
as glanced at. We may say, in general, that his style of con-
troversy is of a piece with himself ; not a higher, and scarcely
a lower style than might have been expected from him. As,
in a moral point of view, Voltaire nowise wanted a love of
truth, yet had withal a still deeper love of his own interest in
truth ; was, therefore, intrinsically no Philosopher, but a highly
accomplished Trivialist ; so likewise, in an intellectual point
of view, he manifests himself ingenious and adroit, rather than
noble or comprehensive ; fights for truth or victory, not by
patient meditation, but by light sarcasm, whereby victory may
indeed, for a time, be gained; but little Truth, what can be
named Truth, especially in such matters as this, is to be looked
for.
No one, we suppose, ever arrogated for Voltaire any praise
of originality in this discussion ; we suppose there is not a
single idea, of any moment, relating to the Christian Religion,
in all his multifarious writings, that had not been set forth
again and again before his enterprises commenced. The labors
of a very mixed multitude, from Porphyry down to Shaftes-
bury, including Hobbeses, Tindals, Tolands, some of them
sceptics of a much nobler class, had left little room for merit
in this kind ; nay, Bayle, his own countryman, had just linished
a life spent in preaching scepticism precisely similar, and by
methods precisely similar, when Voltaire appeared on the
arena. Indeed, scepticism, as we have before observed, was
at this period universal among the higher ranks in France,
Avith whom Voltaire cliiefly associated. It is only in the merit
and demerit of grinding down this grain into food for the
people, and inducing so many to eat of it, that Voltaii'e can
VOLTAIRE. 449
claim any singularity. However, we quarrel not with him on
this head : there may be cases Avhere tlie want of originality is
even a moral merit. But it is a much more serious ground of
offence that he intermeddled in Religion, without being him-
self, in any measure, religious; that he entered the Temple
and continued there, with a levity, which, in any Temple where
men worship, can beseem no brother man ; that, in a word, he
ardently, and with long-continued effort, warred against Chris-
tianity, without iinderstanding beyond the mere superficies
what Christianity was.
His polemical procedure in this matter, it appears to us,
must now be admitted to have been, on the whole, a shallow
one. Through all its manifold forms, and involutions, and
repetitions, it turns, we believe exclusively, on one point :
what Theologians have called the " plenary Inspiration of the
Scriptures." This is the single wall, against which, through
long years, and with innumerable battering-rams and catapults
and pop-guns, he unweariedly batters. Concede him this, and
his ram swings freely to and fro through space: there is noth-
ing farther it can even aim at. That the Sacred Books could
be aught else than a Bank-of-Faith Bill, for such and such
quantities of Enjoyment, payable at sight in the other world,
value received ; which bill becomes waste paper, the stamp
being questioned : — that the Christian Religion could have
any deeper foundation than Books, could possibly be written
in the purest nature of man, in mysterious, ineffaceable char-
acters, to which Books, and all Revelations, and authentic
traditions, were but a subsidiary matter, were but as the liijlit
whereby that divine wrltbuj was to be read ; — nothing of this
seems to have, even in the faintest manner, occurred to him.
Yet herein, as we believe that the whole world has now begun
to discover, lies the real essence of the question ; by the nega-
tive or alfirmative decision of which the Christian Religion,
anything that is worth calling by that name, must fall, or en-
dure forever. We believe also, that the wiser minds of our
age have already come to agreement on this question ; or rather
never were divided regarding it. Christianity, the " Worship
of Sorrow," has been recognized as divine, on far other grounds
VOL. XIII. 29
450 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
than " Essays on Miracles," and by considerations infinitely
deeper than would avail in any mere " trial by jury." He
who argues against it, or for it, in this manner, may be regarded
as mistaking its nature : the Ithuriel, though to our eyes he
wears a body and the fashion of armor, cannot be wounded
with material steel. Our fathers were wiser than we, when
they said in deepest earnestness, what we often hear in shallow
mockery, that Religion is "not of Sense, but of Faith;" not
of Understanding, but of Reason. He who finds himself with-
out the latter, who by all his studying has failed to unfold it
in himself, may have studied to great or to small purpose, we
say not which ; but of the Christian Religion, as of many other
things, be has and can have no knowledge.
The Christian Doctrine we often hear likened to the Greek
Philosophy, and found, on all hands, some measurable way
superior to it : but this also seems a mistake. The Christian
Doctrine, that Doctrine of Humility, in all senses godlike and
the parent of all godlike virtues, is not superior, or inferior,
or equal, to any doctrine of Socrates or Thales ; being of a
totally different nature ; differing from these, as a perfect Ideal
Poem does from a correct Computation in Arithmetic. He
who compares it with such standards may lament that, beyond
the mere letter, the purport of this divine Humility has never
been disclosed to him ; that the loftiest feeling hitherto vouch-
safed to mankind is as yet hidden from his eyes.
For the rest, the question how Christianity originated is
doubtless a high question ; resolvable enough, if we view only
its surface, which was all that Voltaire saw of it ; involved in
sacred, silent, unfathomable depths, if we investigate its in-
terior meanings ; which meanings, indeed, it may be, every new
age will develop to itself in a new manner and with new
degrees of light ; for the whole truth may be called infinite,
and to man's eye discernible only in parts ; but the question
itself is nowise the ultimate one in this matter.
We understand ourselves to be risking no new assertion, but
simply reporting what is already the conviction of the greatest
of our age, when we say, — that cheerfully recognizing, grate-
fully appropriating whatever Voltaire has proved, or any other
VOLTAIRE. 451
man has proved, or shall prove, the Christian Religion, once
here, cannot again pass away ; that in one or the other form,
it will endure through all time ; that as in Scripture, so also in
the heart of man, is written, " the Gates of Hell shall not pre-
vail against it." Were the memory of this Faith never so
obscured, as, indeed, in all times, the coarse passions and per-
ceptions of the world do all but obliterate it in the hearts of
most ; yet in every pure soul, in every Poet and Wise Man, it
finds a new Missionary, a new Martyr, till the great volume of
Universal History is finally closed, and man's destinies are
fulfilled in this earth. " It is a height to which the human
species were fated and enabled to attain; and from which,
having once attained it, they can never retrograde."
These things, which it were far out of our place to attempt
adequately elucidating here, must not be left out of sight in
appreciating Voltaire's polemical worth. We find no trace of
these, or of any the like essential considerations having been
present with him, in examining the Christian Religion ; nor
indeed was it consistent with his general habits that they
should be so. Totally destitute of religious Reverence, even
of common practical seriousness ; by nature or habit, undevout
both in heart and head ; not only without any Belief, in other
than a material sense, but without the possibility of acquiring
any, he can be no safe or permanently useful guide in this in-
vestigation. We may consider him as having opened the way
to future inquirers of a truer spirit ; but for his own part, as
having engaged in an enterprise, the real nature of which was
well-nigh unknown to him ; and engaged in it with the issue
to be anticipated in such a case ; producing chiefly confusion,
dislocation, destruction, on all hands ; so that the good lie
achieved is still, in these times, found mixed with an alarming
proportion of evil, from which, indeed, men rationally doubt
whether much of it will in any time be separable.
We should err widely too, if, in estimating what quantity,
altogether overlooking what quality, of intellect Voltaire may
have manifested on this occasion, we took the result produced
as any measure of the force applied. His task was not one of
Affirmation, but of Denial ; not a task of erecting and rearing
452 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
up, which is slow and laborious ; but of destroying and over-
turning, which in most cases is rapid and far easier. The
force necessary for him was nowise a gi'eat and noble one ;
but a small, in some respects a mean one ; to be nimbly and
seasonably put in use. The Ephesian Temple, which it had
employed many wise heads and strong arms for a lifetime to
build, could be unhnilt by one madman, in a single hour.
Of such errors, deficiencies and positive misdeeds, it appears
to us a just criticism must accuse Voltaire : at the same time,
we can nowise join in the condemnatory clamor which so many
worthy persons, not without the best intentions, to this day
keep up against him. His whole character seems to be plain
enough, common enough, had not extraneous influences so per-
verted our views regarding it: nor, morally speaking, is it a
worse character, but considerably a better one, than belongs to
the mass of men. Voltaire's aims in opposing the Christian
Religion were unhappily of a mixed nature ; yet, after all,
very nearly such aims as we have often seen directed against
it, and often seen directed in its favor : a little love of finding
Truth, with a great love of making Proselytes ; Avhich last is
in itself a natural, universal feeling ; and if honest, is, even in
the worst cases, a subject for pity, rather than for hatred. As
a light, careless, courteous Man of the World, he offers no hate-
ful aspect ; on the contrary, a kindly, gay, rather amiable one :
hundreds of men, with half his worth of disposition, die daily,
and their little world laments them. It is time that he too
should be judged of by his intrinsic, not by his accidental quali-
ties ; that justice should be done to him also ; for injustice can
profit no man and no cause.
In fact, Voltaire's chief merits belong to Nature and him-
self; his chief faults are of his time and country. In that
famous era of the ]*ompadours and Encyd ope dies, he forms the
main figure ; and was such, we have seen, more by resembling
the multitude, than by differing from them. It was a strange
age, that of Louis XV. ; in several points, a novel one in the his-
tory of mankind. In regard to its luxury and depravity, to the
high culture of all merely practical and material faculties, and
tlie entire toi-por of all the purely contemplative and spiritual,
VOLTAIRE. 453
this era considerably resembles that of the Roman Emperors.
There too was external splendor and internal squalor; tlie
highest completeness in all sensual arts, including among these
not cookery and its adjuncts alone, but even " etfect-painting "
and " effect-writing ; " only the art of virtuous living was a
lost one. Instead of Love for Poetry, there was " Taste " for
it ; refinement in manners, with utmost coarseness in morals :
in a word, the strange spectacle of a Social System, embracing
large, cultivated portions of the human species, and founded
only on Atheism. With tlie Romans, things went what we
should call their natural course : Liberty, public spirit quietly
declined iuto caput-mortuuni ; Self-love, Materialism, Baseness
even to the disbelief in all possibility of Virtue, stalked more
and more imperiously abroad ; till the body-politic, long since
deprived of its vital circulating fluids, had now become a putrid
carcass, and fell in pieces to be the prey of ravenous wolves.
Then was there, under these Attilas and Alarics, a world-
spectacle of destruction and despair, compared with which the
often-commemorated " horrors of the French Revolution," and
all Napoleon's wars, were but the gay jousting of a tournament
to the sack of stormed cities. Our European community has
escaped the like dire consummation ; and by causes which, as
may be hoped, will always secure it from such. Nay, v^ere
there no other cause, it may be asserted, that in a common-
wealth where the Christian Religion exists, where it once has
existed, public and private Virtue, the basis of all Strength,
never can become extinct ; but in every new age, and even
from the deepest decline, there is a chance, and in the course
of ages a certainty of renovation.
That the Christian Religion, or any Religion, continued to
exist; that some martyr heroism still lived in the heart of
Europe to rise against mailed Tyranny when it rode trium-
phant, — was indeed no merit in the age of Louis XV., but a
happy accident which it could not altogether get rid of. For
that age too is to be regarded as an experiment, on the great
scale, to decide the question, not yet, it would appear, settled
to universal satisfaction : With what degree of vigor a politi-
cal system, grounded on pure Self-interest, never so enlight-
454 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
ened, but without a God or any recognition of the godlike iu
man, can be expected to flourish ; or whether, in such circum-
stances, a political system can be expected to flourish, or even
to subsist at all ? It is contended by many that our mere love
of personal Pleasure, or Happiness as it is called, acting on
every individual, with such clearness as he may easily have,
will of itself lead him to respect the rights of others, and
wisely employ his own ; to fulfil, on a mere principle of econ-
omy, all the duties of a good patriot ; so that, in what respects
the State, or the mere social existence of mankind, Belief,
beyond the testimony of the senses, and Virtue, beyond the
very common Virtue of loving what is pleasant and hating
what is painful, are to be considered as supererogatory qualifi-
cations, as ornamental, not essential. Many there are, on the
other hand, who pause over this doctrine ; cannot discover, in
such a universe of conflicting atoms, any principle by which
the whole shall cohere ; for if every man's selfishness, in-
finitely expansive, is to be hemmed in only by the infinitely
expansive selfishness of every other man, it seems as if we
should have a world of mutually repulsive bodies with no cen-
tripetal force to bind them together ; in which case, it is well
known, they would, by and by, diffuse themselves over space,
and constitute a remarkable Chaos, but no habitable Solar or
Stellar System.
If the age of Louis XV. was not made an experimentum
crucis in regard to this question, one reason may be, that such
experiments are too expensive. Nature cannot afford, above
once or twice in the thousand years, to destroy a whole world
for purposes of science ; but must content herself with de-
stroying one or two kingdoms. The age of Louis XV., so far
as it went, seems a highly illustrative experiment. We are
to remark also, that its operation was clogged by a very con-
siderable disturbing force ; by a large remnant, namely, of
the old faith in Religion, in the invisible, celestial nature of
Virtue, which our French Purifiers, by their utmost efforts
of lavation, had not been able to wash away. The men did
their best, but no man can do more. Their worst enemy, we
imagine, will not accuse them of any undue regard to things
VOLTAIRE. 455
unseea and spiritual : far from practising this invisible sort of
Virtue, they cannot even believe in its possibility. The high
exploits and endurances of old ages were no longer virtues,
but " passions ; " these antique persons had a taste for being
heroes, a certain fancy to die for the truth : the more fools
they ! With our Philosophes, the only virtue of any civiliza-
tion was what they call "Honor," the sanctioning deity of
which is that wonderful "Eorce of Public Opinion." Con-
cerning which virtue of Honor, we must be permitted to say,
that she reveals herself too clearly as the daughter and heiress
of our old acquaintance Vanity, who indeed has been known
enough ever since the foundation of the world, at least since
the date of that " Lucifer, son of the Morning ; " but known
chiefly in her proper character of strolling actress, or cast»
clothes Abigail ; and never, till that new era, had seen hef
issue set up as Queen and all-sufficient Dictatress of man's
whole soul, prescribing with nicest precision what, in all prac-
tical and all moral emergencies, he was to do and to forbear.
Again, with regard to this same Force of Public Opinion, it is
a force well known to all of us ; respected, valued as of indis-
pensable utility, but nowise recognized as a final or divine
force. We might ask, What divine, what truly great thing
had ever been effected by this force ? Was it the Force
of Public Opinion that drove Columbus to America; John
Kepler, not to fare sumptuously among Rodolph's Astrologers
and Fire-eaters, but to perish of want, discovering the true
System of the Stars ? Still more ineffectual do we find it as
a basis of public or private Morals. Nay, taken by itself,
it may be called a baseless basis : for without some ulterior ^
sanction, common to all minds ; without some belief in the
necessary, eternal, or which is the same, in the supramundane,
divine nature of Virtue, existing in each individual, Avhat
could tlie moral judgment of a thousand or a thousand-thou-
sand individuals avail us ? Without some celestial guidance,
whencesoever derived, or howsoever named, it appears to us
the Force of I'ublic Opinion would, by and by, become an
extremely unprofitable one. "Enlighten Self-interest!" cries
the Fhilosophe ; "do but sufficiently enlighten it!" We our-
456 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
selves have seen enlightened Self-interests, ere now ; and
truly, for most part, their light was only as that of a horn-
lantern, sufficient to guide the bearer himself out of various
paddles ; but to us and the world of comparatively small ad-
vantage. And figure the human species, like an endless host,
seeking its way onwards through undiscovered Time, in black
darkness, save that each had his horn-lantern, and the van-
guard some few of glass !
However, we will not dwell on controversial niceties. What
we had to remark was, that this era, called of Philosophy, was
in itself but a poor era ; that any little morality it had was
chiefly borrowed, and from those very ages which it accounted
so barbarous. For this " Honor," this " Force of Public Opin-
ion," is not asserted, on any side, to have much renovating,
but only a sustaining or preventive power; it cannot create
new Virtue, but at best may preserve what is already there.
Nay, of the age of Louis XV. we may say that its very Power,
its material strength, its knowledge, all that it had, was bor-
rowed. It boasted itself to be an age of illumination ; and
truly illumination there was, of its kind : only, except the illu-
minated windows, almost nothing to be seen thereby. None
of those great Doctrines or Institutions that have "made man
in all points a man ; " none even of those Discoveries that
have the most subjected external Nature to his purposes, were
made in that age. What Plough or Printing-press, what
Chivalry or Christianity, nay what Steam-engine, or Quaker-
ism, or Trial by Jury, did these Encyclopedists invent for
mankind ? They invented simply nothing : not one of man's
virtues, not one of man's powers, is due to them ; in all these
respects the age of Louis XV. is among the most barren of
recorded ages. Indeed, the whole trade of our Fhilosophes
was directly the opposite of invention : it was not to produce,
that they stood there ; but to criticise, to quarrel with, to
rend in pieces, what had been already produced ; — a quite
inferior trade : sometimes a useful, but on the whole a mean
trade ; often the fruit, and always the parent, of meanness, in
every mind that permanently follows it.
Considering the then position of affairs, it is not singular
VOLTAIRE. 457
that the age of Louis XV. should have been what it was : an
age without nobleness, without high virtue or high manifesta-
tions of talent ; an age of shallow clearness, of polish, self-
conceit, scepticism and all forms of Persiflage. As little does
it seem surprising, or peculiarly blamable, that Voltaire, the
leading man of that age, should have partaken largely of all
its qualities. True, his giddy activity took serious effect ; the
light firebrands, which he so carelessly scattered abroad, kin-
dled fearful conflagrations ; but in these there has been good
as well as evil ; nor is it just that, even for the latter, he, a
limited mortal, should be charged with more than mortal's
responsibility. After all, that parched, blighted period, and
the period of earthquakes and tornadoes which followed it,
have now well-nigh cleared away : they belong to the Past,
and for us, and those that come after us, are not without their
benefits, and calm historical meaning.
" The thinking heads of all nations," says a deep observer,
"had in secret come to majority; and in a mistaken feeling of
their vocation, rose the more fiercely against antiquated con-
straint. The Man of Letters is, by instinct, opposed to a
Priesthood of old standing: the literary class and the clerical
must Avage a war of extermination, when they are divided ;
for both strive after one place. Such division became more
and more perceptible, the nearer we approached the period of
European manhood, the epoch of triumphant Learning; and
Knowledge and Faith came into more decided contradiction.
In the prevailing Faith, as was thought, lay the reason of the
universal degradation; and by a more and more searching
Knowledge men hoped to remove it. On all hands, the Ee-
ligious feeling suffered, under manifold attacks against its
actual manner of existence, against the forms in whicli hith-
erto it had embodied itself. The result of that modern way
of thought was named Philosophy ; and in tliis all was in-
cluded that opposed itself to the ancient way of thought,
especially, therefore, all that opposed itself to Religion. The
original personal hatred against the Catholic Faith passed, by
degi-ees, into hatred against tlie I>ihle, against the Christian
Keligion, and at laiit against Keligiou altogether. Nay more,
458 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
this hatred of Religion na,turally extended itself over aJ^l
objects of enthusiasm in general ; proscribed !Fa,ncy" and Feel-
ing, Morality and love of Art, the Future and the Antique j
placed man, with an effort, foremost in the series of natu-
ral productions ; and changed the infinite, creative music of
the Universe into the monotonous clatter of a boundless
Mill, which, turned by the stream of Chance, and swimming
thereon, was a Mill of itself, without Architect and Miller,
properly a genuine perpetuum mobile, a real self-grinding
Mill.
" One enthusiasm was generously left to poor mankind, and
rendered indispensable as a touchstone of the highest culture,
for all jobbers in the same : Enthusiasm for this magnanimous
Philosophy, and above all, for these its priests and mysta-
gogues. France was so happy as to be the birthplace and
dwelling of this new Faith, which had thus, from patches of
pure knowledge, been pasted together. Low as Poetry ranked
in this new Church, there were some poets among them, who,
for effect's sake, made use of the old orruxments and old lights ;
but in so doing, ran a risk of kindling the new world-system
by ancient fire. More cunning brethren, however, were at
hand to help ; and always in season poured cold water on the
warming audience. The members of this Church were rest-
lessly employed in clearing Nature, the Earth, the Souls of
men, the Sciences, from all Poetry ; obliterating every vestige
of the Holy ; disturbing, by sarcasms, the memory of all lofty
occurrences and lofty men ; disrobing the world of all its varie-
gated vesture. . . . Pity that Nature continued so wondrous
and iuconiprehensible, so poetical and infinite, all efforts to
modernize her notwithstanding ! However, if anywhere an
old superstition, of a higher world and the like, came to light,
instantly, on all hands, was a springing of rattles ; that, if pos-
sible, the dangerous spark might be extinguished, by appli-
ances of philosophy and wit : yet Tolerance was the watchword
of the cultivated ; and in France, above all, synonymous with
Philosophy. Highly remarkable is this history of modern
Unbelief ; the key to all the vast phenomena of recent times.
Not till last century, till the latter half of it, does the novelty
VOLTAIRE. 459
begin; and in a little while it expands to an immeasurable
bulk and variety : a second Keformation, a more compre-
hensive, and more specific, was unavoidable ; and naturally it
first visited that land which was the most modernized, and
had the longest lain in an asthenic state, from want of
freedom. . . .
" At the present epoch, however, we stand high enough to
look back with a friendly smile on those bygone days ; and even
in those marvellous follies to discern curious crystallizations
of historical matter. Thankfully will we stretch out our
hands to those Men of Letters and Philosophes : for this delu-
sion too required to be exhausted, and the scientific side of
things to have full value given it. More beauteous and many-
colored stands Poesy, like a leafy India, when contrasted with
the cold, dead Spitzbergen of that Closet-Logic. That in the
middle of the globe, an India, so warm and lordly, might exist,
must also a cold motionless sea, dead cliffs, mist instead of the
starry sky, and a long night, make both Poles uninhabitable.
The deep meaning of the laws of Mechanism lay heavy on
those anchorites in the deserts of Understanding : the charm
of the first glimpse into it overpowered them : the Old avenged
itself on them ; to the first feeling of self -consciousness, they
sacrificed, with wondrous devotedness, what was holiest and
fairest in tlie world ; and were the first that, in practice, again
recognized and preached forth the sacredness of Nature, the
infinitude of Art, the independence of Knowledge, the worth
of the Practical, and the all-presence of the Spirit of His-
tory ; and so doing, put an end to a Spectre-dynasty, more
potent, universal and terrific than perhaps they themselves
were aware of." ^
How far our readers will accompany Xovalis in such high-
soaring speculation, is not for us to say. Meanwhile, that the
better part of them have already, in their own dialect, united
with him, and with us, in candid tolerance, in clear acknowl-
edgment, towards French Philosophy, towards this Voltaire
and the spiritual period which bears his name, we do not hesi-
tate to believe. Intolerance, animosity can forward no cause ;
1 Novalis Scliri/)en, i. 8. 198.
460 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
and least of all beseems the cause of moral and religious truth.
A wise man has well reminded us, that " in any controversy,
the instant we feel angry, we have already ceased striving for
Truth, and begun striving for Ourselves." Let no man doubt
but Voltaire and his disciples, like all men and all things that
live and act in God's world, will one day be found to have
" worked together for good." Nay that, with all his evil, he
has already accomplished good, must be admitted in the sober-
est calculation. How much do we include in this little word :
He gave the death-stab to modern Superstition ! That horrid
incubus, which dwelt in darkness, shunning the light, is pass-
ing away; with all its racks, and poison-chalices, and foul
sleeping-draughts, is passing away without return. It was
a most weighty service. Does not the cry of "No Popery,"
and some vague terror or sham-terror of " Smithfield fires,"
still act on certain minds in these very days ? He who sees
even a little way into the signs of the times, sees well that
both the Smithfield fires, and the Edinburgh thumb-screws
(for these too must be held in remembrance) are things which
have long, very long, lain behind us ; divided from us by a wall
of Centuries, transparent indeed, but more impassable than
adamant. For, as we said, Superstition is in its death-lair:
the last agonies may endure for decades, or for centuries ; but
it carries the iron in its heart, and will not vex the earth any
more.
That, with Superstition, Religion is also passing away,
seems to us a still more ungrounded fear. Keligion cannot
pass away. The burning of a little straw may hide the stars
of the sky ; but the stars are there, and will reappear. On the
whole, we must repeat the often-repeated saying, that it is
unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either
with alarm or aversion ; or with any other feeling than regret,
and hope, and brotherly commiseration. If he seek Truth, is
he not our brother, and to be pitied ? If he do not seek Truth,
is he not still our brother, and to be pitied still more ? Old
Ludovicus Vives has a story of a clown that killed his ass
because it had drunk up the moon, and he thought the world
could ill spare that luminary. So he killed his ass, ut lunam
VOLTAIRE. 461
redderet. The clown was well-intentioned, but unwise. Lot
us not imitate him : let us not slay a faithful servant, who
has carried us far. He has not drunk the moon ; but only
the reflection of the moon, in his own poor water-pail, where
too, it may be, he was drinking with purposes the most
harmless.
SIGNS OF THE TIMES.*
[1829.]
It is no very good symptom either of nations or individuals,
that they deal much in vaticination. Happy men are full of
the present, for its bounty suffices them ; and wise men also,
for its duties engage them. Our grand business undoubtedly
is, not to see what lies dimly at a distance, but to do what lies
clearly at hand.
" KnoVst thou Yesterday, its aim and reason ;
Work'st thou well Today, for worthy things 1
Calmly wait the Morrow's hidden season,
Need'st not fear what hap soe'er it brings."
But man's " large discourse of reason " xoill look " before and
after ; " and, impatient of the " ignorant present time," will
indulge in anticipation far more than profits him. Seldom
can the unhappy be persuaded that the evil of the day is
sufficient for it ; and the ambitious will not be content with
present splendor, but paints yet more glorious triumphs, on
the cloud-curtain of the future.
The case, however, is still worse with nations. For here
the prophets are not one, but many ; and each incites and con-
firms the other ; so that the fatidical fury spreads wider and
wider, till at last even Saul must join in it. For there is
still a real magic in the action and reaction of minds on one
another. The casual deliration of a few becomes, by this mys-
terious reverberation, the frenzy of many ; men lose the use,
not only of their understandings, but of their bodily senses ;
while the most obdurate unbelieving hearts melt, like the rest,
in the furnace where all are cast as victims and as fuel. It
1 Edinbuboh Review, No. 98.
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 463
is grievous to think, that this noble omnipotence of Sympathy-
has been so rarely the Aaron's-rod of Truth and Virtue, and
so often the Enchanter's-rod of Wickedness and Folly ! Ko
solitary miscreant, scarcely any solitary maniac, would ven-
ture on such actions and imaginations, as large communities
of sane men have, in such circumstances, entertained as sound
wisdom. "Witness long scenes of the French Revolution, in
these late times ! Levity is no protection against such visi-
tations, nor the utmost earnestness of character. The New-
England Puritan burns witches, wrestles for months with the
horrors of Satan's invisible world, and all ghastly phantasms,
the daily and hourly precursors of the Last Day ; then sud-
denly bethinks him that he is frantic, weeps bitterly, prays
contritely, and the history of that gloomy season lies behind
him like a frightful dream.
Old England too has had her share of such frenzies and
panics ; though happily, like other old maladies, they have
grown milder of late : and since the days of Titus Oates have
mostly passed without loss of men's lives ; or indeed without
much other loss than that of reason, for the time, in the suf-
ferers. In this mitigated form, however, the distemper is of
pretty regular recurrence ; and may be reckoned on at inter-
vals, like other natural visitations ; so that reasonable men
deal with it, as the Londoners do Avith their fogs, — go cau-
tiously out into the groping crowd, and patiently carry lan-
terns at noon ; knowing, by a well-grounded faith, that the
sun is still in existence, and will one day reappear. How
often have we heard, for the last fifty years, that the country
was wrecked, and fast sinking ; whereas, up to this date, the
country is entire and afloat ! The " State in Danger " is a
condition of things, which we have witnessed a hundred
times; and as for the Church, it has seldom been out of
"danger" since we can remember it.
All men are aware that the present is a crisis of this sort;
and why it has become so. The repeal of the Test Acts, and
then of the Catholic disabilities, has struck many of their
admirers with an indescribable astonishment. Tliose things
seenied fixed and immovable ; deep as the foundations of the
464 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
world ; and lo, in a moment they have vanished, and their
place knows them no more ! Our worthy friends mistook
the slumbering Leviathan for an island; often as they had
been assured, that Intolerance was, and could be nothing but
a Monster ; and so, mooring under the lee, they had anchored
comfortably in his scaly rind, thinking to take good cheer ; as
for some space they did. But now their Leviathan has sud-
denly dived under ; and they can no longer be fastened in the
stream of time ; but must drift forward on it, even like the
rest of the world : no very appalling fate, we think, could
they but understand it ; which, however, they will not yet, for
a season. Their little island is gone ; sunk deep amid con-
fused eddies ; and what is left worth caring for in the uni-
verse ? What is it to them that the great continents of the
earth are still standing ; and the polestar and all our loadstars,
in the heavens, still shining and eternal ? Their cherished
little haven is gone, and they will not be comforted ! And
therefore, day after day, in all inanner of periodical or peren-
nial publications, the most lugubrious predictions are sent
forth. The King has virtually abdicated ; the Church is a
widow, without jointure ; public principle is gone ; private
honesty is going ; society, in short, is fast falling in pieces ;
and a time of unmixed evil is come on us.
At such a period, it was to be expected that the rage of
prophecy should be more than usually excited. Accordingly,
tlie Millennarians have come forth on the right hand, and the
]\lillites on the left. The Fifth-monarchy men prophesy from
the Bible, and the Utilitarians from Bentham. The one an-
nounces that the last of the seals is to be opened, positively,
in the year 1860 ; and the other assures us that "the greatest-
happiness principle " is to make a heaven of earth, in a still
shorter time. We know tliese symptoms too well, to think it
necessary or safe to interfere with them. Time and the hours
will bring relief to all parties. The grand encourager of Del-
phic or other noises is -r-the Echo. Left to themselves, they
will the sooner dissipate, and die away in space.
Meanwhile, we too admit that the present is an important
time; as all present time necessarily is. The poorest Day that
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 465
passes over us is the conflux of two Eternities ; it is made
up of currents that issue from the remotest Past, and flow
onwards into the remotest Future. We were wise indeed
could we discern truly the signs of our own time ; and by
knowledge of its wants and advantages, wisely adjust our
own position in it. Let us, instead of gazing idly into the
obscure distance, look calmly around us, for a little, on the
perplexed scene where we stand. Perhaps, on a more serious
inspection, something of its perplexity will disappear, some of
its distinctive characters and deeper tendencies more clearly
reveal themselves ; whereby our own relations to it, our own
true aims and endeavors in it, may also become clearer.
Were we required to characterize this age of ours by any
single epithet, we should be tempted to call it, not an Heroi-
cal. Devotional, Philosophical, or Moral Age, but, above all
others, the Mechanical Age, It is the Age of Machinery, in
every outward and inward sense of that word ; the age which,
with its whole undivided might, forwards, teaches and prac-
tises the great art of adapting means to ends. Nothing is now
done direccly, or by hand ; all is by rule and calculated con-
trivance. For the simplest operation, some helps and accom-
paniments, some cunning abbreviating process is in readiness.
Our old modes of exertion are all discredited, and thrown
aside. On every hand, the living artisan is driven from his
workshop, to make room for a speedier, inanimate one. The
shuttle drops from the fingers of the weaver, and falls into
iron fingers that ply it faster. The sailor furls his sail, and
lays down his oar; and bids a strong, unwearied servant, on
vaporous wings, bear him through the waters. ]\Ien have
crossed oceans by steam ; the Birmingham Fire-king has vis-
ited the fabulous East ; and the genius of the Cape, were
there any Camoens now to sing it, has again been alarmed,
and with far stranger thunders than Gauia's. There is no end
to machinery. Even the horse is stripped of his liarness, and
finds a fleet fire-horse yoked in his stead. Nay, we have an
artist that hatches cliickens by steam ; the very brood-hen is
to be superseded ! For all earthly, and for some unearthly
VOL. XIII. oO
466 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
purposes, we have macliines and mechanic furtherances ; for
luincing our cabbages ; for casting us into magnetic sleep.
We remove mountains, and make seas our smooth highway ;
nothing can resist us. We war with rude Nature ; and, by our
resistless engines, come off always victorious, and loaded with
spoils.
What wonderful accessions have thus been made, and are
still making, to the physical power of mankind ; how much
better fed, clothed, lodged and, in all outward respects, accom-
modated men now are, or might be, by a given quantity of
labor, is a grateful reflection which forces itself on every one.
What changes, too, this addition of power is introducing into
the Social System ; how wealth has more and more increased,
and at the same time gathered itself more and more into
masses, strangely altering the old relations, and increasing the
distance between the rich and the poor, will be a question for
Political Economists, and a much more complex and impor-.
tant one than any they have yet engaged with.
But leaving these matters for the present, let us observe
how the mechanical genius of our time has diffused itself into
quite other provinces. Not tlie external and physical alone is
now managed by machinery, but the internal and spiritual
also. Here too nothing follows its spontaneous course, noth-
ing is left to be accomplished by old natural methods. Every-
thing has its cunningly devised implements, its pre-established
apparatus ; it is not done by hand, but by machinery. Thus
we have machines for Education : Lancastrian machines ;
Hamiltonian machines ; monitors, maps and emblems. In-
struction, that mysterious communing of Wisdom with Igno-
rance, is no longer an indefinable tentative process, requiring
a study of individual aptitudes, and a perpetual variation of
means and methods, to attain the same end ; but a secure,
universal, straightforward business, to be conducted in the
gross, by proper mechanism, with such intellect as comes to
hand. Then, we have Ileligious machines, of all imaginable
varieties ; the Bible-Society, professing a far higher and
heavenly structure, is found, on inquiry, to be altogether an
earthly contrivance ; supported by collection of moneys, by
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 467
fomenting of vanities, by puffing, intrigue and chicane; a
machine for converting the Heathen. It is the same in all
other departments. Has any man, or any society of men, a
truth to speak, a piece of spiritual work to do; they can
nowise proceed at once and with the mere natural organs,
but must first call a public meeting, appoint committees, issue
prospectuses, eat a public dinner ; in a word, construct or bor-
row machinery, wherewith to speak it and do it. Without
machinery they were hopeless, helpless ; a colony of Hindoo
weavers squatting in the heart of Lancashire. Mark, too,
how every machine must have its moving power, in some of
the great currents of society ; every little sect among us,
Unitarians, Utilitarians, Anabaptists, Phrenologists, must have
its Periodical, its monthly or quarterly Magazine ; — hanging
out, like its windmill, into the popularis aura, to grind meal
for the society.
With individuals, in like manner, natural strength avails
little. No individual now hopes to accomplish the poorest
enterprise single-handed and without mechanical aids ; he must
make interest with some existing corporation, and till his
field with their oxen. In these days, more emphatically than
ever, " to live, signifies to unite with a party, or to make one."
Philosophy, Science, Art, Literature, all depend on machinery.
No Xewton, by silent meditation, now discovers the system
of the world from the falling of an apple ; but some quite
other than Newton stands in his Museum, his Scientific Insti-
tution, and behind whole batteries of retorts, digesters and
galvanic piles imperatively " interrogates Nature," — who, how-
over, shows no haste to answer. In defect of Raphaels, and
Angelos, and Mozarts, we have Royal Academies of I'ainting,
Sculpture, Music; whereby the languishing spirit of Art may
hv strengthened, as by the more generous diet of a Public
Kitchen. Literature, too, has its Paternoster-row mechanism,
its Trade-dinners, its Editorial conclaves, and huge subterra-
nean, puffing bellows ; so that books are not only ])rinted, but,
in a great measure, written and sold, by machinery.
National culture, spiritual beneiit of all sorts, is under the
same management. No Queen Christina, in these times, needs
4G8 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
to send for her Descartes ; no King Frederick for his Voltaire,
and painfully nourish him with pensions and flattery : any
sovereign of taste, who wishes to enlighten his people, has only
to impose a new tax, and with the proceeds establish Philo-
sophic Institutes. Hence the Royal and Imperial Societies,
the Bibliotheques, Glyptotheques, Technotheques, which front
us in all capital cities ; like so many well-finished hives, to
which it is expected the stray agencies of Wisdom will swarm
of their own accord, and hive and make honey. In like man-
ner, among ourselves, when it is thought that religion is de-
clining, we have only to vote half-a-million's worth of bricks
and mortar, and build new churches. In Ireland it seems they
have gone still farther, having actually established a " Penny-
a-week Purgatory-Society " I Thus does the Genius of Mechan-
ism stand by to help us in all difficulties and emergencies, and
with his iron back bears all our burdens.
These things, which we state lightly enough here, are yet of
deep import, and indicate a mighty change in our whole man-
ner of existence. For the same habit regulates not our modes
of action alone, but our modes of thought and feeling. Men
are grown mechanical in head and in heart, as well as in hand.
They have lost faith in individual endeavor, and in natural
force, of any kind. Not for internal perfection, but for external
combinations and arrangements, for institutions, constitutions,
— for Mechanism of one sort or other, do they hope and
struggle. Their whole efforts, attachments, opinions, turn on
mechanism, and are of a mechanical character.
We may trace this tendency in all the great manifestations
of our time ; in its intellectual aspect, the studies it most fa-
vors and its manner of conducting them ; in its practical as-
pects, its politics, arts, religion, morals ; in the whole sources,
and throughout the whole currents, of its spiritual, no less
than its material activity.
Consider, for example, the state of Science generally, in
Europe, at this period. It is admitted, on all sides, that the
Metaphysical and Moral Sciences are falling into decay, while
the Physical are engrossing, every day, more respect and atten-
tion. In most of the European nations there is now no such
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 469
thing as a Science of Mind ; only more or less advancement in
the general science, or the special sciences, of matter. The
French were the first to desert Metaphysics; and though they
have lately affected to revive their school, it has yet no signs
of vitality. The land of Malebranche, Pascal, Descartes and
Fenelon, has now only its Cousins and Villemains ; while, in
the department of Physics, it reckons far other names. Among
ourselves, the Philosophy of Mind, after a rickety infancy,
which never reached the vigor of manhood, fell suddenly into
decay, languished and finally died out, with its last amiable
cultivator. Professor Stewart, In no nation but Germany has
any decisive effort been made in psychological science ; not to
speak of any decisive result. The science of the age, in short,
is physical, chemical, physiological ; in all shapes mechanical.
Our favorite Mathematics, the highly prized exponent of all
these other sciences, has also become more and more mechani-
cal. Excellence in what is called its higher departments de-
pends less on natural genius than on acquired expertness in
wielding its machinery. Without undervaluing the wonderful
results which a Lagrange or Laplace educeS' by means of it, we
may remark, that their calculus, differential and integral, is
little else than a more cunningly constructed arithmetical mill ;
where the factors being put in, are, as it were, ground into the
true product, under cover, and without other effort on our
part than steady turning of the handle. AVe have more Mathe-
matics than ever ; but less Mathesis. Archimedes and Plato
could not have read the Mecanique Celeste; but neither would
tlie whole French Institute see aught in that saying, "God
geometrizes ! " but a sentimental rhodomontade.
Nay, our whole Metaphysics itself, from Locke's time down-
wards, has been physical; not a spiritual philosophy, but a
niatorial one. The singular estimation in which his Essay was
so long held as a scientific work (an estimation groinaded, in-
deed, on the estimable character of the man) will one day be
thought a curious indication of the spirit of these times. His
whole doctrine is mechanical, in its aim and origin, in its
method and its results. It is not a philosophy of the mind :
it is a mere discussion concerning the origin of our conscious-
470 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
ness, or ideas, or whatever else they are called; a genetic
history of what we see in the mind. The grand secrets of
Necessity and Free-will, of the Mind's vital or non-vital de-
pendence on Matter, of our mysterious relations to Time and
Space, to God, to the Universe, are not, in the faintest degree,
touched on in these inquiries; and seem not to have the
smallest connection with them.
The last class of our Scotch Metaphysicians had a dim no-
tion that much of this was wrong; but they knew not how to
right it. The school of Eeid had also from the first taken a
mechanical course, not seeing any other. The singular con-
clusions at which Hume, setting out from their admitted
premises, was arriving, brought this school into being; they
let loose Instinct, as an undiscriminating bandog, to guard
them against these conclusions ; — they tugged lustily at the
logical chain by which Hume was so coldly towing them and
the world into bottomless abysses of Atheism and Fatalism.
But the chain somehow snapped between them ; and the issue
has been that nobody now cares about either, — any more
than about Hartley's, Darwin's or Priestley's contemporaneous
doings in England. Hartley's vibrations and vibratiuncles,
one would think, were material and mechanical enough ; but
our Continental neighbors have gone still farther. One of
their philosophers has lately discovered, that "as the liver
secretes bile, so does the brain secrete thought ; " which as-
tonishing discovery Dr. Cabanis, more lately still, in his
Rapports du Physique et du Morale de V Homme, has pushed
into its minutest developments.
The metaphysical philosophy of this last inquirer is cer-
tainly no shadowy or unsubstantial one. He fairly lays open
our moral structure with his dissecting-knives and real metal
probes ; and exhibits it to the inspection of mankind, by Leu-
wenhoek microscopes, and inflation with the anatomical blow-
pipe. Thought, he is inclined to hold, is still secreted by the
brain ; but then Poetry and Keligion (and it is really worth
knowing) are " a product of the smaller intestines " I We
have the greatest admiration for this learned doctor: with
what scientific stoicism he walks through the land of wonders,
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 471
unwondering ; like a wise man through some huge, gaudy, im-
posing Vauxhall, whose fire-works, cascades and symphonies,
the vulgar may enjoy and believe in, — but where he finds
nothing real but the saltpetre, pasteboard and catgut. His
book may be regarded as the ultimatum of mechanical meta-
physics in our time; a remarkable realization of what in
Martinus Scriblerus was still only an idea, that "as the jack
had a meat-roasting quality, so had the body a thinking qual-
ity," — upon the strength of which the Xurembergers were to
build a wood-and-leather man, " who should reason as well as
most country parsons." Vaucanson did indeed make a wooden
duck, that seemed to eat and digest ; but that bold scheme of
the Nurembergers remained for a more modern virtuoso.
This condition of the two great departments of knowledge,
— the outward, cultivated exclusively on mechanical princi-
ples ; the inward, finally abandoned, because, cultivated on
such principles, it is found to yield no result, — sufficiently
indicates the intellectual bias of our time, its all-pervading dis-
positiun towards that line of inquiry. In fact, an inward per-
suasion has long been diffusing itself, and now and then even
comes to utterance. That, except the external, there are no
true sciences; that to the inward world (if there be any) our
only conceivable road is through the outward ; that, in short,
what cannc/t be investigated and understood mechanically,
cannot be iavestigated and understood at all. We advert the
more partic 3larly to these intellectual propensities, as to prom-
inent symp'/oms of our age, because Opinion is at all times
doubly rela-.ed to Action, first as cause, then as effect; and
the speculal ve tendency of any age will therefore give us, on
the whole, t 'le best indications of its practical tendency.
Nowhere, for example, is the deep, almost exclusive faith
we have in ^Mechanism more visible than in the Politics of
this time. Civil government does by its nature include much
that is mechanical, and must be treated accordingly. We
term it indeed, in ordinary language, the Machine of Society,
and talk of it as the grand working wheel from which all
private machines must derive, or to which they must adapt,
their movements. Considered merely as a metaphor, all this
472 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
is well enough ; but here, as in so many other eases, the " foam
hardens itself into a shell," and the shadow we have wantonly
evoked stands terrible before us and will not depart at our
bidding. Government includes much also that is not mechan-
ical, and cannot be treated mechanically ; of which latter
truth, as appears to us, the political speculations and exertions
of our time are taking less and less cognizance.
Nay, in the very outset, we might note the mighty interest
taken in mere political arrangements, as itself the sign of a
mechanical age. The whole discontent of Europe takes this
direction. The deep, strong cry of all civilized nations, — a
cry which, every one now sees, must and will be answered, is :
Give us a reform of Government ! A good structure of legis-
lation, a proper check upon the executive, a wise arrangement
of the judiciary, is all that is wanting for human happiness.
The Philosopher of this age is not a Socrates, a Plato, a
Plooker, or Taylor, who inculcates on men the necessity and
infinite worth of moral goodness, the great truth that our hap-
piness depends on the mind which is within us, and not on
the circumstances which are without us ; but a Smith, a De
Lolme, a Bentham, who chiefly inculcates th-e reverse of this,
— that our happiness depends entirely on external circum-
stances ; nay, that tlie strength and dignity of the mind with-
in us is itself the creature and consequence of these. Were
the laws, the government, in good order, all were well with
us ; the rest would care for itself ! Dissentients from this
opinion, expressed or implied, are now rarely to be met with ;
widely and angrily as men differ in its application, the prin-
ciple is admitted by all.
Equally mechanical, and of equal simplicity, are the meth-
ods proposed by both parties for completing or securing this
all-sufficient perfection of arrangement. It is no longer the
moral, religious, spiritual condition of the people that is
our concern, but their physical, practical^ economical condi-
tion, as regulated by public laws. Thus iii the Body-politic
more than ever worshipped and tendered ; but the Soul-poli-
tic less than ever. Love of country, in any high or generous
sense, in any other than an almost animal sense, or mera
SIGNS OP THE TIMES. 473
habit, has little importance attached to it in such reforms
or in the opposition shown them. Men are to be guided only
by their self-interests. Good government is a good balancing
of these ; and, except a keen eye and appetite for self-interest,
requires no virtue in any quarter. To both parties it is em-
phatically a machine: to the discontented, a ''taxing-ma-
chine; " to the contented, a "machine for securing property."
Its duties and its faults are not those of a father, but of an
active parish-constable.
Thus it is by the mere condition of the machine, by pre-
serving it untouched, or else by reconstructing it, and oiling
it anew, that man's salvation as a social being is to be insured
and indefinitely promoted. Contrive the fabric of law aright,
and without farther effort on your part, that divine spirit of
Freedom, which all hearts venerate and long for, will of her-
self come to inhabit it; and under her healing wings every
noxious influence will wither, every good and salutary one
more and more expand. Kay, so devoted are we to this prin-
ciple, and at the same time so curiously mechanical, that a
new trade, specially grounded on it, has arisen among us,
under the name of "Codification," or code-making in the
abstract ; whereby any people, for a reasonable consideration,
may be accommodated with a patent code; — more easily than
curious individuals with patent breeches, for the people does
not need to be measured first.
To us who live in the midst of all this, and see continually
tlie faith, hope and practice of evei-y one founded on Mechan-
ism of one kind or other, it is apt to seem quite natural, and
as if it could never have been otherwise. Nevertheless, if we
recollect or reflect a little, we shall find both that it has been,
and might again be otherwise. The domain of Mechanism —
meaning thereby political, ecclesiastical or other outward
establislimeiits — was once considered as embracing, and we
are persuaded can at any time embrace, l)ut a limited portion
of man's intei'ests, and by no means the highest portion.
To speak a little pedantically, there is a science of Dt/n/imt/'s
in man's fortunes and nature, as well as of Mechanics. There
474 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
is a science which treats of, and practically addresses, the
primary, unmodified forces and energies of man, the myste-
rious springs of Love, and Fear, and Wonder, of Enthusiasm,
Poetry, Religion, all which have a truly vital and infinite
character ; as well as a science which practically addresses
the finite, modified developments of these, when they take the
shape of immediate "motives," as hope of reward, or as fear
of punishment.
Now it is certain, that in former times the wise men, the
enlightened lovers of their kind, who appeared generally as
Moralists, Poets or Priests, did, without neglecting the Me-
chanical province, deal chiefly with the Dynamical ; applying
themselves chiefly to regulate, increase and purify the inward
primary powers of man ; and fancying that herein lay the main
difficulty, and the best service they could undertake. But a
wide difference is manifest in our agoi^ Por the wise men,
who now appear as Political Philosophers, deal exclusively
with the Mechanical province; and occupying themselves in
counting up and estimating men's motives, strive by curious
checking and balancing, and other adjustments of Profit and
Loss, to guide them to their true advantage : while, unfor-
tunately, those same "motives" are so innumerable, and so
variable in every individual, that no really useful conclusion
can ever be drawn from their enumeration. But though
Mechanism, wisely contrived, has done much for man in a
social and moral point of view, we cannot be persuaded that
it has ever been the chief source of his worth or happiness.
Consider the great elements of human enjoyment, the attain-
ments and possessions that exalt man's life to its present
height, and see what part of these he owes to institutions, to
Mechanism of any kind ; and what to the instim^tive, un-
bounded force, which Nature herself lent him, and still con-
tinues to him. Shall we say, for example, that Science and
Art are indebted principally to the founders of Schools and
Universities ? Did not Science originate rather, and gain
advancement, in the obscure closets of the Roger Bacons,
Keplers, Newtons ; in the workshops of the Fausts and the
Watts ; wherever, and in what guise soever Nature, from the
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 475
first times downwards, had sent a gifted spirit upon the earth ?
Again, were Homer and Shakspeare members of any beneficed
guild, or made Poets by means of it ? Were Painting and
Sculpture created by forethought, brought into the world by
institutions for that end ? No ; Science and Art have, from
first to last, been the free gift of Nature ; an unsolicited,
unexpected gift ; often even a fatal one. These things rose
up, as it were, by spontaneous growth, in the free soil and
sunshine of Nature. They were not planted or grafted, nor
even greatly multiplied or improved by the culture or
manuring of institutions. Generally speaking, they have
derived only partial help from these ; often enough have suf-
fered damage. They made constitutions for themselves.
They originated in the Dynamical nature of man, not in his
Mechanical nature.
Or, to take an infinitely higher instance, that of the Chris-
tian Religion, which, under every theory of it, in the believing
or unbelieving mind, must ever be regarded as the crowning
glory, or rather the life and soul, of our whole modern culture :
How did Christianity arise and spread abroad among men ?
Was it by institutions, and establishments and well-arranged
systems of mechanism ? Not so ; on the contrary, in all past
and existing institutions for those ends, its divine spirit has
invariably been found to languish and decay. It arose in the
mystic deeps of man's soul ; and was spread abroad by the
"preaching of the word," by simple, altogether natural and
individual efforts ; and flew, like hallowed fire, from heart to
heart, till all were purified and illuminated by it ; and its
heavenly light shone, as it still shines, and (as sun or star)
will ever sliine, through the whole dark destinies of man.
Here again was no Mechanism ; man's highest attainment was
accomplished Dynamically, not Mechanically.
Nay, Ave will venture to say, that no high attainment, not
even any far-extending movement among men, was ever ac-
complished otherwise. Strange as it may seem, if we read
History with any degree of thoughtfulness, we shall find that
the checks and balances of Profit and Loss have never been
the grand agents with men ; that they have never been roused
476 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
into deep, thorough, all-pervading efforts by any computable
prospect of Profit and Loss, for any visible, finite object ; but
always for some invisible and infinite one. The Crusades
took their rise in Religion ; their visible object was, commer-
cially speaking, worth nothing. It was the boundless Invisi-
ble world that was laid bare in the imaginations of those
men ; and in its burning light, the visible shrunk as a scroll.
Not mechanical, nor produced by mechanical means, was this
vast movement. Ko dining at Freemasons' Tavern, with the
other long train of modern machinery ; no cunning reconcilia-
tion of '* vested interests," was required here : only the passion-
ate voice of one man, the rapt soul looking through the eyes
of one man ; and rugged, steel-clad Europe trembled beneath
his words, and followed him whither he listed. In later ages
it was still the same. The Reformation had an invisible,
mystic and ideal aim ; the result was indeed to be embodied
in external things ; but its spirit, its worth, was internal, in-
visible, infinite. Our English Revolution too originated in
Religion. Men did battle, in those old days, not for Purse-
sake, but for Conscience-sake. Nay, in our own days it is no
way different. The French Revolution itself had something
higher in it than cheap bread and a Habeas-corpus act. Here
too was an Idea ; a Dynamic, not a Mechanic force. It was
a struggle, though a blind and at last an insane one, for the
infinite, divine nature of Right, of Freedom, of Country.
Thus does man, in every age, vindicate, consciously or un-
consciously, his celestial birthriglit. Thus does Nature hold
on her wondrous, unquestionable course ; and all our systems
and theories are but so many froth-eddies or sand-banks, which
from time to time she casts up, and washes away. When we
can drain the Ocean into mill-ponds, and bottle up the Force
of Gravity, to be sold by retail, in gas-jars ; then may we hope
to comprehend the infinitudes of man's soul under formulas of
Profit and Loss ; and rule over this too, as over a patent engine,
by checks, and valves, and balances.
Nay, even with regard to Government itself, can it be
necessary to remind any one that Freedom, without which
indeed all spiritual life is impossible, depends on infinitely
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 477
more complex influences than either the extension or the
curtailment of the " democratic interest " ? Who is there that
"taking the high priori road," shall point out what these
influences are ; what deep, subtle, inextricably entangled in-
fluences they have been and may be ? For man is not the
creature and product of Mechanism ; but, in a far truer sense,
its creator and producer : it is the noble People that makes
the noble Government ; rather than conversely. On the whole,
Institutions are much ; but they are not all. The freest and
highest spirits of the world have often been found under
strange outward circumstances : Saint Paul and his brother
Apostles were politically slaves ; Epictetus was personally
one. Again, forget the influences of Chivalry and Religion,
and ask : What countries produced Columbus and Las Casas ?
Or, descending from virtue and heroism to mere energy and
spiritual talent : Cortes, Pizarro, Alba, Ximenes ? The Span-
iards of the sixteenth century were indisputably the noblest
nation of Europe ; yet they had the Inquisition and Pliilip II.
They have the same government at this day ; and are the lowest
nation. The Dutch too have retained their old constitution ;
but no Siege of Leyden, no William the Silent, not even an
Egmont or De Witt any longer appears among thera. With
ourselves also, where much has changed, elfect has nowise
followed cause as it should have done : two centuries ago, the
Commons Speaker addressed Queen Elizabeth on bended knees,
happy that the virago's foot did not even smite him ; yet the
people were then governed, not by a Castlereagh, but by a
Ijurghley ; they had their Shakspeare and Philip Sidney,
where we have our Sheridan Knowles and Beau Bruuimel.
These and the like facts are so familiar, the truths which
they preach so obvious, and have in all past times been so
universally believed and acted on, that we should almost feel
ashamed for repeating them ; were it not that, on every hand,
the memory of them seems to have passed away, or at best
died into a faint tradition, of no value as a practical principle.
To judge by the loud clamor of our Constitution-builders,
Statists, E,">u()itiists, directors, creators, reformers of Public
Societies ; in a word, all manner of Mechanists, from the
478 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
Cartwright up to the Code-maker; and by the nearly total
silence of all Preachers and Teachers who should give a voice
to Poetry, Eeligion and Morality, we might fancy either that
man's Dynamical nature was, to all spiritual intents, extinct,
or else so perfected that nothing more was to be made of it
by the old means ; and henceforth only in his Mechanical
contrivances did any hope exist for him.
To define the limits of these two departments of man's
activity, which work into one another, and by means of one
another, so intricately and inseparably, were by its nature an
impossible attempt. Their relative importance, even to the
wisest mind, will vary in different times, according to the
special wants and dispositions of those times. Meanwhile, it
seems clear enough that only in the right co-ordination of the
two, and the vigorous forwarding of both, does our true line
of action lie. Undue cultivation of the inward or Dynamical
province leads to idle, visionary, impracticable courses, and,
especially in rude eras, to Superstition and Fanaticism, with
their long train of baleful and well-known evils. Undue cul-
tivation of the outward, again, though less immediately preju-
dicial, and even for the time productive of many palpable
benefits, must, in the long-run, by destroying Moral Force,
which is the parent of all other Force, prove not less certainly,
and perhaps still more hopelessly, pernicious. This, we take
it, is the grand characteristic of our age. By our skill in
Mechanism, it has come to pass, that in the management of
external things we excel all other ages; while in whatever
respects the pure moral nature, in true dignity of soul and
character, we are perhaps inferior to most civilized ages.
In fact, if we look deeper, we shall find th it this faith in
Mechanism has now struck its roots down into man's most
intimate, primary sources of conviction; and is thence sending
up, over his whole life and activity, innumerable stems, —
fruit-bearing and poison-bearing. The truth is, men have lost
their belief in the Invisible, and believe, and hope, and work
only in the Visible; or, to speak it in other words: This is
not a Religious age. Only the material, the immediately
SIGNS OP THE TIMES. 479
practical, not the divine and spiritual, is important to us.
The infinite, absolute character of Virtue has passed into a
finite, conditional one ; it is no longer a worship of the Beau-
tiful and Good; but a calculation of the Profitable. Wor-
ship, indeed, in any sense, is not recognized among us, or is
mechanically explained into Fear of pain, or Hope of plea-
sure. Our true Deity is Mechanism. It has subdued external
Nature for us, and we think it will do all other things. "We
are Giants in physical power : in a deeper than metaphorical
sense, we are Titans, that strive, by heaping mountaiu on
mountain, to conquer Heaven also.
The strong Mechanical character, so visible in the spiritual
pursuits and methods of this age, may be traced much farther
into the condition and prevailing disposition of our spiritual
nature itself. Consider, for example, the general fashion of
Intellect in this era. Intellect, the power man has of know-
ing and believing, is now nearly synonymous with Logic, or
the mere power of arranging and communicating. Its imple-
ment is not Meditation, but Argument. "Cause and effect"
is almost the only category under which we look at, and work
with, all Nature. Our first question with regard to any object
is not, What is it ? but, How is it ? We are no longer in-
stinctively driven to apprehend, and lay to heart, what is
Good and Lovely, but rather to inquire, as on-lookers, how it
is jiroduced, whence it comes, whither it goes. Our favorite
Philosophers have no love and no hatred ; they stand among
us not to do, nor to create anything, but as a sort of Logic-
mills to grind out the true causes and effects of all that is
done and created. To the eye of a Smith, a Hume or a Con-
stant, all is well that works quietly. An Order of Ignatius
Loyola, a Presbyterianism of John Knox, a Wickliffe or a
Henry the Eighth, are simply so many mechanical phe-
nomena, caused or causing.
The Eupladst of our day differs much from his pleasant
predecessors. An intellectual dapperling of these times boasts
chiefly of his irresistible perspicacity, his "dwelling in the
daylight of trnth," and so forth ; which, on examination, turns
out to be a dwelling iu the ru^/i-light of " closet-logic," and a
480 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
deep unconsciousness that there is any other light to dwell in
or any other objects to survey with it. Wonder, indeed, is, on
all hands, dying out : it is the sign of uncultivation to wonder.
Speak to any small man of a high, majestic Reformation, of
a high, majestic Luther, and forthwith he sets about "account-
ing " for it ; how the *' circumstances of the time " called for
such a character, and found him, we suppose, standing girt
and road-ready, to do its errand ; how the " circumstances of
the time " created, fashioned, floated him quietly along into
the result ; how, in short, this small man, had he been there,
could have performed the li^-e himself 1 For it is the " force
of circumstances " that does everything ; the force of one man
can do nothing. Kow all this is grounded on little more than
a metaphor. We figure Society as a " Machine," and that mind
is opposed to mind, as body is to body ; whereby two, or at
most ten, little minds must be stronger than one great mind.
Notable absurdity ! For the plain truth, very plain, we think,
is, that minds are opposed to minds in quite a different way ;
and one man that has a higher Wisdom, a hitherto unknown
spiritual Truth in him, is stronger, not than ten men that have
it not, or than ten thousand, but than all men that have it
not ; and stands among them with a quite ethereal, angelic
power, as with a sword out of Heaven's own armory, sky-
tempered, which no buckler, and no tower of brass, will
finally withstand.
But to us, in these times, such considerations rarely occur.
We enjoy, we see nothing by direct vision ; but only by re-
flection, and in anatomical dismemberment. Like Sir Hudi-
bras, for every Why we must have a Wherefore. We have
our little theory on all human and divine things. Poetry, the
workings of genius itself, which in all times, with one or an-
other meaning, has been called Inspiration, and held to be
mysterious and inscrutable, is no longer without its scientific
exposition. The building of the lofty rhyme is like any other
masonry or bricklaying : we have theories of its rise, height,
decline and fall, — which latter, it would seem, is now near,
among all people. Of our " Theories of Taste," as they are
called, wherein the deep, inuuite, unspeakable Love of Wis-
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 481
dom and Beauty, which dwells in all men, is "explained,"
made mechanically visible, from " Association " and the like,
why should we say anything ? Hume has written us a " Natu-
ral History of Religion ; " in which one Natural History all
the rest are included. Strangely too does the general feeling
coincide with Hume's in this wonderful problem ; for whether
his " Natural History " be the right one or not, that Religion
must have a Natural History, all of us, cleric and laic, seem
to be agreed. He indeed regards it as a Disease, we again as
Health ; so far there is a difference ; but in our first principle
we are at one.
To what extent theological Unbelief, we mean intellectual
dissent from the Church, in its view of Holy Writ, prevails
at this day, would be a highly important, were it not, under
any circumstances, an almost impossible inquiry. But the
Unbelief, which is of a still more fundamental character,
every man may see prevailing, with scarcely any but the
faintest contradiction, all around him; even in the Pulpit
itself. Religion in most countries, more or less in every
country, is no longer what it was, and should be, — a thou-
sand-voiced psalm from the heart of Man to his invisible
Father, the fountain of all Goodness, Beauty, Truth, and
revealed in every revelation of these ; but for the most part,
a wise prudential feeling grounded on mere calculation ; a ^
matter, as all others now are, of Expediency and Utility;
whereby some smaller quantum of earthly enjoyment may
be exchanged for a far larger quantum of celestial enjoy-
ment. Thus Religion too is Profit, a working for wages ;
not Reverence, but vulgar Hope or Fear. Many, we know,
very many we hope, are still religious in a far different sense ;
were it not so, our case were too desperate : but to witness
that such is the temper of the times, we take any calm ob-
servant man, who agrees or disagrees in our feeling on the
matter, and ask him whether our view of it is not in general
well-founded.
Literature too, if we consider it, gives similar testimony.
At no former era has Literature, the printed communication
of Thought, been of such importance as it is now. "We often
VOL. XIII. '^l
482 CRITICAL AIS'D MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
hear that the Church is iu danger ; and truly so it is, — in a
danger it seems not to know of : for, with its tithes in the
most perfect safety, its functions are becoming more and
more superseded. The true Church of England, at this mo-
ment, lies in the Editors of its Newspapers. These preach
to the people daily, weekly ; admonishing kings themselves ;
advising peace or war, with an authority which only the
first Reformers, and a long past class of Popes, were pos-
sessed of ; inflicting moral censure ; imparting moral encour-
agement, consolation, edification ; in all ways diligently " ad-
ministering the Discipline of the Church." It may be said
too, that in private disposition the new Preachers somewhat
lesemble the Mendicant Friars of old times : outwardly full
of holy zeal ; inwardly not without stratagem, and hunger
for terrestrial things. But omitting this class, and the bound-
less host of watery personages who pipe, as they are able, on
so many scrannel straws, let us look at the higher regions of
Literature, where, if anywhere, the pure melodies of Poesy
and Wisdom should be heard. Of natural talent there is no
deficiency : one or two richly endowed individuals even give
us a superiority in this respect. But what is the song they
sing? Is it a tone of the Memnon Statue, breathing music
as the light first touches it? A "liquid wisdom," disclosing
to our sense the deep, infinite harmonies of Nature and man's
soul ? Alas, no ! It is not a matin or vesper hymn to the
Spirit of Beauty, but a fierce clashing of cymbals, and shout'
ing of multitudes, as children pass through the fire to Moloch !
Poetry itself has no eye for the Invisible. Beauty is no longer
the god it worships, but some brute image of Strength ; which
we may well call an idol, for true Strength is one and the
same with Beauty, and its worship also is a hymn. The
meek, silent Light can mould, create and purify all Nature ;
but the loud Whirlwind, the sign and product of Disunion,
of Weakness, passes on, and is forgotten. How widely this
veneration for the physically Strongest has spread itself
through Literature, any one may judge who reads either
criticism or poem. We praise a work, not as "true," but as
" strong ; " our highest praise is that it has " affected " us,
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 488
has "terrified" us. All this, it has been well observed, is the
" maximum of the Barbarous," the symptom, not of vigorous
refinement, but of luxurious corruption. It speaks much, too,
for men's indestructible love of truth, that nothing of this
kind will abide with them ; that even the talent of a Byron
cannot permanently seduce us into idol-worship ; that he too,
with all his wild siren charming, already begins to be dis-
regarded and forgotten.
Again, with respect to our Moral condition: here also, he
who runs may read that the same physical, mechanical in-
fluences are everywhere busy. For the "superior morality,"
of which we hear so much, we too would desire to be thank-
ful: at the same time, it were but blindness to deny that
this " superior morality " is properly rather an " inferior crimi-
nality," produced not by greater love of Virtue, but by
greater perfection of Police ; and of that far subtler and
stronger Police, called Public Opinion. This last watches
over us with its Argus eyes more keenly than ever ; but the
" inward eye " seems heavy with sleep. Of any belief in in-
visible, divine things, we find as few traces in our Morality
as elsewhere. It is by tangible, material considerations that
we are guided, not by inward and spiritual. Self-denial, the
parent of all virtue, in any true sense of that word, has perhaps
seldom been rarer : so rare is it, that the most, even in their ab-
stract speculations, regard its existence as a chimera. Virtue is
Pleasure, is Profit ; no celestial, but an earthly thing. Virtu-
ous men, Philanthropists, Martyrs are happy accidents ; their
" taste " lies the right way ! In all senses, we worship and
follow after Power ; which may be called a physical pursuit.
No man now loves Truth, as Truth must be loved, with an
infinite love ; but only with a finite love, and as it were par
amours. Nay, properly speaking, he does not believe and
know it, but only " thinks " it, and that " there is every prob-
ability " ! He preaches it aloud, and rushes courageously
forth with it, — if there is a multitude huzzaing at his back;
yet ever keeps looking over his shoulder, and the instant the
huzzaing languishes, he too stops short.
In fact, what morality we have takes the shape of Ambition,
484 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
of " Honor : " beyond money and money's worth, our only
rational blessedness is Popularity. It were but a fool's trick
to die for conscience. Only for " character," by duel, or, in
case of extremity, by suicide, is the wise man bound to die.
By arguing on the " force of circumstances," we have argued
away all force from ourselves ; and stand leashed together,
uniform in dress and movement, like the rowers of some
boundless galley. This and that may be right and true ; but
we must not do it. Wonderful " Force of Public Opinion " !
We must act and walk in all points as it prescribes ; follow
the traffic it bids us, realize the sum of money, the degree of
" influence " it expects of us, or we shall be lightly esteemed ;
certain mouthfuls of articulate wind will be blown at us, and
this what mortal courage can front ? Thus, while civil liberty
is more and more secured to us, our moral liberty is all but
lost. Practically considered, our creed is Fatalism ; and, free
in hand and foot, we are shackled in heart and soul with far
straiter than feudal chains. Truly may we say, with the
Philosopher, " the deep meaning of the Laws of Mechanism
lies heavy on us ; " and in the closet, in the market-place, in
the temple, by the social hearth, encumbers the whole move-
ments of our mind, and over our noblest faculties is spreading
a nightmare sleep.
These dark features, we are aware, belong more or less to
other ages, as well as to ours. This faith in Mechanism, in
the all-importance of physical things, is in every age the com-
mon refuge of Weakness and blind Discontent; of all who
believe, as many will ever do, jthat man's true good lies with-
out him, not within. We are aware also, that, as applied to
ourselves in all their aggravation, they form but half a picture;
that in the whole picture there are bright lights as well as
gloomy shadows. If we here dwell chiefly on the latter, let
us not be blamed : it is in general more profitable to reckon
up our defects than to boast of our attainments.
Neither, with all these evils more or less clearly before us,
have we at any time despaired of the fortunes of society.
Despair, or even despondency, in that respect, appears to us.
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 485
in all cases, a groundless feeling. We have a faith in the
imperishable dignity of man ; in the high vocation to which,
throughout this his earthly history, he has been appointed.
However it may be with individual nations, whatever melan-
cholic speculators may assert, it seems a well-ascertained fact
that in all times, reckoning even from those of the Heraclides
and Pelasgi, the happiness and greatness of mankind at large
have been continually progressive. Doubtless this age also is
advancing. Its very unrest, its ceaseless activity, its discon-
tent contains matter of promise. Knowledge, education are
opening the eyes of the humblest ; are increasing the number
of thinking minds without limit. This is as it should be ; for
not in turning back, not in resisting, but only in resolutely
struggling forward, does our life consist.
Nay, after all, our spiritual maladies are but of Opinion ;
we are but fettered by chains of our own forging, and which
ourselves also can rend asunder. This deep, paralyzed sub-
jection to physical objects comes not from Nature, but from
our own unwise mode of viewing Nature. Neither can we
understand that man wants, at this hour, any faculty of heart,
soul or body, that ever belonged to him. " He, who has been
born, has been a First Man ; " has had lying before his young
eyes, and as yet unhardened into scientific shapes, a world as
plastic, infinite, divine, as lay before the eyes of Adam him-
self. If Mechanism, like some glass bell, encircles and im-
prisons us ; if the soul looks forth on a fair heavenly country
which it cannot reach, and pines, and in its scanty atmosphere
IS ready to perish, — yet the bell is but of glass ; " one bold
stroke to break the bell in pieces, and thou art delivered ! "
NTot the invisible world is wanting, for it dwells in man's soul,
iud this last is still here. Are the solemn temples, in which
the Divinity was once visibly revealed among us, crumbling
away ? We can repair them, we can rebuild them. The wis-
dom, the heroic worth of our forefathers, which we have lost,
we can recover. That admiration of old nobleness, which now
so often shows itself as a faint dilettantism, will one day
become a generous emulation, and man may again be all that
he has been, and more than he has been. Nor are these the
486 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS.
mere day-dreams of fancy ; they are clear possibilities ; nay, in
this time they are even assuming the character of hopes. Indi-
cations we do see in other countries and in our own, signs infi-
nitely cheering to us, that Mechanism is not always to be our
hard taskmaster, but one day to be our pliant, all-ministering
servant ; that a new and brighter spiritual era is slowly, evolv-
ing itself for all men. But on these things our present course>.
forbids us to enter. ' ■' " "• ... V
Meanwhile, that great outward changes are in progress can
be doubtful to no one. The time is sick and out of joint.
Many things have reached their height ; and it is a wise adage
that tells us, " the darkest hour is nearest the dawn." Wher-
ever we can gather indication of the public thought, whether
from printed books, as in France or Germany, or from Carr
bonari rebellions and other political tumults, as in Spain,
Portugal, Italy and Greece, the voice it utters is the same.
The thinking minds of all nations call for change. There is
a deep-lying struggle in the whole fabric of society ; a bound-
less grinding collision of the New with the Old. The French
Ke volution, as is now visible enough, was not the parent of
this mighty movement, but its offspring. Those two hostile
influences, which always exist in human things, and on the
constant intercommunion of which depends their health and
safety, had lain in separate masses, accumulating through gen-
erations, and France was the scene of their fiercest explosion ;
but the final issue was not unfolded in that country : nay it is
not yet anywhere unfolded. Political freedom is hitherto the
object of these efforts; but they will not and cannot stop
there. It is towards a higher freedom than mere freedom from
oppression by his fellow-mortal, that man dimly aims. Of
this higher, heavenly freedom, which is "man's reasonable
service," all his noble institutions, his faithful endeavors and
loftiest attainments, are but tlie body, and more and more
approximated emblem.
On the whole, as this wondrous planet. Earth, is journeying
with its fellows through infinite Space, so are the wondrouq
destinies embarked on it journeying through infinite Time^
under a higher guidance than ours. For the present, as out
SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 487
astronomy informs us, its path lies towards Hercules, tlie con-
stellation of Physical Power : but that is not our most press-
ing concern. Go where it will, the deep Heaven will be
around it. Therein let us have hope and sure faith. To
reform a world, to reform a nation, no wise man will under-
take; and all but foolish men know, that the only solid,
though a far slower reformation, is what each begins and
perfects on himself.
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