Bot-S: Autobiography of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

She sprang up and advanced to me, but not with vehemence. She
stood before me, and seemed to be thinking of something. Then she said,
"I know that I have lost you; I make no further pretensions to you. But
neither shall you have him, sister!"

With these words she grasped me very singularly by the head, thrusting
both her hands into my locks, pressing my face to hers, and kissed me
repeatedly on the mouth. "Now," cried she, "fear my curse! Woe upon
woe, for ever and ever, to her who kisses these lips for the first time
after me! Dare to have anything more to do with him! I know heaven
hears me this time. And you, Sir, hasten now, hasten away as fast as
you can!"

I flew down the stairs, with the firm determination never to outer the
house again.


[1] A Repetent is one of a class of persons to be found in the German
universities, and who assist students in their studies. They are
somewhat analogous to the English Tutors, but not precisely; for the
latter render their aid _before_ the recitation, while the Repetent
_repeats_ with the student, in private, the lectures he has previously
heard from the professor. Hence his name, which might be rendered
_Repeater_, had we any corresponding class of men in England or
America, which would justify an English word_.--American Note._

[2] A "murki" is defined as an old species of short composition
for the harpsichord, with a lively murmuring accompaniment in the
bass.--_Trans._




TENTH BOOK.


The German poets, since they, as members of a corporation, no longer
stood as one man, did not enjoy the smallest advantages in the
citizen-world. They had neither support, standing, nor respectability,
except in so far as their other position was favourable to them, and
therefore it was a matter of mere chance whether talent was born to
honour or to disgrace. A poor son of earth, with a consciousness of
mind and faculties, was forced to crawl along painfully through life,
and, from the pressure of momentary necessities, to squander the gifts
which perchance he had received from the Muses. Occasional poems, the
first and most genuine of all kinds of poetry, had become despicable
to such a degree, that the nation even now cannot attain a conception
of their high value; and a poet, if he did not strike altogether into
Günther's** path, appeared in the world in the most melancholy state of
subserviency, as a jester and parasite, so that both on the theatre and
on the stage of life he represented a character which any one and every
one could abuse at pleasure.

If, on the contrary, the Muse associated herself with men of
respectability, these received thereby a lustre which was reflected
back to the donor. Noblemen well versed in life, like Hagedorn,
dignified citizens, like Brockes, distinguished men of science, like
Haller, appeared among the first in the nation, to be equal with the
most eminent and the most prized. Those persons, too, were specially
honoured, who, together with this pleasing talent, distinguished
themselves as active, faithful men of business. In this way Uz,
Rabener, and Weisse enjoyed a respect of quite a peculiar kind; people
had here to value, when combined, those most heterogeneous qualities
which are seldom found united.

[Side-note: Klopstock.]

But now the time was to come when poetic genius should become aware of
itself, should create for itself its own relations, and understand how
to lay the foundation of an independent dignity. Everything necessary
to found such an epoch was combined in KLOPSTOCK. Considered both
from the sensual and moral side, he was a pure young man. Seriously
and thoroughly educated, he places, from his youth upwards, a great
value upon himself and upon whatever he does, and while considerately
measuring out beforehand the steps of his life, turns, with a
presentiment of the whole strength of his internal nature, towards the
loftiest and most grateful theme. The _Messiah_, a name which betokens
infinite attributes, was to be glorified afresh by him. The Redeemer
was to be the hero whom the poet thought to accompany through earthly
lowliness and sorrows to the highest heavenly triumphs. Everything
Godlike, angelic, and human that lay in the young soul was here
called into requisition. Brought up by the Bible and nourished by its
strength, he now lives with patriarchs, prophets, and forerunners,
as if they were present; yet all these are only evoked from ages to
draw a bright halo round the One whose humiliation they behold with
astonishment, and in whose exaltation they are gloriously to bear a
part. For at last, after gloomy and horrible hours, the everlasting
Judge will uncloud his face, again acknowledge his Son and fellow-God,
who, on the other hand, will again lead to Him alienated men, nay,
even a fallen spirit. The living heavens shout with a thousand angel
voices round the throne, and a radiance of love gushes out over the
universe, which shortly before had fastened its looks upon a fearful
place of sacrifice. The heavenly peace which Klopstock felt in the
conception and execution of this poem, communicates itself even now
to every one who reads the first ten cantos, without allowing certain
requisitions to be brought forward, which an advancing cultivation does
not willingly abandon.

The dignity of the subject elevated in the poet the feeling of his own
personality. That he himself would enter hereafter into those choirs,
that the God-Man would distinguish him, nay, give him face to face the
reward for his labours, which even here every feeling, pious heart had
fondly paid in many a pure tear--these were such innocent, childlike
thoughts and hopes, as only a well-constituted mind can conceive and
cherish. Thins Klopstock gained the perfect right to regard himself
as a consecrated person, and thus in his actions he studied the most
scrupulous purity. Even in his old age it troubled him exceedingly that
he had given his earliest love to a lady who, by marrying another,
left him in uncertainty whether she had really loved him or been worthy
of him. The sentiments which bound him to Meta, their hearty, tranquil
affection, their short sacred married life, the aversion of the
surviving husband from a second union, all is of that kind which may
well be remembered hereafter in the circle of the blessed.

This honourable conduct towards himself was still further enhanced by
his being favourably received for a long time in well-minded Denmark,
in the house of a great, and, humanly speaking, excellent statesman.
Here, in a higher circle, which was exclusive indeed, but, at the same
time, devoted to external manners and attention towards the world, his
tendency became still more decided. A composed demeanour, a measured
speech, and a laconism even when he spoke openly and decidedly,
gave him, through his whole life, a certain diplomatic ministerial
consequence, which seemed to be at variance with his tender natural
feelings, although both sprang from one source. Of all this, his first
works give a clear transcript and type, and they thus could not but
gain an incredible influence. That, however, he personally assisted
others who were struggling in life and poetry, has scarcely been
mentioned, as one of his most decided characteristics.

[Side-note: Klopstock and Gleim.]

But just such a furtherance of young people in literary action and
pursuit, a hopeful pleasure in bringing forward men not favoured by
fortune, and making the way easy to them, has rendered illustrious one
German, who, in respect to the dignity which he gave himself, may be
named as the second, but, in regard to his living influence, as the
first. It will escape no one that GLEIM is here meant. In possession
of an obscure, indeed, but lucrative office, residing in a pleasantly
situated spot, not too large, and enlivened by military, civic, and
literary activity, whence proceeded the revenues of a great and wealthy
institution, not without a part of them remaining behind for the
advantage of the place, he felt within himself also a lively productive
impulse, which, however, with all its strength, was not quite enough
for him, and therefore he gave himself up to another, perhaps stronger
impulse, namely, that of making others produce something. Both these
activities were intertwined incessantly during his whole long life. He
could as easily have lived without taking breath, as without writing
poetry and making presents, and by helping needy talents of all kinds
through earlier or later embarrassments, contributing to the honour of
literature, he gained so many friends, debtors, and dependents, that
they willingly allowed his diffuse verses to pass, since they could
give him nothing in return for his rich benefits but endurance of his
poetry.

Now, the high idea which these two men might well form of their own
worth, and by which others were induced also to think themselves
somebody, has produced very great and beautiful results, both in public
and private, But this consciousness, honourable as it is, called a
peculiar evil down for themselves, for those around them, and for their
time. If, judging from their intellectual effects, both these men may
without hesitation be called great, with respect to the world they
remained but small, and considered in comparison with a more stirring
life, their external position was nought. The day is long, and so is
the night: one cannot be always writing poetry, or doing, or giving;
their time could not be filled up like that of people of the world, and
men of rank and wealth; they therefore set too high a value on their
particular limited situations, attached an importance to their daily
affairs which they should only have allowed themselves amongst each
other, and took more than reasonable delight in their own jokes, which,
though they made the moment agreeable, could be of no consequence in
the end. They received praise and honour from others, as they deserved;
they gave it back, with measure indeed, but always too profusely; and
because they felt that their friendship was worth much, they were
pleased to express it repeatedly, and in this spared neither paper nor
ink. Thus arose those correspondences, at the deficiency of which in
solid contents the modern world wonders, nor can it be blamed, when
it hardly sees the possibility of eminent men delighting themselves
in such an interchange of nothing, or when it expresses the wish that
such leaves might have remained unprinted. But we may suffer these few
volumes always to stand along with so many others upon our bookshelves,
if we have learned from them the fact that even the most eminent man
lives only by the day, and enjoys but a sorry entertainment, when he
throws himself too much back upon himself, and neglects to grasp into
the fulness of the external world, where alone he can find nourishment
for his growth, and at the same time a standard for its measurement.

The activity of these men was in its finest bloom, when we young folks
began also to bestir ourselves in our own circle, and with my younger
friends, if not with older persons too. I was pretty much in the way
of falling into this sort of mutual flattery, forbearance, raising and
supporting. In my immediate sphere, whatever I produced could always be
reckoned good. Ladies, friends, and patrons will not consider bad that
which is undertaken and written out of affection for them. From such
obligations at last arises the expression of an empty satisfaction with
each other, in the phrases of which a character is easily lost, if it
is not from time to time steeled to higher excellence.

And thus I had the happiness to say that, by means of an unexpected
acquaintance, all the self-complacency, love of the looking-glass,
vanity, pride, and haughtiness that might have been resting or working
within me, were exposed to a very severe trial, which was unique in its
kind, by no means in accordance with the time, and therefore so much
the more searching and more sorely felt.

[Side-note: Herder.]

For the most important event, one that was to have the weightiest
consequences for me, was my acquaintance with HERDER, and the nearer
connexion with him which sprung from it. He accompanied the travels of
the Prince of Holstein-Eutin, who was in a melancholy state of mind,
and had come with him to Strasburg. Our society, as soon as it knew of
his arrival, was seized with a great longing to approach him, and this
good fortune happened to me first, quite unexpectedly and by chance.
I had gone to the Ghost tavern to inquire after some distinguished
stranger or other. Just at the bottom of the staircase I found a man
who was on the point of ascending, and whom I might have taken for a
clergyman. His powdered hair was put up in a queue, his black clothes
likewise distinguished him, but still more a long black silk mantle,
the skirts of which he had gathered up and stuck into his pocket. This
somewhat striking, but yet, on the whole, polite and pleasing figure,
of which I had already been told, left me not the least doubt that he
was the celebrated newcomer, and my address was to convince him at once
that I knew him. He asked my name, which could be of no consequence
to him; but my frankness seemed to please him, since he returned it
with great friendliness, and as we mounted the stairs, showed himself
ready immediately for animated communication. I have forgotten whom
we visited then; it is sufficient to say, that at parting I begged
permission to wait on him at his own residence, which he granted me
kindly enough. I did not neglect to avail myself repeatedly of this
favour, and was more and more attracted by him. He had somewhat of
softness in his manner, which was very suitable and becoming, without
being exactly easy. A round face, an imposing forehead, a somewhat
puggish nose, a mouth somewhat prominent, but highly characteristic,
pleasing, and amiable; a pair of coal-black eyes under black eye-brows,
which did not fail of their effect, although one of them used to be red
and inflamed. By various questions he tried to make himself acquainted
with me and my situation, and his power of attraction operated on me
with growing strength. I was, generally speaking, of a very confiding
disposition, and with him especially I had no secrets. It was not long,
however, before the repelling pulse of his nature began to appear, and
placed me in no small uneasiness. I related to him many things of my
youthful occupations and taste, and among others, of a collection of
seals, which I had principally gotten together through the assistance
of our family friend, who had an extensive correspondence. I had
arranged them according to the _State Calendar_, and by this means had
become well acquainted with the whole of the potentates, the greater
and lesser mightinesses and powers, even down to the nobility under
them. These heraldic insignia had often, and in particular at the
ceremonies of the coronation, been of use to my memory. I spoke of
these things with some complacency; but he was of another opinion, and
not only stripped the subject of all interest, but also contrived to
make it ridiculous and nearly disgusting.

From this his spirit of contradiction I had much to endure; for he
had resolved, partly because he wished to separate from the prince,
partly on account of a complaint in his eye, to remain in Strasburg.
This complaint is one of the most inconvenient and unpleasant, and
the more troublesome since it can be cured only by a painful, highly
irritating and uncertain operation. The tear-bag is closed below, so
that the moisture contained in it cannot flow off to the nose, and so
much the less as the adjacent bone is deficient in the aperture by
which this secretion should naturally take place. The bottom of the
tear-bag must therefore be cut open, and the bone bored through, when a
horse-hair is drawn through the lachrymal point, then down through the
opened bag, and the new canal thus put into connexion with it, and this
hair is moved backwards and forwards every day, in order to restore
the communication between the two parts;--all which cannot be done or
attained, if an incision is not first made externally in that place.

Herder was now separated from the prince, was moved into lodgings
of his own, and resolved to have himself operated upon by Lobstein.
Here those exercises by which I had sought to blunt my sensibility
did me good service; I was able to be present at the operation, and
to be serviceable and helpful in many ways to so worthy a man. I
found here every reason to admire his great firmness and endurance:
for neither during the numerous surgical operations, nor at the
oft-repeated painful dressings, did he show himself in any degree
irritable, and of all of us he seemed to be the one who suffered
least. But in the intervals, indeed, we had to endure the changes of
his temper in many ways. I say _we_ for besides myself, a pleasant
Russian, named PEGLOW, was mostly with him. This man had been an early
acquaintance of Herder's in Riga, and though no longer a youth, was
trying to perfect himself in surgery under Lobstein's guidance. Herder
could be charmingly prepossessing and brilliant, but he could just
as easily turn an ill-humoured side foremost. All men, indeed, have
this attraction and repulsion, according to their nature, some more,
some less, some in longer, some in shorter pulsations; few can really
control their peculiarities in this respect, many in appearance. As for
Herder, the preponderance of his contradictory, bitter, biting humour
was certainly derived from his disease and the sufferings arising from
it. This case often occurs in life; one does not sufficiently take
into consideration the moral effect of sickly conditions, and one
therefore judges many characters very unjustly, because it is assumed
that all men are healthy, and required of them that they shall conduct
themselves accordingly.

[Side-note: Herder.]

During the whole time of this cure I visited Herder morning and
evening; I even remained whole days with him, and in a short time
accustomed myself so much the more to his chiding and fault-finding,
as I daily learned to appreciate his beautiful and great qualities,
his extensive knowledge, and his profound views. The influence of this
good-natured blusterer was great and important. He was five years
older than myself, which in younger days makes a great difference
to begin with; and as I acknowledged him for what he was, and tried
to value that which he had already produced, he necessarily gained
a great superiority over me. But the situation was not comfortable;
for older persons, with whom I had associated hitherto, had sought
to form me with indulgence, perhaps had even spoiled me by their
lenity; but from Herder, behave as one might, one could never expect
approval. As now, on the one side, my great affection and reverence
for him, and on the other, the discontent which he excited in me,
were continually at strife with each other, there arose within me an
inward struggle, the first of its kind which I had experienced in my
life. Since his conversations were at all times important, whether he
asked, answered, or communicated his opinions in any other manner, he
could not but advance me daily, nay hourly, to new views. At Leipzig,
I had accustomed myself to a narrow and circumscribed existence, and
my general knowledge of German literature could not be extended by my
situation in Frankfort; nay, those mystico-religio-chemical occupations
had led me into obscure regions, and what had been passing for some
years back in the wide literary world, had for the most part remained
unknown to me. Now I was at once made acquainted by Herder with all the
new aspiration, and all the tendencies which it seemed to be taking. He
had already made himself sufficiently known, and by his _Fragments_,
his _Kritische Wälder_ (_Critical Woods_), and other works, had
immediately placed himself by the side of the most eminent men who had
for a long time drawn towards them the eyes of their country. What an
agitation there must have been in such a mind--what a fermentation
there must have been in such a nature--can neither be conceived nor
described. But great was certainly the concealed effort, as will be
easily admitted, when one reflects for how many years afterwards and
how much he has done and produced.

We had not lived together long in this manner when he confided to me
that he meant to be a competitor for the prize which was offered, at
Berlin, for the best treatise on the origin of language. His work was
already nearly completed, and, as he wrote a very neat hand, he could
soon communicate to me, in parts, a legible manuscript. I had never
reflected on such subjects, for I was yet too deeply involved in the
midst of things to have thought about their beginning and end. The
question, too, seemed to me in some measure an idle one; for if God
had created man as man, language was just as innate in him as walking
erect; he must have just as well perceived that he could sing with
his throat, and modify the tones in various ways with tongue, palate,
and lips, as he must have remarked that he could walk and take hold
of things. If man was of divine origin, so was also language itself;
and if man, considered in the circle of nature, was a natural being,
language was likewise natural. These two things, like soul and body,
I could never separate. Süssmilch, with a realism crude yet somewhat
fantastically devised, had declared himself for the divine origin, that
is, that God had played the schoolmaster to the first men. Herder's
treatise went to show that man as man could and must have attained to
language by his own powers. I read the treatise with much pleasure, and
it was of special aid in strengthening my mind; only I did not stand
high enough either in knowledge or thought to form a solid judgment
upon it. I therefore gave the author my applause, adding only a few
remarks which flowed from my way of viewing the subject. But one was
received just like the other; there was scolding and blaming, whether
one agreed with him conditionally or unconditionally. The fat surgeon
had less patience than I; he humorously declined the communication of
this prize-essay, and affirmed that he was not prepared to meditate on
such abstract topics. He urged us in preference to a game of ombre,
which we commonly played together in the evening.

[Side-note: Herder's Sarcasms.]

During so troublesome and painful a cure, Herder lost nothing of his
vivacity; but it became less and less amiable. He could not write a
note to ask for anything, that would not be spiced with some scoff or
other. Once, for instance, he wrote to me thus:--

    "If those letters of Brutus thou hast in thy Cicero's letters,
     Thou, whom consolers of schools, deck'd out in magnificent bindings,
     Soothe from their well plan'd shelves--yet more by the outside than
            inside,
     Thou, who from gods art descended, or Goths, or from origin filthy,[1]
     Goethe, send them to me."

It was not polite, indeed, that he should allow himself this jest on my
name; for a man's name is not like a mantle, which merely hangs about
him, and which, perchance, may be safely twitched and pulled; but is a
perfectly fitting garment, which has grown over and over him like his
very skin, at which one cannot scratch and scrape without wounding the
man himself.

The first reproach, on the contrary, was better founded. I had brought
with me to Strasburg the authors I had obtained, by exchange, from
Langer, with various fine editions from my father's collection besides,
and had set them up on a neat book-case, with the best intentions of
using them. But how should my time, which I split up into an hundred
different activities, suffice for that? Herder, who was most attentive
to books, since he had need of them every moment, perceived my fine
collection at his first visit, but soon saw, too, that I made no use of
them. He, therefore, as the greatest enemy to all false appearances and
ostentation, was accustomed, on occasion, to rally me upon the subject.

Another sarcastic poem occurs to me, which he sent me one evening,
when I had been telling him a great deal about the Dresden gallery.
I had, indeed, not penetrated into the higher meaning of the Italian
school; but Dominico Feti, an excellent artist, although a humorist,
and therefore not of the first rank, had interested me much. Scripture
subjects had to be painted. He confined himself to the New Testament
parables, and was fond of representing them with much originality,
taste, and good-humour. He brought them altogether into every-day life,
and the spirited and _naïve_ details of his compositions, recommended
by a free pencil, had made a vivid impression upon me. At this, my
childish enthusiasm for art, Herder sneered in the following fashion:--

            "From sympathy,
    The master I like best of all
    Dominico Feti they call.
    A parable from Scripture he is able
    Neatly to turn into a crazy fable
    From sympathy:--thou crazy parable!"

I could mention many jokes of the kind, more or less clear or
abstruse, cheerful or bitter. They did not vex me, but made me feel
uncomfortable. Yet since I knew how to value highly everything that
contributed to my own cultivation, and as I had often given up former
opinions and inclinations, I soon accommodated myself, and only sought,
as far as it was possible for me from my point of view, to distinguish
just blame from unjust invectives. And thus no day passed over that had
not been, in the most fruitful manner, instructive to me.

I was made acquainted by him with poetry from quite a different side,
in another light than heretofore, and one, too, which suited me well.
The poetic art of the Hebrews, which he treated ingeniously after
his predecessor Lowth--popular poetry, the traditions of which in
Alsace he urged us to search after; and the oldest records existing
as poetry--all bore witness that poetry in general was a gift to the
world and to nations, and not the private inheritance of a few refined,
cultivated men. I swallowed all this, and the more eager I was in
receiving, the more liberal was he in giving, so that we spent the
most interesting hours together. The other natural studies which I had
begun, I endeavoured to continue, and as one always has time enough,
if one will apply it well, so amongst them all I succeeded in doing
twice or thrice as much as usual. As to the fulness of those few weeks
during which we lived together, I can well say that all which Herder
has gradually produced since, was then announced in the germ, and that
I thereby fell into the fortunate condition that I could completely
attach to something higher, and expand all that I had hitherto thought,
learned, and made my own. Had Herder been methodical, I should have
found the most precious guide for giving a durable tendency to my
cultivation; but he was more inclined to examine and stimulate,
than to lead and conduct. Thus he at first made me acquainted with
Hamann's writings, upon which he set a very great value. But instead
of instructing me as to these, and making the bias and drift of his
extraordinary mind intelligible to me, it generally only served him
for amusement when I behaved strangely enough, in trying to get at
the meaning of such sibylline leaves. However, I could well feel that
something in Hamann's writings appealed to me; and to this I gave
myself up, without knowing whence it came or whither it was leading me.

[Side-note: Herder's Departure.]

After the cure had lasted longer than was reasonable, Lobstein had
begun to hesitate, and to repeat himself in his treatment, so that
the affair would not come to an end; and Peglow, too, had confided
to me in private that a favourable issue was hardly to be expected;
the whole position became gloomy; Herder became impatient and out of
temper, he could not succeed in continuing his activity as heretofore,
and was obliged to restrain himself the more, as they began to lay
the blame of the surgical failure upon his too great mental exertion,
and his uninterrupted, animated, nay, merry intercourse with us. It
is sufficient to say, that after so much trouble and suffering, the
artificial tear-channel would not form itself, and the communication
intended would not take place. It was necessary to let the wound heal
over in order that the disease should not become worse. If, now, during
the operation, one could but admire Herder's firmness under such
pains, his melancholy and even fierce resignation to the idea that he
must bear such a blot about him all his life, had about it something
truly sublime, by which he gained for ever the reverence of those
who saw and loved him. This disease, which disfigured so expressive
a countenance, must have been so much the more afflicting to him, as
he had become acquainted with an excellent lady in Darmstadt, and had
gained her affections. It may have been for this cause principally that
he submitted to the cure, in order, on his return, to appear more free,
more cheerful, and more handsome in the eyes of his half-betrothed, and
to unite himself more certainly and indissolubly with her. However, he
hastened away from Strasburg as soon as possible, and since his stay
had hitherto been as expensive as it was unpleasant, I borrowed a sum
of money for him, which he promised to refund by an appointed day. The
time passed without the arrival of the money. My creditor, indeed, did
not dun me; but I was for several weeks in embarrassment. At last the
letter and the money came, and even here he did not act unlike himself;
for, instead of thanks or an apology, his letter contained nothing but
satirical things in doggerel verse, which would have puzzled, if not
alienated, another; but it did not move me at all, for I had conceived
so great and powerful an idea of his worth that it absorbed everything
of an opposite nature which could have injured it.

One should never speak, publicly at least, of one's own faults, or
those of others, if one does not hope to effect some useful purpose
by it; on this account I will here insert certain remarks which force
themselves upon me.

Gratitude and ingratitude belong to those events which appear every
moment in the moral world, and about which men can never agree
among themselves. I usually distinguish between non-thankfulness,
ingratitude, and aversion from gratitude. The first is innate with
men, nay, created with them; for it arises from a happy volatile
forgetfulness of the repulsive as well as of the delightful, by which
alone the continuation of life is possible. Man needs such an infinite
quantity of previous and concurrent assistances for a tolerable
existence, that if he would always pay to the sun and the earth, to
God and nature, to ancestors and parents, to friends and companions,
the thanks due to them, he would have neither time nor feeling left to
receive and enjoy new benefits. But if the natural man suffers this
volatility to get the control in and over him, a cold indifference
gains more and more the ascendancy, and one at last regards one's
benefactor as a stranger, to whose injury, perhaps, anything may be
undertaken, provided it be advantageous to ourselves. This alone
can properly be called ingratitude, which results from the rudeness
into which the uncultivated nature must necessarily lose itself at
last. Aversion from gratitude, however, the rewarding of a benefit
by ill-natured and sullen conduct, is very rare, and occurs only in
eminent men, such as, with great natural gifts, and a presentiment
of them, being born in a lower rank of society or in a helpless
condition, must, from their youth upwards, force themselves along, step
by step, and receive, at every point, aids and supports, which are
often embittered and repulsive to them through the coarseness of their
benefactors, since that which they receive is earthly, while that
which, on the other hand, they give, is of a higher kind, so that what
is, strictly speaking, a compensation, is out of the question. Lessing,
with the fine knowledge of earthly things which fell to his share in
the best years of his life, has in one place bluntly, but cheerfully
expressed himself. Herder, on the contrary, constantly embittered his
finest days, both for himself and others, because he knew not how to
moderate, by strength of mind in later years, that ill-humour which had
necessarily seized him in youth.

[Side-note: Artificial Gratitude.]

One may well make this demand of oneself: for, to a man's capability of
cultivation, comes, with friendly aid, the light of nature, which is
always active in enlightening him about his condition; and generally,
in many moral points of culture, one should not construe the failings
too severely, nor look about after the most serious and remote means of
correcting them; for certain faults may be easily and even playfully
removed. Thus, for instance, by mere habit, we can excite gratitude in
ourselves, keep it alive, and even make it necessary to us.

In a biographical attempt, it is proper to speak of oneself. I am, by
nature, as little grateful as any man, and on forgetting the benefit
received, the violent feeling of a momentary disagreement could very
easily beguile me into ingratitude.

To obviate this, I accustomed myself, in the first place, with
everything that I possessed, to call to mind with pleasure how I came
by it, from whom I received it, whether it was by way of present,
exchange, or purchase, or in any other manner. I have accustomed
myself, in showing my collections, to mention the persons by whose
means I obtained each article, nay, even to do justice to the occasion,
to the accident, to the remotest cause and coincidence, by which
things which are dear and of value to me have become mine. That
which surrounds us thus receives a life; we see in it a spiritual
combination, full of love, reminding us of its origin; and, by thus
making past circumstances present to us, our momentary existence is
elevated and enriched, the originators of the gifts rise repeatedly
before the imagination, we connect with their image a pleasing
remembrance, ingratitude becomes impossible, and a return, on occasion,
becomes easy and desirable. At the same time, we are led to the
consideration of that which is not a possession palpable to the senses,
and we love to recapitulate to whom our higher endowments are to be
ascribed, and whence they take their date.

Before I turn my attention from that connexion with Herder, which was
so important and so rich in consequences for me, I find yet something
more to adduce. Nothing was more natural than that I should by degrees
become more and more reserved towards Herder, in communicating those
things which had hitherto contributed to my culture, but especially
such as still seriously occupied my attention at the moment. He had
destroyed my enjoyment of so much that I had loved before, and had
especially blamed me in the strongest manner for the pleasure I took
in _Ovid's Metamorphoses._ I might defend my favourite as I would, I
might say that, for a youthful fancy, nothing could be more delightful
than to linger in those cheerful and glorious regions with gods
and demi-gods, and to be a witness of their deeds and passions; I
might circumstantially quote that previously mentioned opinion of a
sober-minded man, and corroborate it by my own experience; all this,
according to Herder, went for nothing; there was no immediate truth,
properly so called, to be found in these poems; here was neither
Greece nor Italy, neither a primitive world nor a cultivated one,
everything was rather an imitation of what had already existed, and
a mannerised representation, such as could be expected only from an
over-cultivated man. And if at last I would maintain, that whatever an
eminent individual produces is also nature, and that always, in all
nations, ancient and modern, the poet alone has been the maker; this
was not allowed to pass, and I had to endure much on this account, nay,
I was almost disgusted with my Ovid by it; for there is no affection,
no habit so strong, that it can hold out in the long run against the
animadversions of eminent men in whom one places confidence. Something
always cleaves to us, and if one cannot love unconditionally, love is
already in a critical condition.

I most carefully concealed from him my interest in certain subjects
which had rooted themselves within me, and were, by little and
little, moulding themselves into poetic form. These were _Götz von
Berlichingen_ and _Faust._ The biography of the former had seized my
inmost heart. The figure of a rude, well-meaning self-helper, in a
wild anarchical time, awakened my deepest sympathy. The significant
puppet-show fable of the latter resounded and vibrated many-toned
within me. I had also wandered about in all sorts of science, and had
early enough been led to see its vanity. I had, moreover, tried all
sorts of ways in real life, and had always returned more unsatisfied
and troubled. Now these things, as well as many others, I carried about
with me, and delighted myself with them during my solitary hours,
but without writing anything down. But most of all, I concealed from
Herder my mystico-cabalistical chemistry, and everything relating to
it, although, at the same time, I was still very fond of secretly
busying myself in working it out more consistently than it had been
communicated to me. Of my poetical labours, I believe I laid before
him _Die Mitschuldigen_, but I do not recollect that on this account
I received either correction or encouragement on his part. Yet, with
all this, he remained what he was; whatever proceeded from him had an
important, if not a cheering effect, and even his handwriting exercised
a magic power over me. I do not remember having ever torn up or thrown
away one of his letters, or even a mere envelope from his hand; yet,
with my various changes of place and time, not one document of those
strange, foreboding, and happy days is left.

[Side-note: Herder's Influence on Jung.]

That Herder's power of attraction operated upon others as well as upon
me, I should scarcely mention, had I not to remark that it extended
itself particularly to JUNG, commonly called STILLING. The true, honest
striving of this man could not but deeply interest everybody who had
any feeling, and his susceptibility must have charmed into candour
every one who was in a condition to impart anything. Even Herder
behaved towards him with more forbearance than towards the rest of us:
for his counter-action always seemed to stand in relation with the
action exerted upon him. Jung's narrowness was accompanied by so much
good-will, his urgency with so much softness and earnestness, that a
man of intelligence could certainly not be severe against him, and a
benevolent man could not scoff at him, or turn him into ridicule. Jung
was also exhilarated to such a degree by Herder, that he felt himself
strengthened and advanced in all he did; even his affection for me
seemed to lose ground in the same ratio; yet we always remained good
companions, made allowances for each other from first to last, and
mutually rendered the most friendly services.

Let us now, however, withdraw ourselves from the sick chamber of
friendship, and from the general considerations which refer rather to
disorder than to health of mind; let us betake ourselves into the open
air, to the lofty and broad gallery of the minster, as if the time were
still present, when we young fellows often appointed an evening meeting
to greet the departing sun with brimming goblets. Here all conversation
was lost in the contemplation of the country: here sharpness of
eye-sight was put to the proof, and every one strove to perceive, nay,
plainly to distinguish, the most distant objects. Good telescopes were
employed to assist us, and one friend after another exactly pointed out
the spot which had become the most dear and precious to him; and I also
did not lack such a little spot, which, although it did not come out
with importance in the landscape, nevertheless more than all the rest
attracted me with an amiable magic. On these occasions the imagination
was excited by relating our adventures, and several little jaunts were
concerted, nay, often undertaken on the spur of the moment, of which
I will circumstantially relate only one instead of a number, since in
many respects it was of consequence to me.

With two worthy friends and fellow-boarders, Engelbach and Weyland,
both natives of Lower Alsace, I repaired on horseback to Zabern, where,
in the fine weather, the friendly little place smiled pleasantly upon
us. The sight of the bishop's castle awakened our admiration; the
extent, height, and splendour of a new set of stables bore witness to
the other comforts of the owner. The gorgeousness of the staircase
surprised us, the chambers and saloons we trode with reverence, only
the person of the cardinal, a little wreck of a man, whom we saw at
table, made a contrast. The view of the garden is splendid, and a
canal, three quarters of a league long, which leads straight up to the
middle of the castle, gives a high idea of the taste and resources of
the former possessors. We rambled up and down there, and enjoyed many
parts of this beautifully situated whole, which lies on the outskirts
of the magnificent plain of Alsace, at the foot of the Vosges.

After we had enjoyed ourselves at this clerical outpost of a royal
power, and had made ourselves comfortable in its region, we arrived
early next morning at a public work, which most nobly opens the
entrance into a mighty kingdom. Illumined by the beams of the rising
sun, the famous Zabern-stairs, a work of incredible labour, rose before
us. A road, built serpentine-wise over the most fearful crags, and
wide enough for three wagons abreast, leads up hill so gently, that
the ascent is scarcely perceptible. The hardness and smoothness of the
way, the flat-topped elevations on both sides for the foot-passengers,
the stone channels to lead off the mountain-water, all are executed as
neatly as artistically and durably, so that they afford a satisfactory
view. Thus one gradually arrives at Pfalzburg, a modern fortification.
It lies upon a moderate hill; the works are elegantly built on blackish
rocks, and of the same kind of stone, and the joinings being pointed
out with white mortar, show exactly the size of the square stones, and
give a striking proof of neat workmanship. We found the place itself,
as is proper for a fortress, regular, built of stone, and the church in
good taste. When we wandered through the streets--it was nine o'clock
on Sunday morning--we heard music; they were already waltzing in the
tavern to their hearts' content, and as the inhabitants did not suffer
themselves to be disturbed in their pleasures by the great scarcity,
nay, by the threatened famine, so also our youthful cheerfulness
was not at all troubled when the baker on the road refused us some
bread, and directed us to the tavern, where perhaps we might procure
provisions at the usual place.

[Side-note: Zabern-Buchsweiler.]

We now very willingly rode down the Zabern-stairs again to gaze at
this architectural wonder a second time, and to enjoy once more the
refreshing prospect over Alsace. We soon reached Buchsweiler, where
friend Weyland had prepared for us a good reception. To a fresh
youthful mind the condition of a small town is well suited; family
connexions are closer and more perceptible; domestic life, which, with
moderate activity, moves hither and thither between light official
duties, town business, agriculture and gardening, invites us to a
friendly participation; sociableness is necessary, and the stranger
finds himself very pleasantly situated in the limited circles, if the
disputes of the inhabitants, which in such places are more palpable, do
not everywhere come in contact with him. This little town was the chief
place of the county of Hanau-Lichtenberg, belonging to the Landgrave of
Darmstadt, under French sovereignty. A regency and board of officers
established here made the place an important centre-point of a very
beautiful and desirable principality. We easily forgot the unequal
streets and the irregular architecture of the place when we went out
to look at the old castle and the gardens, which are excellently laid
out on a hill. Numerous little pleasure-woods, a preserve for tame and
mid pheasants, and the relics of many similar arrangements, showed how
pleasant this little residence must formerly have been.

Yet all these views were surpassed by the prospect which met the eye,
when, from the neighbouring Baschberg, one looked over the perfectly
paradisiacal region. This height, wholly heaped together out of
different kinds of shells, attracted my attention for the first time
to such documents of antiquity; I had never before seen them together
in so great a mass. Yet the curious eye soon turned itself exclusively
to the landscape. You stand on the last landward[2] mountain-point;
towards the north lies a fruitful plain, interspersed with little
forests, and bounded by a stem low of mountains that stretches itself
westward towards Zaber, where the episcopal palace and the abbey of St.
John, lying a league beyond it, may be plainly recognised. Thence the
eye follows the more and more vanishing chain of the Vosges towards the
south. If you turn to the north-east you see the castle of Lichtenberg
upon a rock, and towards the south-east the eye has the boundless plain
of Alsace to scrutinize, which, afar off, withdraws itself from the
sight in the more and more misty landscape, until at last the Suabian
mountains melt away like shadows into the horizon.

Already in my limited wanderings through the world, I had remarked
how important it is in travelling to inquire after the course of the
waters, and even to ask with respect to the smallest brook, whither
in reality it runs. One thus acquires a general survey of every
stream-region, in which one happens to be, a conception of the heights
and depths which bear relation to each other, and by these leading
fines, which assist the contemplation as well as the memory, extricates
oneself in the surest manner from the geological and political
labyrinth. With these observations, I took a solemn farewell of my
beloved Alsace, as the next morning we meant to turn our steps towards
Lorraine.

The evening passed away in familiar conversation, in which we tried to
cheer ourselves up under a joyless present, by remembrances of a better
past. Here, as in the whole of this small country, the name of the
last Count Reinhard von Hanau was blessed above all others; his great
understanding and aptitude had appeared in all his actions, and many
a beautiful memorial of his existence yet remained. Such men have the
advantage of being double benefactors: once to the present, which they
make happy, and then to the future, the feeling of which and courage
they nourish and sustain.

[Side-note: Saarbrück.]

Now as we turned ourselves north-westward into the mountains, passed
by Lützelstein, an old mountain tower, in a very hilly country, and
descended into the region of the Saar and the Moselle, the heavens
began to lower, as if they would render yet more sensible to us the
condition of the more rugged western country. The valley of the Saar,
where we first found Bockenheim, a small place, and saw opposite to it
Neusaarwerden, which is well-built, with a pleasure-castle, is bordered
on both sides by mountains which might be called melancholy, if at
their foot an endless succession of meadows and fields, called the
Huhnau, did not extend as far as Saaralbe, and beyond it, further than
the eye can reach. Great buildings, belonging to the former stables of
the Duke of Lorraine, here attract the eye; they are at present used
as a dairy, for which purpose, indeed, they are very well situated.
We passed through Saargemünd to Saarbrück, and this little residence
was a bright point in a land so rocky and woody. The town, small and
hilly, but well adorned by the last prince, makes at once a pleasing
impression, as the houses are all painted a greyish white, and the
different elevation of them affords a variegated view. In the middle
of a beautiful square, surrounded with handsome buildings, stands the
Lutheran church, on a small scale, but in proportion with the whole.
The front of the castle lies on the same level with the town; the back,
on the contrary, on the declivity of a steep rock. This has not only
been worked out terrace-fashion, to afford easy access to the valley,
but an oblong garden-plot has also been obtained below, by turning off
the stream on one side, and cutting away the rock on the other, after
which this whole space was lastly filled up with earth and planted. The
time of this undertaking fell in the epoch when they used to consult
the architects about laying out gardens, just as at present they call
in the aid of the landscape-painter's eye. The whole arrangement of
the castle, the costly and the agreeable, the rich and the ornamental,
betokened a life-enjoying owner, such as the deceased prince had
been; the present sovereign was not at home. President von Günderode
received us in the most obliging manner, and entertained us for three
days better than we had a right to expect. I made use of the various
acquaintance which we formed to instruct myself in many respects. The
life of the former prince, rich in pleasure, gave material enough for
conversation, as well as the various expedients which he hit upon to
make use of the advantages supplied by the nature of his land. Here I
was now properly initiated into the interest for mountain countries,
and the love for those economical and technical investigations which
have busied me a great part of my life, was first awakened within me.
We heard of the rich coal-pits at Dutweil, of the iron and alum works,
and even of a burning mountain, and we prepared ourselves to see these
wonders close.

We now rode through woody mountains, which must seem wild and dreary to
him who comes out of a magnificent fertile land, and which can attract
us only by the internal contents of its bosom. We were made acquainted
with one simple, and one complicated piece of machinery, within a short
distance of each other; namely, a scythe-smithy and a wire-drawing
factory. If one is pleased at the first because it supplies the place
of common hands, one cannot sufficiently admire the other, for it works
in a higher organic sense, from which understanding and consciousness
are scarcely to be separated. In the alum-works we made accurate
inquiries after the production and purifying of this so necessary
material, and when we saw great heaps of a white greasy, loose, earthy
matter, and asked the use of it, the labourers answered, smiling, that
it was the scum thrown up in boiling the alum, and that Herr Stauf had
it collected, as he hoped perchance to turn it to some profit. "Is Herr
Stauf alive yet?" exclaimed my companion in surprise. They answered
in the affirmative, and assured us that according to the plan of our
journey we should not pass far from his lonely dwelling.

[Side-note: Coal and Alum-Works.]

Our road now led up along the channels by which the alum-water is
conducted down, and the principal horizontal works (_stollen_), which
they call the "_landgrube_," and from which the famous Dutweil coals
are procured. These, when they are dry, have the blue colour of darkly
tarnished steel, and the most beautiful succession of rainbow tints
plays over the surface with every movement. The deep abysses of the
coal-levels, however, attracted us so much the less as their contents
lay richly poured out around us. We now reached the open mine, in which
the roasted alum-scales are steeped in ley, and soon after, a strange
occurrence surprised us, although we had been prepared. We entered into
a chasm and found ourselves in the region of the Burning Mountain.
A strong smell of sulphur surrounded us; one side of the cavity was
almost red-hot, covered with reddish stone burnt white; thick fumes
arose from the crevices, and we felt the heat of the ground through our
strong boot-soles. An event so accidental, for it is not known how this
place became ignited, affords a great advantage for the manufacture
of alum, since the alum-scales of which the surface of the mountain
consists, lie there perfectly roasted, and may be steeped in a short
time and very well. The whole chasm had arisen by the calcined scales
being gradually removed and used up. We clambered up out of this depth,
and were on the top of the mountain. A pleasant beech-grove encircled
the spot, which followed up to the chasm and extended itself on both
sides of it. Many trees stood already dried up, some were withering
near others, which, as yet quite fresh, felt no forebodings of that
fierce heat which was approaching and threatening their roots also.

Upon this space different openings were steaming, others had already
done smoking, and this fire had thus smouldered for ten years already
through old broken-up pits and horizontal shafts, with which the
mountain is undermined. It may, too, have penetrated to the clefts
through new coal-beds: for, some hundred paces further into the wood,
they had contemplated following up manifest indications of an abundance
of coal; but they had not excavated far before a strong smoke burst
out against the labourers and dispersed them. The opening was filled
up again, yet we found the place still smoking as we went on our way
past it to the residence of our hermit-like chemist. This lies amid
mountains and woods; the vallies there take very various and pleasing
windings, the soil round about is black and of the coal kind, and
strata of it frequently come in sight. A coal philosopher--_philosophus
per ignem_, as they said formerly--could scarcely have settled himself
more suitably.

We came before a small house, not inconvenient for a dwelling, and
found Herr Stauf, who immediately recognised my friend, and received
him with lamentations about the new government. Indeed we could
see from what he said, that the alum-works, as well as many other
well-meant establishments, on account of external and perhaps internal
circumstances also, did not pay their expenses; with much else of the
sort. He belonged to the chemists of that time, who, with a hearty
feeling for all that could be done with the products of nature, took
delight in abstruse investigations of trifles and secondary matters,
and with their insufficient knowledge were not dexterous enough to do
that from which properly economical and mercantile profit is to be
derived. Thus the use which he promised himself from that scum lay
very far in the distance; thus he had nothing to show but a cake of
sal-ammoniac, with which the Burning Mountain had supplied him.

Ready** and glad to communicate his complaints to a human ear, the
lean, decrepit little man, with a shoe on one foot and a slipper on
the other, and with stockings hanging down and repeatedly pulled up in
vain, dragged himself up the mountain to where the resin-house stands,
which he himself had erected, and now, with great grief, sees falling
to ruins. Here was found a connected row of furnaces, where coal was
to be cleansed of sulphur, and made fit for use in iron-works; but at
the same time they wished also to turn the oil and resin to account;
nay, they would not even lose the soot; and thus all failed together,
on account of the many ends in view. During the life-time of the former
prince, the business had been carried on in the spirit of an amateur,
and in hope; now they asked for the immediate use, which was not to be
shown.

After we left our adept to his solitude, we hastened--for it was now
late--to the glass-house in Friedrichsthal, where we became acquainted,
on our way, with one of the most important and most wonderful
operations of human ingenuity.

Nevertheless, some pleasant adventures, and a surprising firework at
night-fall, net far from Neukirch, interested us young fellows almost
more than these important experiences. For as a few nights before,
on the banks of the Saar, shining clouds of glow-worms hovered around
us, betwixt rock and thicket, so now the spark-spitting forges played
their sprightly firework towards us. We passed, in the depth of night,
the smelting-houses situated in the bottom of the valley, and were
delighted with the strange half-gloom of these dens of plank, which are
but dimly lighted by a little opening in the glowing furnace. The noise
of the water, and of the bellows driven by it, the fearful whizzing and
shrieking of the blast of air which, raging into the smelted ore, stuns
the ears and confuses the senses, drove us away, at last, to turn into
Neukirch, which is built up against the mountain.

But, notwithstanding all the variety and fatigue of the day, I could
find no rest here. I left my friend to a happy sleep, and sought
the hunting-seat, which lay still further up. It looks out far over
mountain and wood, the outlines of which were only to be recognised
against the clear night-sky, but the sides and depths of which were
impenetrable to my sight. This well-preserved building stood as empty
as it was lonely; no castellan, no huntsman was to be found. I sat
before the great glass doors upon the steps which run around the whole
terrace. Here, surrounded by mountains, over a forest-grown, dark soil,
which seemed yet darker in contrast with the clear horizon of a summer
night, with the glowing starry vault above me, I sat for a long time
by myself on the deserted spot, and thought I never had felt such a
solitude. How sweetly, then, was I surprised by the distant sound of a
couple of French horns, which at once, like the fragrance of balsam,
enlivened the peaceful atmosphere. Then there awakened within me the
image of a lovely being, which had retired into the background before
the motley objects of these travelling days, but which now unveiled
itself-more and more, and drove me from the spot back to my quarters,
where I made preparations to set off with the earliest.

[Side-note: Zwey-Brücken.]

The return was not used like the journey out. Thus we hurried
through Zwey-brücken (Deux-Ponts), which, as a beautiful and notable
residence, might well have deserved our attention. We cast a glance
upon the great, simple castle, on the extensive esplanades, regularly
planted with linden-trees, and very well adapted for the training of
race-horses, and on the large stables, und the citizens' houses which
the prince had built to be raffled for. All this, as well as the
costume and manners of the inhabitants, especially of the matrons
and maids, had reference to a distant connexion, and made plainly
visible the relation with Paris, from which, for a long time, nothing
transrhenane had been able to withdraw itself. We visited also the
ducal wine-cellars, situated before the city, which are extensive, and
furnished with large, well-made tuns. We went on further, and at last
found the country like that in the neighbourhood of Saarbrück. Between
wild and savage mountains are a few villages; one here gets rid of the
habit of looking about for corn. We mounted up, by the side of the
Hornbach, to Bitsch, which lies on the important spot where the waters
divide, and fall, a part into the Saar, a part into the Rhine. These
last were soon to attract us towards them. Yet we could not refuse our
attention to the little city of Bitsch, which very picturesquely winds
around the mountain, nor to the fortress, which lies above. This is
partly built on rocks, and partly hewn out of them. The subterraneous
chambers are particularly worthy of remark; here is not only space
sufficient for the abode of a number of men and cattle, but one even
lights upon large vaults for the drilling of troops, a mill, a chapel,
and whatever else could be required under-ground, provided the surface
were in a state of disturbance.

We now followed the down-rushing brooks through Bärenthal. The thick
forests on both the heights remain unused by the hand of man. Here
trunks of trees lie rotting on each other by thousands, and young
scions sprout up without number from their half-mouldered progenitors.
Here, in conversation with some companions on foot, the name Von
Dieterich again struck our ears, which we had often heard honourably
mentioned already in these woody regions. The activity and cleverness
of this man, his wealth, and the use and applications of it, all seemed
in proportion. He could with justice take delight in the acquisitions
which he increased, and enjoy the profits he secured. The more I saw
of the world, the more pleasure I took, not only in the universally
famous names, but in those also, especially, which were mentioned in
particular regions with reverence and love: and thus I easily learned
here, by a few questions, that Von Dieterich, earlier than others, had
known how to make successful use of the mountain treasures, iron, coal,
and wood, and had worked his way to an ever-growing opulence.

Niederbrunn, where we now arrived, was a new proof of this. He had
purchased this little place from the Count of Leiningen and other
part-owners, to erect important iron-works in the place.

Here in these baths, already founded by the Romans, floated around me
the spirit of antiquity, venerable relics of which, in fragments of
bas-reliefs and inscriptions, capitals and shafts, shone out strangely
towards me, from farm-houses, amidst household lumber and furniture.

[Side-note: Sesenheim.]

As we were ascending the adjacent Wasenburg also, I paid my respects
to a well-preserved inscription, which discharged a thankful vow to
Mercury, and is situated upon the great mass of rock which forms the
base of the hill on one side. The fortress itself lies on the last
mountain, looking from Bitsch towards Germany. It is the ruin of a
German castle built upon Roman remains. From the tower the whole of
Alsace was once more surveyed, and the conspicuous minster-spire
pointed out the situation of Strasburg. First of all, however, the
great forest of Hagenau extended itself, and the towers of this town
peered plainly from behind. I was attracted thither. We rode through
Reichshof, where Von Dieterich built an imposing castle, and after we
had contemplated from the hills near Niedermoder the pleasing course of
the little river Moder, by the forest of Hagenau, I left my friend on a
ridiculous coal-mine visitation, which, at Dutweil, might have been a
somewhat more serious business, and I then rode through Hagenau, on the
direct road--already indicated by my affection--to my beloved Sesenheim.

For all these views into a wild, mountain region, and then, again,
into a cheerful, fruitful, joyous land, could not rivet my mind's
eye, which was directed to an amiable, attractive object. This time,
also, the hither way seemed to me more charming than its opposite, as
it brought me again into the neighbourhood of a lady to whom I was
heartily devoted, and who deserved as much respect as love. But before
I lead my friends to her rural abode, let me be permitted to mention
a circumstance which contributed very much to enliven and enhance my
affection, and the satisfaction which it afforded me.

[Side-note: The "Vicar of Wakefield."]

How far I must have been behindhand in modern literature, may be
gathered from the mode of life which I led at Frankfort, and from
the studies to which I had devoted myself; nor could my residence in
Strasburg have furthered me in this respect. Now Herder came, and
together with his great knowledge brought many other aids, and the
later publications besides. Among these he announced to us the _Vicar
of Wakefield_ as an excellent work, with the German translation of
which he would make us acquainted by reading it aloud to us himself.

His method of reading was quite peculiar; whoever has heard him preach
will be able to form a notion of it. He delivered everything, this
romance included, in a serious and simple style, perfectly removed
from all dramatically imitative representation; he even avoided that
variety which is not only permitted, but even required, in an epical
delivery--a slight change of tone when different persons speak, by
which what every one says is brought into relief, and the actor is
distinguished from the narrator. Without being monotonous, Herder let
everything go on in the same tone, just as if nothing was present
before him, but all was merely historical; as if the shadows of this
poetic creation did not act livingly before him, but only glided gently
by. Yet this manner of delivery from his mouth had an infinite charm;
for, as he felt all most deeply, and knew how to estimate the variety
of such a work, so the whole merit of a production appeared purely and
the more clearly, as one was not disturbed by details sharply spoken
out, nor interrupted in the feeling which the whole was meant to
produce.

A Protestant country clergyman is, perhaps, the most beautiful
subject for a modern idyl; he appears, like Melchizedek, as priest
and king in one person. To the most innocent situation which can be
imagined on earth, to that of a husbandman, he is, for the most part,
united by similarity of occupation, as well as by equality in family
relationships; he is a father, a master of a family, an agriculturist,
and thus perfectly a member of the community. On this pure, beautiful,
earthly foundation, rests his higher calling: to him is it given to
guide men through life, to take care** of their spiritual education, to
bless them at all the leading epochs of their existence, to instruct,
to strengthen, to console them, and, if consolation is not sufficient
for the present, to call up and guarantee the hope of a happier future.
Imagine such a man, with pure human sentiments, strong enough not to
deviate from them under any circumstances, and by this already elevated
above the multitude, of whom one cannot expect purity and firmness;
give him the learning necessary for his office, as well as a cheerful,
equable activity, which is even passionate, as it neglects no moment
to do good,--and you will have him well endowed. But at the same time
add the necessary limitation, so that he must not only pause in a
small circle, but may also perchance pass over to a smaller; grant him
good-nature, placability, resolution, and everything else praiseworthy
that springs from a decided character, and over all this a cheerful
spirit of compliance, and a smiling toleration of his own failings and
those of others,--then you will have put together pretty well the image
of our excellent Wakefield.

[Side-note: The "Vicar of Wakefield."]

The delineation of this character on his course of life through
joys and sorrows, the ever-increasing interest of the story, by the
combination of the entirely natural with the strange and the singular,
make this novel one of the best which has ever been written; besides
this, it has the great advantage that it is quite moral, nay, in a pure
sense, Christian--represents the reward of a good will and perseverance
in the right, strengthens an unconditional confidence in God, and
attests the final triumph of good over evil; and all this without a
trace of cant or pedantry. The author was preserved from both of these
by an elevation of mind that shows itself throughout in the form of
irony, by which this little work must appear to us as wise as it is
amiable. The author, Dr. Goldsmith, has without question great insight
into the moral world, into its strength and its infirmities; but at the
same time he can thankfully acknowledge that he is an Englishman, and
reckon highly the advantages which his country and his nation afford
him. The family, with the delineation of which he occupies himself,
stands upon one of the last steps of citizen comfort, and yet comes in
contact with the highest; its narrow circle, which becomes still more
contracted, touches upon the great world through the natural and civil
course of things; this little skiff floats on the agitated waves of
English life, and in weal or woe it has to expect injury or help from
the vast fleet which sails around it.

I may suppose that my readers know this work, and have it in memory;
whoever hears it named for the first time here, as well as he who
is induced to read it again, will thank me. For the former, I would
merely make the cursory remark, that the vicar's wife is of that
good, busy sort, who allows herself and her own to want for nothing,
but who is also somewhat vain of herself and her own. There are two
daughters,--Olivia, handsome and more devoted to the external, and
Sophia, charming and more given to the internal; nor will I omit to
mention an industrious son, Moses, who is somewhat blunt and emulous of
his father.

If Herder could be accused of any fault in his reading aloud, it was
impatience; he did not wait until the hearer had heard and comprehended
a certain part of the progress, so as to be able to feel and think
correctly about it; hurrying on, he would see their effect at once,
and yet he was displeased even with this when it manifested itself. He
blamed the excess of feeling which overflowed from me more and more
at every step. I felt like a man, like a young man; everything was
living, true, and present before me. He, considering only the intrinsic
contents and form, saw clearly, indeed, that I was overpowered by the
subject-matter, and this he would not allow. Then Peglow's reflections,
which were not of the most refined, were still worse received; but he
was especially angry at our want of keenness in not seeing beforehand
the contrasts of which the author often makes use, and in suffering
ourselves to be moved and carried away by them without remarking the
oft-returning artifice. He would not pardon us for not seeing at once,
or at least suspecting at the very beginning, where Burchell is on the
point of discovering himself by passing over in his narration from the
third to the first person, that he himself is the lord of whom he is
speaking; and when, finally, we rejoiced like children at the discovery
and the transformation of the poor, needy wanderer, into a rich,
powerful lord, he immediately recalled the passage, which, according to
the author's plan, we had overlooked, and read us a powerful lecture
on our stupidity. It wall be seen from this that he regarded the work
merely as a production of art, and required the same of us, who were
yet wandering in that state where it is very allowable to let works of
art affect us like productions of nature.

I did not suffer myself to be at all perplexed by Herder's invectives;
for young people have the happiness or unhappiness, that, when once
anything has produced an effect on them, this effect must be wrought
out within themselves; from which much good, as well as much mischief,
arises. The above work had left with me a great impression, for which I
could not account, but properly speaking, I felt myself in harmony with
that ironical tone of mind which elevates itself above every object,
above fortune and misfortune, good and evil, death and life, and thus
attains to the possession of a truly poetical world. I could not,
indeed, become conscious of this until later; it was enough that it
gave me much to do at the moment; but I could by no means have expected
to be so soon transposed from this fictitious world into a similar real
one.

[Side-note: Pleasures of Travelling Incognito.]

My fellow-boarder, Weyland, who enlivened his quiet, laborious life by
visiting from time to time his friends and relations in the country
(for he was a native of Alsace), did me many services on my little
excursions, by introducing me to different localities and families,
sometimes in person, sometimes by recommendations. He had often spoken
to me about a country clergyman who lived near Drusenheim, six leagues
from Strasburg, in possession of a good benefice, with an intelligent
wife and a pair of amiable daughters. The hospitality and agreeableness
of this family were always highly extolled. It scarcely needed so much
to draw thither a young knight who had already accustomed himself to
spend all his leisure days and hours on horseback and in the open air.
We decided therefore upon this trip, and my friend had to promise that
on introducing me he would say neither good nor ill of me, but would
treat me with general indifference, and would allow me to make my
appearance clad, if not meanly, yet somewhat poorly and negligently. He
consented to this, and promised himself some sport from it.

It is a pardonable whim in men of consequence, to place their
exterior advantages in concealment now and then, so as to allow their
own internal human nature to operate with the greater purity. For
this reason the incognito of princes, and the adventures resulting
therefrom, are always highly pleasing; these appear disguised
divinities, who can reckon at double its value all the good offices
shown to them as individuals, and are in such a position that they
can either make light of the disagreeable or avoid it. That Jupiter
should be well pleased in his incognito with Philemon and Baucis, and
Henry the Fourth with his peasants after a hunting party, is quite
conformable to nature, and we like it well; but that a young man
without importance or name, should take it into his head to derive
some pleasure from an incognito, might be construed by many as an
unpardonable piece of arrogance. Yet since the question here is not of
such views and actions, so far as they are praiseworthy or blameable,
but so far as they can manifest themselves and actually occur, we
will on this occasion, for the sake of our own amusement, pardon the
youngster his self-conceit; and the more so, as I must here allege,
that from youth upwards, a love for disguising myself had been excited
in me even by my stem father.

This time, too, partly by some cast-off clothes of my own, partly by
some borrowed garments and by the manner of combing my hair, I had, if
not disfigured myself, yet at least decked myself out so oddly, that my
friend could not help laughing on the way, especially as I knew how to
imitate perfectly the bearing and gestures of such figures when they
sit on horseback, and which are called "Latin riders." The fine road,
the most splendid weather, and the neighbourhood of the Rhine, put
us in the best humour. At Drusenheim we stopped a moment, he to make
himself spruce, and I to rehearse my part, out of which I was afraid
I should now and then fall. The country here has the characteristics
of all the open, level Alsace. We rode on a pleasant foot-path over
the meadows, soon reached Sesenheim, left our horses at the tavern,
and walked leisurely towards the parsonage. "Do not be put out," said
Weyland, showing me the house from a distance, "because it looks like
an old miserable farm-house, it is so much the younger inside." We
stepped into the court-yard; the whole pleased me well: for it had
exactly that which is called picturesque, and which had so magically
interested me in Dutch art. The effect which time produces on all
human work was strongly perceptible. House, barn, and stable were just
at that point of dilapidation where, indecisive and doubtful between
preserving and rebuilding, one often neglects the one without being
able to accomplish the other.

[Side-note: The Pastor's Family.]

As in the village, so in the court-yard, all was quiet and deserted. We
found the father, a little man, wrapped up within himself, but friendly
notwithstanding, quite alone, for the family were in the fields. He
bade us welcome, and offered us some refreshment, which we declined.
My friend hurried away to look after the ladies, and I remained alone
with our host. "You are perhaps surprised," said he, "to find me
so miserably quartered in a wealthy village, and "with a lucrative
benefice; but," he continued, "this proceeds from irresolution. Long
since it has been promised me by the parish, and even by those in
higher places, that the house shall be rebuilt; many plans have been
already drawn, examined and altered, none of them altogether rejected,
and none carried into execution. This has lasted so many years, that
I scarcely know how to command my impatience." I made him an answer
such as I thought likely to cherish his hopes, and to encourage him
to pursue the affair more vigorously. Upon this he proceeded to
describe familiarly the personages on whom such matters depended, and
although he was no great delineator of character, I could nevertheless
easily comprehend how the whole business must have been delayed. The
confidential tone of the man was something peculiar; he talked to
me as if he had known me for ten years, while there was nothing in
his look from which I could have suspected that he was directing any
attention to me. At last my friend came in with the mother. She seemed
to look at me with quite different eyes. Her countenance was regular,
and the expression of it intelligent; she must have been beautiful in
her youth. Her figure was tall and spare, but not more so than became
her years, and when seen from behind, she had yet quite a youthful and
pleasing appearance. The elder daughter then came bouncing in briskly;
she inquired after Frederica, just as both the others had also done.
The father assured them that he had not seen her since all three had
gone out together. The daughter again went out at the door to look for
her sister; the mother brought us some refreshment, and Weyland, with
the old couple, continued the conversation, which referred to nothing
but known persons and circumstances; as, indeed, it is usually the
case when acquaintances meet after some length of time, that they make
inquiries, and mutually give each other information about the members
of a large circle. I listened, and now learned how much I had to
promise myself from this circle.

The elder daughter again came hastily back into the room, uneasy at
not having found her sister. They were anxious about her, and blamed
her for this or that bad habit; only the father said, very composedly,
"Let her alone; she has already come back!" At this instant she
really entered the door; and then truly a most charming star arose
in this rural heaven. Both daughters still wore nothing but German,
as they used to call it, and this almost obsolete national costume
became Frederica particularly well. A short, white, full skirt, with a
furbelow, not so long but that the neatest little feet were visible up
to the ankle; a tight white bodice and a black taffeta apron,--thus she
stood on the boundary between country girl and city girl. Slender and
light, she tripped along as if she had nothing to carry, and her neck
seemed almost too delicate for the large fair braids on her elegant
little head. From cheerful blue eyes she looked very plainly round, and
her pretty turned-up nose peered as freely into the air as if there
could be no care in the world; her straw hat hung on her arm, and thus,
at the first glance, I had the delight of seeing her, and acknowledging
her at once in all her grace and loveliness.

I now began to act my character with moderation, half ashamed to play
a joke on such good people, whom I had time enough to observe: for the
girls continued the previous conversation, and that with passion and
some display of temper. All the neighbours and connexions were again
brought forward, and there seemed, to my imagination, such a swarm
of uncles and aunts, relations, cousins, comers, goers, gossips and
guests, that I thought myself lodged in the liveliest world possible.
All the members of the family had spoken some words with me, the mother
looked at me every time she came in or went out, but Frederica first
entered into conversation with me, and as I took up and glanced through
some music that was lying around, she asked me if I played also? When I
answered in the affirmative, she requested me to perform something; but
the father would not allow this, for he maintained that it was proper
to serve the guest first with some piece of music or a song.

She played several things with some readiness, in the style which one
usually hears in the country, and on a harpsichord, too, that the
schoolmaster should have tuned long since, if he had only had time. She
was now to sing a song also, a certain tender-melancholy affair; but
she did not succeed in it. She rose up and said, smiling, or rather
with that touch of serene joy which ever reposed, on her countenance,
"If I sing badly, I cannot lay the blame on the harpsichord or the
schoolmaster; but let us go out of doors; then you shall hear my
Alsatian and Swiss songs; they sound much better."

[Side-note: Comparison with the "Vicar of Wakefield."]

During supper, a notion which had already struck me, occupied me to
such a degree, that I became meditative and silent, although the
liveliness of the elder sister, and the gracefulness of the younger,
shook me often enough out of my contemplations. My astonishment at
finding myself so actually in the Wakefield family was beyond all
expression. The father, indeed, could not be compared with that
excellent man; but where will you find his like? On the other hand, all
the dignity which is peculiar to that husband, here appeared in the
wife. One could not see her without at the same time reverencing and
fearing her. In her were remarked the fruits of a good education; her
demeanour was quiet, easy, cheerful, and inviting.

If the elder daughter had not the celebrated beauty of Olivia, yet she
was well-made, lively, and rather impetuous; she everywhere showed
herself active, and lent a helping hand to her mother in all things. To
put Frederica in the place of Primrose's Sophia was not difficult; for
little is said of the latter, it is only taken for granted that she is
amiable; and this girl was amiable indeed. Now as the same occupation
and the same situation, wherever they may occur, produce similar, if
not the same effects, so here too many things were talked about, many
things happened, which had already taken place in the Wakefield family.
But when at last a younger son, long announced and impatiently expected
by the father, at last sprang into the room, and boldly sat himself
down by us, taking but little notice of the guests, I could scarcely
help exclaiming, "Moses, are you here too!"

The conversation at table extended my insight into this country and
family circle, since the discourse was about various droll incidents
which had happened now here, now there. Frederica, who sat by me,
thence took occasion to describe to me different localities which
it was worth while to visit. As one little story always calls forth
another, I was able to mingle so much the better in the conversation,
and to relate similar incidents, and as, besides this, a good country
wine was by no means spared, I stood in danger of slipping out of my
character, for which reason my more prudent friend took advantage of
the beautiful moonlight, and proposed a walk, which was approved at
once. He gave his arm to the elder, I to the younger, and thus we went
through the wide field, paying more attention to the heavens above us
than to the earth, which lost itself in extension around us. There
was, however, nothing of moonshine in Frederica's discourse; by the
clearness with which she spoke she turned night into day, and there
was nothing in it which would have indicated or excited any feeling,
except that her expressions related more than hitherto to me, since she
represented to me her own situation, as well as the neighbourhood and
her acquaintances, just as far as I should be acquainted with them; for
she hoped, she added, I would make no exception, and would visit them
again, as all strangers had willingly done who had once stopped with
them.

It was very pleasant to me to listen silently to the description which
she gave of the little world in which she moved, and of the persons
whom she particularly valued. She thereby imparted to me a clear, and,
at the same time, such an amiable idea of her situation, that it had
a very strange effect on me; for I felt at once a deep regret that I
had not lived with her sooner, and at the same time a truly painful
envious feeling towards all who had hitherto had the good fortune to
surround her. I at once watched closely, as if I had a right to do so,
all her descriptions of men, whether they appeared under the names of
neighbours, cousins, or gossips, and my conjectures inclined now this
way, now that; but how could I have discovered anything in my complete
ignorance of all the circumstances? She at last became more and more
talkative, and I more and more silent. It was so pleasant to listen to
her, and as I heard only her voice, while the form of her countenance,
as well as the rest of the world, floated dimly in the twilight, it
seemed to me as if I could see into her heart, which I could not but
find very pure, since it unbosomed itself to me in such unembarrassed
loquacity.

[Side-note: Comparison with the "Vicar of Wakefield."]

When my companion retired with me into the guest-chamber, which was
prepared for us, he at once, with self-complacency, broke out into
pleasant jesting, and took great credit to himself for having surprised
me so much with the similarity to the Primrose family. I chimed in
with him by showing myself thankful. "Truly," cried he, "the story is
quite complete. This family may very well be compared to that, and the
gentleman in disguise here may assume the honour of passing for Mr.
Burchell; moreover, since scoundrels are not so necessary in common
life as in novels, I will for this time undertake the _rôle_ of the
nephew, and behave myself better than he did." However, I immediately
changed this conversation, pleasant as it might be to me, and asked
him, before all things, on his conscience, if he had not really
betrayed me? He answered me, "No!" and I could believe him. They had
rather inquired, said he, after the merry table-companion who boarded
at the same house with him in Strasburg, and of whom they had been told
all sorts of preposterous stuff. I now went to other questions: Had she
ever been in love? Was she now in love? Was she engaged? He replied
to all in the negative. "In truth," replied I, "such a cheerfulness
by nature is inconceivable to me. Had she loved and lost, and again
recovered herself, or had she been betrothed,--in both these cases I
could account for it."

Thus we chatted together far into the night, and I was awake again at
the dawn. My desire to see her once more seemed unconquerable; but
while I dressed myself, I was horrified at the accursed wardrobe I had
so wantonly selected. The further I advanced in putting on my clothes,
the meaner I seemed in my own eyes; for everything had been calculated
for just this effect. My hair I might perchance have set to rights; but
when at last I forced myself into the borrowed, worn-out grey coat,
and the short sleeves gave me the most absurd appearance, I fell the
more decidedly into despair, as I could see myself only piecemeal, in a
little looking-glass since one part always looked more ridiculous than
the other.

During this toilette my friend awoke, and with the satisfaction of a
good conscience, and in the feeling of pleasurable hope for the day,
looked out at me from the quilted silk coverlet. I had for a long time
already envied him his fine clothes, as they hung over the chair, and
had he been of my size, I would have carried them off before his eyes,
changed my dress outside, and hurrying into the garden, left my cursed
husk for him; he would have had good-humour enough to put himself into
my clothes, and the tale would have found a merry ending early in the
morning. But that was not now to be thought of, no more was any other
feasible accommodation. To appear again before Frederica in the figure
in which my friend could give me out as a laborious and accomplished
but poor student of theology,--before Frederica, who the evening before
had spoken so friendly to my disguised self,--that was altogether
impossible. There I stood, vexed and thoughtful, and summoned all my
power of invention; but it deserted me! But now when he, comfortably
stretched out, after fixing his eyes upon me for a while, all at once
burst out into a loud laugh, and exclaimed, "No! it is true, you do
look most cursedly!" I replied impetuously, "And I know what I will do.
Good bye, and make my excuses!" "Are you mad?" cried he, springing**
out of bed and trying to detain me. But I was already out of the door,
down the stairs, out of the house and yard, off to the tavern; in an
instant my horse was saddled, and I hurried away in mad vexation,
galloping towards Drusenheim, then through that place, and still
further on.

As I now thought myself in safety, I rode more slowly, and now first
felt how infinitely against my will I was going away. But I resigned
myself to my fate, made present to my mind the promenade of yesterday
evening with the greatest calmness, and cherished the secret hope of
seeing her soon again. But this quiet feeling soon changed itself again
into impatience, and I now determined to ride rapidly into the city,
change my dress, take a good, fresh horse, since then, as my passion
made me believe, I could at all events return before dinner, or, as
was more probable, to the dessert, or towards evening, and beg my
forgiveness.

[Side-note: The Exchange of Clothes.]

I was just about to put spurs to my horse to execute this plan, when
another, and, as seemed to me, a very happy thought, passed through
my mind. In the tavern at Drusenheim, the day before, I had noticed
a son of the landlord very nicely dressed, who, early this morning,
being busied about his rural arrangements, had saluted me from his
court-yard. He was of my figure, and had for the moment reminded me of
myself. No sooner thought than done! My horse was hardly turned round,
when I found myself in Drusenheim; I brought him into the stable, and
in a few words made the fellow my proposal, namely, that he should lend
me his clothes, as I had something merry on foot at Sesenheim. I had no
need to talk long; he agreed to the proposition with joy, and praised
me for wishing to make some sport for the _Mamsells_; they were, he
said, such capital people, especially Mamselle Riekchen,[3] and the
parents, too, liked to see everything go on merrily and pleasantly.
He considered me attentively, and as from my appearance he might have
taken me for a poor starveling, he said, "If you wish to insinuate
yourself, this is the right way." In the meanwhile we had already
proceeded far in our toilette, and properly speaking he should not
have trusted me with his holiday clothes on the strength of mine; but
he was honest-hearted, and, moreover, had my horse in his stable. I
soon stood there smart enough, gave myself a consequential air, and my
friend seemed to regard his counterpart with complacency. "Topp,[4] Mr.
Brother!" said he, giving me his hand, which I grasped heartily, "don't
come too near my girl; she might make a mistake!"

My hair, which had now its full growth again, I could part at top,
much like his, and as I looked at him repeatedly, I found it comical
moderately to imitate his thicker eyebrows with a burnt cork, and
bring mine nearer together in the middle, so that with my enigmatical
intentions, I might make myself an external riddle likewise. "Now have
you not," said I, as he handed me his be-ribboned hat, "something or
other to be done at the parsonage, that I might announce myself there
in a natural manner?" "Good!" replied he, "but then you must wait two
hours yet. There is a woman confined at our house; I will offer to take
the cake to the parson's wife,[5] and you may carry it over. Pride must
pay its penalty, and so must a joke." I resolved to wait, but these
two hours were infinitely long, and I was dying of impatience when
the third hour passed before the cake came out of the oven. At last I
got it quite hot, and hastened away with my credentials in the most
beautiful sunshine, accompanied for a distance by my counterpart, who
promised to come after me in the evening and bring me my clothes. This,
however, I briskly declined, and stipulated that I should deliver up to
him his own.

[Side-note: Goethe's Disguise.]

I had not skipped far with my present, which I carried in a neat
tied-up napkin, when, in the distance, I saw my friend coming towards
me with the two ladies. My heart was uneasy, which was certainly
unsuitable under this jacket. I stood still, took breath, and tried to
consider how I should begin; and now I first remarked that the nature
of the ground was very much in my favour; for they were walking on the
other side of the brook, which, together with the strips of meadow
through which it ran, kept the two footpaths pretty far apart. When
they were just opposite to me, Frederica, who had already perceived
me long before, cried, "George, what are you bringing there?" I was
clever enough to cover my face with my hat, which I took off, while I
held up the loaded napkin high in the air. "A christening cake!" cried
she at that; "how is your sister?" "Well,"[6] said I, for I tried to
talk in a strange dialect, if not exactly in the Alsatian. "Carry it
to the house!" said the elder, "and if you do not find my mother, give
it to the maid; but wait for us, we shall soon be back.--do you hear?"
I hastened along my path in the joyous feeling of the best hope that,
as the beginning was so lucky, all would go off well, and I had soon
reached the parsonage. I found nobody either in the house or in the
kitchen; I did not wish to disturb the old gentleman, whom I might
suppose busy in the study; I therefore sat down on the bench before the
door, with the cake beside me, and pressed my hat upon my face.

I cannot easily recall a pleasanter sensation. To sit again on this
threshold, over which, a short time before, I had blundered out in
despair; to have seen her already again, to have already heard again
her dear voice, so soon after my chagrin had pictured to me a long
separation, every moment to be expecting herself and a discovery, at
which my heart throbbed, and yet, in this ambiguous case, a discovery
without shame; for at the very beginning it was a merrier prank than
any of those they had laughed at so much yesterday. Love and necessity
are the best masters; they both acted together here, and their pupil
was not unworthy of them.

[Side-note: "Frederica's Repose."]

But the maid came stepping out of the barn. "Now! did the cakes turn
out well?" cried she to me; "how is your sister?" "All right," said
I, and pointed to the cake without looking up. She took up the napkin
and muttered, "Now, what's the matter with you to-day again? Has
Barbchen[7] been looking again at somebody else? Don't let us suffer
for that! You will make a happy couple if you carry on so!" As she
spoke pretty loud, the pastor came to the window and asked what was
the matter. She showed him to me; I stood up and turned myself towards
him; but still kept the hat over my face. When he had spoken somewhat
friendly to me, and had asked me to remain, I went towards the garden,
and was just going in, when the pastor's wife, who was entering the
courtyard gate, called to me. As the sun shone right in my face, I one
more availed myself of the advantage which my hat afforded me, and
greeted her by scraping a leg; but she went into the house after she
had bidden me not to go away without eating something. I now walked up
and down in the garden; everything had hitherto had the best success,
yet I breathed hard when I reflected that the young people now would
soon return. But the mother unexpectedly stepped up to me, and was
just going to ask me a question, when she looked me in the face, so
that I could not conceal myself any longer, and the words stuck in
her throat. "I am looking for George," said she, after a pause, "and
whom do I find? Is it you, young sir? How many forms have you, then?"
"In earnest only one," replied I; "in sport as many as you like."
"Which sport I will not spoil," smiled she; "go out behind the garden
into the meadow until it strikes twelve, then come back, and I shall
already have contrived the joke." I did so; but when I was beyond
the hedges of the village gardens, and was going along the meadows,
towards me some country people came by the footpath, and put me in
some embarrassment. I therefore turned aside into a little wood, which
crowned an elevation quite near, in order to conceal myself there till
the appointed time. Yet how strangely did I feel when I entered it; for
there appeared before me a neat place, with benches, from every one
of which was a pretty view of the country. Here was the village and
the steeple, here Drusenheim, and behind it the woody islands of the
Rhine; in the opposite direction was the Vosgian mountain range, and at
last the minster of Strasburg. These different heaven-bright pictures
were set in bushy frames, so that one could see nothing more joyous
and pleasing. I sat down upon one of the benches, and noticed on the
largest tree an oblong little board with the inscription, "Frederica's
Repose." It never occurred to me that I might have come to disturb this
repose; for a budding passion has this beauty about it, that, as it is
unconscious of its origin, neither can it have any thought of an end,
nor, while it feels itself glad and cheerful, have any presentiment
that it may also create mischief.

I had scarcely had time to look about me and was losing myself in sweet
reveries, when I heard somebody coming; it was Frederica herself.
"George, what are you doing here?" she cried from a distance. "Not
George!" cried I, running towards her, "but one who craves forgiveness
of you a thousand rimes." She looked at me with astonishment, but soon
collected herself, and said, after fetching her breath more deeply,
"You abominable man, how you frighten me!" "The first disguise has
led me into the second," exclaimed I; "the former would have been
unpardonable if I had only known in any degree to whom I was going;
but this one you will certainly forgive, for it is the shape of
persons whom you treat so kindly." Her pale cheeks had coloured up
with the most beautiful rose-red. "You shall not be worse off than
George, at any rate! But let us sit down! I confess the fright has
gone into my limbs." I sat down beside her, exceedingly agitated.
"We know everything already, up to this morning, from your friend,"
said she, "now do you tell me the rest." I did not let her say that
twice, but described to her my horror at my yesterday's figure, and my
rushing out of the house, so comically, that she laughed heartily and
graciously; then I went on to what followed, with all modesty, indeed,
yet passionately enough, so that it might have passed for a declaration
of love in historical form. At last I solemnized my pleasure at finding
her again, by a kiss upon her hand, which she suffered to remain in
mine. If she had taken upon herself the expense of the conversation
during yesterday evening's moonlight walk, I now, on my part, richly
repaid the debt. The pleasure of seeing her again, and being able to
say to her everything that I had yesterday kept back, was so great
that, in my eloquence, I did not remark how meditative and silent she
was. Once more she deeply fetched her breath, and over and over again I
begged her forgiveness for the fright which I had caused her. How long
we may have sat I know not; but at once we heard some one call. It was
the voice of her sister. "That will be a pretty story," said the dear
girl, restored to her perfect cheerfulness; "she is coming hither on
my side," she added, bending so as half to conceal me; "turn yourself
away, so that you may not be recognised at once." The sister entered
the place, but not alone; Weyland was with her, and both, when they saw
us, stood still, as if petrified.

If we should all at once see a flame burst out violently from a quiet
roof, or should meet a monster whose deformity was at the same time
revolting and fearful, we should not be struck with such a fierce
horror as that which seizes us when, unexpectedly, we see with our own
eyes what we have believed morally impossible. "What is this?" cried
the elder, with the rapidity of one who is frightened; "what is this?
you with George, hand-in-hand! How am I to understand this?" "Dear
sister," replied Frederica, very doubtfully, "the poor fellow,--he
is begging something of me; he has something to beg of you, too,
but you must forgive him beforehand." "I do not understand--I do
not comprehend--" said her sister, shaking her head and looking at
Weyland, who, in his quiet way, stood by in perfect tranquillity, and
contemplated the scene without any kind of expression. Frederica arose
and drew me after her. "No hesitating!" cried she; "pardon begged and
granted!" "Now do!" said I, stepping pretty near the elder; "I have
need of pardon!" She drew back, gave a loud shriek, and was covered
with blushes; she then threw herself down on the grass, laughed
immoderately, and seemed as if she would never have done. Weyland
smiled as if pleased, and cried, "You are a rare youth!" Then he shook
my hand in his. He was not usually liberal with his caresses, but his
shake of the hand had something hearty and enlivening about it; yet he
was sparing of this also.

After somewhat recovering and collecting ourselves, we set out on our
return to the village. On the way I learned how this singular meeting
had been occasioned. Frederica had at last parted from the promenaders
to rest herself in her little nook for a moment before dinner, and when
the other two came back to the house, the mother had sent them to call
Frederica with as great haste as possible, because dinner was ready.

The elder sister manifested the most extravagant delight, and when
she learned that the mother had already discovered the secret, she
exclaimed, "Now we have still to deceive my father, my brother, the
servant-man and the maid." When we were at the garden-hedge, Frederica
insisted upon going first into the house with my friend. The maid was
busy in the kitchen-garden, and Olivia (so let the elder sister be
named here) called out to her, "Stop; I have something to tell you!"
She left me standing by the hedge, and went to the maid. I saw that
they were speaking very earnestly. Olivia represented to her that
George had quarrelled with Barbara, and seemed desirous of marrying
her. The lass was not displeased at this; I was now called, and was
to confirm what had been said. The pretty, stout girl cast down her
eyes, and remained so until I stood quite near before her. But when,
all at once, she perceived the strange face, she too gave a loud scream
and ran away. Olivia bade me run after her and hold her fast, so that
she should not get into the house and make a noise; while she herself
wished to go and see how it was with her father. On the way Olivia
met the servant-boy, who was in love with the maid; I had in the mean
time hurried after the maid, and held her fast. "Only think! what good
luck!" cried Olivia; "it's all over with Barbara, and George marries
Liese." "That I have thought for a long while," said the good fellow,
and remained standing in an ill-humour.

[Side-note: Goethe's Disguise.]

I had given the maid to understand that all we had to do was to
deceive the father. We went up to the lad, who turned away and tried
to withdraw; but Liese brought him back, and he, too, when he was
undeceived, made the most extraordinary gestures. We went together to
the house. The table was covered, and the father was already in the
room. Olivia, who kept me behind her, stepped to the threshold and
said, "Father, have you any objection to George dining with us today?
but you must let him keep his hat on." "With all my heart!" said the
old man, "but why such an unusual thing? Has he hurt himself?" She led
me forward as I stood with my hat on. "No!" said she, leading me into
the room, "but he has a bird-cage under it, and the birds might fly
out and make a terrible fuss; for there are nothing but wild ones."
The father was pleased with the joke, without precisely knowing what
it meant. At this instant she took off my hat, made a scrape, and
required me to do the same. The old man looked at me and recognised
me, but was not put out of his priestly self-possession. "Aye, aye,
Mr. Candidate!" exclaimed he, raising a threatening finger at me;
"you have changed saddles very quickly, and in the night I have lost
an assistant, who yesterday promised me so faithfully that he would
often mount my pulpit on week-days." He then laughed heartily, bade
me welcome, and we sat down to table. Moses came in much later; for,
as the youngest spoiled child, he had accustomed himself not to hear
the dinner-bell. Besides, he took very little notice of the company,
scarcely even when he contradicted them. In order to be more sure of
him, they had placed me, not between the sisters, but at the end of the
table, where George often used to sit. As he came in at the door behind
me, he slapped me smartly on the shoulder, and said, "Good dinner to
you, George!" "Many thanks, squire!" replied I. The strange voice and
the strange face startled him. "What say you?" cried Olivia; "does he
not look very like his brother?" "Yes, from behind," replied Moses,
who managed to recover his composure immediately, "like all folks."
He did not look at me again, and merely busied himself with zealously
devouring the dishes, to make up for lost time. Then, too, he thought
proper to rise on occasion and find something to do in the yard and
the garden. At the dessert the real George came in, and made the whole
scene still more lively. They began to banter him for his jealousy,
and would not praise him for getting rid of a rival in me; but he was
modest and clever enough, and, in a half-confused manner, mixed up
himself, his sweetheart, his counterpart, and the _Mamsells_ with each
other, to such a degree, that at last nobody could tell about whom he
was talking, and they were but too glad to let him consume in peace a
glass of wine and a bit of his own cake.

[Side-note: The "New Melusina."]

At table there was some talk about going to walk; which, however, did
not suit me very well in my peasant's clothes. But the ladies, early
on that day already, when they learned who had run away in such a
desperate hurry, had remembered that a fine hunting-coat (_Pekesche_)
of a cousin of theirs, in which, when there, he used to go sporting,
was hanging in the clothes-press. I, however, declined it, externally
with all sorts of jokes, but internally with a feeling of vanity, not
wishing, as the cousin, to disturb the good impression I had made as
the peasant. The father had gone to take his afternoon-nap; the mother,
as always, was busy about her housewifery. But my friend proposed
that I should tell them some story, to which I immediately agreed.
We went into a spacious arbour, and I gave them a tale which I have
since written out under the title of _The New Melusina._[8] It bears
about the same relation to _The New Paris_ as the youth bears to the
boy, and I would insert it here, were I not afraid of injuring, by odd
plays of fancy, the rural reality and simplicity which here agreeably
surround us. Enough: I succeeded in gaining the reward of the inventors
and narrators of such productions, namely, in awakening curiosity, in
fixing the attention, in provoking overhasty solutions of impenetrable
riddles, in deceiving expectations, in confusing by the more wonderful
which came into the place of the wonderful, in arousing sympathy and
fear, in causing anxiety, in moving, and at last, by the change of
what was apparently earnest into an ingenious and cheerful jest, in
satisfying the mind, and in leaving the imagination materials for new
images, and the understanding materials for further reflection.

Should any one hereafter read this tale in print, and doubt whether it
could have produced such an effect, let him remember that, properly
speaking, man is only called upon to act in the present. Writing is an
abuse of language, reading silently to oneself is a pitiful substitute
for speech. Man effects all he can upon man by his personality,
youth is most powerful upon youth, and hence also arise the purest
influences. It is these which enliven the world, and allow it neither
morally nor physically to perish. I had inherited from my father a
certain didactic loquacity: from my mother the faculty of representing,
clearly and forcibly, everything that the imagination can produce
or grasp, of giving a freshness to known stories, of inventing and
relating others, nay, of inventing in the course of narration. By my
paternal endowment I was for the most part annoying to the company;
for who likes to listen to the opinions and sentiments of another,
especially a youth, whose judgment, from defective experience, always
seems insufficient? My mother, on the contrary, had thoroughly
qualified me for social conversation. The emptiest tale has in itself
a high charm for the imagination, and the smallest quantity of solid
matter is thankfully received by the understanding.

By such recitals, which cost me nothing, I made myself beloved by
children, excited and delighted youth, and drew upon myself the
attention of older persons. But in society, such as it commonly is,
I was soon obliged to stop these exercises, and I have thereby lost
but too much of the enjoyment of life and of free mental advancement.
Nevertheless both these parental gifts accompanied me throughout my
whole life, united with a third, namely, the necessity of expressing
myself figuratively and by comparisons. In consideration of these
peculiarities, which the acute and ingenious Doctor Gall discovered
in me according to his theory, he assured me that I was, properly
speaking, born for a popular orator. At this disclosure I was not a
little alarmed; for if it had been here well founded, everything that
I undertook would have proved a failure, from the fact that with my
nation there was nothing to harangue about.


[1] The German word is "Koth," and the whole object of the line is
to introduce a play on the words "Göthe," "Götter," "Gothen," and
"Koth."--_Trans._

[2] That is, towards _Germany_, Germany is _the Land_ by
pre-eminence.--_American Note_.

[3] Abbreviation for Frederica.--_Trans._

[4] The exclamation used on striking a bargain. It is, we believe,
employed by some trades in England.--_Trans._ [
F] The general custom of the country villages in Protestant Germany on
such interesting occasions.--_American Note._

[6] In the original his answer is "Guet," fur "Gut."--_Trans._

[7] Diminutive of Barbara.--_Trans._

[8] This is introduced in _Wilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre._--_Trans._




PART THE THIRD.

CARE IS TAKEN THAT TREES DO NOT GROW INTO THE SKY.

ELEVENTH BOOK.


After I had, in that bower of Sesenheim, finished my tale, in which the
ordinary and the impossible were so agreeably alternated, I perceived
that my hearers, who had already shown peculiar sympathy, were now
enchanted in the highest degree by my singular narrative. They pressed
me urgently to write down the tale, that they might often repeat it
by reading it among themselves, and to others. I promised this the
more willingly, as I thus hoped to gain a pretext for repeating my
visit, and for an opportunity of forming a closer connexion. The party
separated for a moment, and all were inclined to feel that after a
day spent in so lively a manner, the evening might fall rather flat.
From this anxiety I was freed by my friend, who asked permission to
take leave at once, in the name of us both, because, as an industrious
academical citizen, regular in his studies, he wished to pass the night
at Drusenheim, and to be early in the morning at Strasburg.

We both reached our night-quarters in silence; I, because I felt a
grapple on my heart, which drew me back; he, because he had something
else on his mind, which he told me as soon as we had arrived. "It is
strange," he began, "that you should just hit upon this tale. Did not
you remark that it made quite a peculiar impression?" "Nay," answered
I, "how could I help observing that the elder one laughed more than
was consistent at certain passages, that the younger one shook her
head, that all of you looked significantly at each other, and that
you yourself were nearly put out of countenance. I do not deny that I
almost felt embarrassed myself, for it struck me that it was perhaps
improper to tell the dear girls a parcel of stuff, of which they had
better been ignorant, and to give them such a bad opinion of the
male sex as they must naturally have formed from the character of
the hero." "You have not hit it at all," said he, "and, indeed, how
should you? These dear girls are not so unacquainted with such matters
as you imagine, for the great society around them gives occasion for
many reflections; and there happens to be, on the other side of the
Rhine, exactly such a married pair as you describe, allowing a little
for fancy and exaggeration; the husband just as tall, sturdy, and
heavy,--the wife so pretty and dainty, that he could easily hold her
in his hand. Their mutual position in other respects, their history
altogether, so exactly accords with your tale, that the girls seriously
asked me whether you knew the persons, and described them in jest. I
assured them that you did not, and you will do well to let the tale
remain unwritten. With the assistance of delays and pretexts, we may
soon find an excuse."

I was much astonished, for I had thought of no couple on this or the
other side of the Rhine; nay, I could not have stated how I came by the
notion. In thought I liked to sport with such pleasantries, without
any particular reference, and I believed that** if I narrated them, it
would be the same with others.

When I returned to my occupations in the city, I felt them more than
usually wearisome, for a man born to activity forms plans too extensive
for his capacity, and overburdens himself with labour. This goes on
very well till some physical or moral impediment comes in the way, and
clearly shows the disproportion of the powers to the undertaking.

[Side-note: Return to Strasburg.]

I pursued jurisprudence with as much diligence as was required to
take my degree with some credit. Medicine charmed me, because it
showed nature, if it did not unfold it on every side; and to this I
was attached by intercourse and habit. To society I was obliged to
devote some time and attention; for in many families I had fallen in
for much both of love and honour. All this might have been carried
on, had not that which Herder had inculcated pressed upon me with an
infinite weight. He had torn down the curtain which concealed from me
the poverty of German literature; he had ruthlessly destroyed so many
of my prejudices; in the sky of my fatherland there were few stars of
importance left, when he had treated all the rest as so many transient
candle-snuffs; nay, my own hopes and fancies respecting myself he had
so spoiled, that I began to doubt my own capabilities. At the same
time, however, he dragged me on to the noble broad way which he himself
was inclined to tread, drew my attention to his favourite authors, at
the head of whom stood Swift and Hamann, and shook me up with more
force than he had bound me down. To this manifold confusion was now
added an incipient passion, which, while it threatened to absorb me,
might indeed draw me from other relations, but could scarcely elevate
me above them. Then came besides, a corporeal malady, which made me
feel after dinner as if my throat was closed up, and of which I did not
easily get rid, till afterwards, when I abstained from a certain red
wine, which I generally and very willingly drank in the boarding-house.
This intolerable inconvenience had quitted me at Sesenheim, so that
I felt double pleasure in being there, but when I came back to my
town-diet it returned, to my great annoyance. All this made me
thoughful and morose; and my outward appearance probably corresponded
with my inward feelings.

Being in a worse humour than ever, because the malady was violent
after dinner, I attended the clinical lecture. The great care and
cheerfulness with which our respected instructor led us from bed to
bed, the minute observation of important symptoms, the judgment of the
cause of complaint in general, the fine Hippocratic mode of proceeding,
by which, without theory, and out of an individual experience, the
forms of knowledge revealed themselves, the addresses with which he
usually crowned his lectures--all this attracted me towards him, and
made a strange department, into which I only looked as through a
crevice, so much the more agreeable and fascinating. My disgust at the
invalids gradually decreased, as I learned to change their various
states into distinct conceptions, by which recovery and the restoration
of the human form and nature appeared possible. He probably had his
eye particularly upon me, as a singular young man, and pardoned the
strange anomaly which took me to his lectures. On this occasion he did
not conclude his lecture, as usual, with a doctrine which might have
reference to an illness that had been observed, but said cheerfully,
"Gentlemen, there are some holidays before us; make use of them to
enliven your spirits. Studies must not only be pursued with seriousness
and diligence, but also with cheerfulness and freedom of mind. Give
movement to your bodies, and traverse the beautiful country on horse
and foot. He who is at home will take delight in that to which he has
been accustomed, while for the stranger there will be new impressions,
and pleasant reminiscences in future."

There were only two of us to whom this admonition could be directed.
May the recipe have been as obvious to the other as it was to me! I
thought I heard a voice from heaven, and made all the haste I could
to order a horse and dress myself out neatly. I sent for Weyland, but
he was not to be found. This did not delay my resolution, but the
preparations unfortunately went on slowly, and I could not depart so
soon as I had hoped. Fast as I rode, I was overtaken by the night.
The way was not to be mistaken, and the moon shed her light on my
impassioned project. The night was windy and awful, and I dashed on,
that I might not have to wait till morning before I could see her.

[Side-note: Return to Sesenheim.]

It was already late when I put up my horse at Sesenheim. The landlord,
in answer to my question, whether there was still light in the
parsonage, assured me that the ladies had only just gone home; he
thought he had heard they were still expecting a stranger. This did not
please me, as I wished to have been the only one. I hastened, that,
late as I was, I might at least appear the first. I found the two
sisters sitting at the door. They did not seem much astonished, but I
was, when Frederica whispered into Olivia's ear, loud enough for me to
hear, "Did I not say so? Here he is!" They conducted me into a room,
where I found a little collation set out. The mother greeted me as an
old acquaintance; and the elder sister, when she saw me in the light,
broke out into loud laughter, for she had little command over herself.

After this first and somewhat odd reception, the conversation became
at once free and cheerful, and a circumstance, which had remained
concealed from me this evening, I learned on the following day.
Frederica had predicted that I should come; and who does not feel
some satisfaction at the fulfilment of a foreboding, even if it be a
mournful one? All presentiments, when confirmed by the event, give man
a higher opinion of himself, whether it be that he thinks himself in
possession of so fine a susceptibility as to feel a relation in the
distance, or acute enough to perceive necessary but still uncertain
associations. Even Olivia's laugh remained no secret; she confessed
that it seemed very comical to see me dressed and decked out on this
occasion. Frederica, on the other hand, found it advantageous not to
explain such a phenomenon as vanity, but rather to discover in it a
wish to please her.

Early in the morning Frederica asked me to take a walk. Her mother
and sister were occupied in preparing everything for the reception of
several guests. By the side of this beloved girl I enjoyed the noble
Sunday morning in the country, as the inestimable Hebel has depicted
it. She described to me the party which was expected, and asked me to
remain by her, that all the pleasure might, if possible, be common to
us both, and be enjoyed in a certain order. "Generally," she said,
"people amuse themselves alone. Sport and play is very lightly tasted,
so that at last nothing is left but cards for one part, and the
excitement of dancing for the other."

We therefore sketched our plan as to what should be done after dinner,
taught each other some new social games, and were united and happy,
when the bell summoned us to church, where, by her side, I found a
somewhat dry sermon of her father's not too long.

The presence of the beloved one always shortens time; but this
hour passed amid peculiar reflections. I repeated to myself the
good qualities which she had just unfolded so freely before
me--her circumspect cheerfulness, her _naïveté_ combined with
self-consciousness, her hilarity with foresight--qualities which seem
incompatible, but which nevertheless were found together in her, and
gave a pleasing character to her outward appearance. But now I had
to make more serious reflections upon myself, which were somewhat
prejudicial to a free state of cheerfulness.

[Side-note: Effect of Lucinda's Curse.]

Since that impassioned girl had cursed and sanctified my lips (for
every consecration involves both), I had, superstitiously enough, taken
care not to kiss any girl, because I feared that I might injure her in
some unheard-of spiritual manner. I therefore subdued every desire, by
which a youth feels impelled to win from a charming girl this favour,
which says much or little. But even in the most decorous company a
heavy trial awaited me. Those little games, as they are called, which
are more or less ingenious, and by which a joyous young circle is
collected and combined, depend in a great measure upon forfeits, in the
calling in of which kisses have no small value. I had resolved, once
for all, not to kiss, and as every want or impediment stimulates us to
an activity to which we should otherwise not feel inclined, I exerted
all the talent and humour I possessed to help myself through, and thus
to win rather than lose, before the company, and for the company.
When a verse was desired for the redemption of a forfeit, the demand
was usually directed to me. Now I was always prepared, and on such
occasions contrived to bring out something in praise of the hostess, or
of some lady who had conducted herself most agreeably towards me. If it
happened that a kiss was imposed upon me at all events, I endeavoured
to escape by some turn, which was considered satisfactory; and as I
had time to reflect on the matter beforehand, I was never in want of
various elegant excuses, although those made on the spur of the moment
were always most successful.

When we reached home, the guests, who had arrived from several
quarters, were buzzing merrily one with another, until Frederica
collected them together, and invited and conducted them to a walk
to that charming spot. There they found an abundant collation, and
wished to fill up with social games the period before dinner. Here,
by agreement with Frederica, though she did not know my secret,
I contrived to get up and go through games without forfeits, and
redemptions of forfeits without kissing.

My skill and readiness were so much the more necessary, as the company,
which was otherwise quite strange to me, seemed to have suspected some
connexion between me and the dear girl, and roguishly took the greatest
pains to force upon me that which I secretly endeavoured to avoid. For
in such circles, if people perceive a growing inclination between two
young persons, they try to make them confused, or to bring them closer
together, just as afterwards, when once a passion has been declared,
they take trouble on purpose to part them again. Thus, to the man of
society, it is totally indifferent whether he confers a benefit or an
injury, provided only he is amused.

This morning I could observe, with more attention, the whole character
of Frederica, so that for the whole time she always remained to me the
same. The friendly greetings of the peasants, which were especially
addressed to her, gave me to understand that she was beneficent to
them, and created in them an agreeable feeling. The elder sister
remained at home with her mother. Nothing that demanded bodily exertion
was required of Frederica; but she was spared, they said, on account of
her chest.

There are women who especially please us in a room, others who look
better in the open air. Frederica belonged to the latter. Her whole
nature, her form never appeared more charming than when she moved
along an elevated footpath; the grace of her deportment seemed to
vie with the flowery earth, and the indestructible cheerfulness of
her countenance with the blue sky. This refreshing atmosphere which
surrounded her she carried home, and it might soon be perceived that
she understood how to reconcile difficulties, and to obliterate with
ease the impression made by little unpleasant contingencies.

The purest joy which we can feel with respect to a beloved person is
to find that she pleases others. Frederica's conduct in society was
beneficent to all. In walks, she floated about, an animating spirit,
and knew how to supply the gaps which might arise here and there.
The lightness of her movements we have already commended, and she
was most graceful when she ran. As the deer seems just to fulfil its
destination when it lightly flies over the sprouting corn**, so did her
peculiar nature seem most plainly to express itself when she ran with
light steps over mead and furrow, to fetch something which had been
forgotten, to seek something which had been lost, to summon a distant
couple, or to order something necessary. On these occasions she was
never out of breath, and always kept her equilibrium. Hence the great
anxiety of her parents with respect to her chest must to many have
appeared excessive.

The father, who often accompanied us through meadows and fields, was
not always provided with a suitable companion. On this account I
joined him, and he did not fail to touch once more upon his favourite
theme, and circumstantially to tell me about the proposed building
of the parsonage. He particularly regretted that he could not again
get the carefully finished sketches, so as to meditate upon them,
and to consider this or that improvement. I observed, that the loss
might be easily supplied, and offered to prepare a ground-plan, upon
which, after all, everything chiefly depended. With this he was
highly pleased, and settled that we should have the assistance of the
schoolmaster, to stir up whom he at once hurried off, that the yard and
foot-measure might be ready early on the morrow.

When he had gone, Frederica said, "You are right to humour my dear
father on his weak side, and not, like others, who get weary of this
subject, to avoid him, or to break it off. I must, indeed, confess
to you that the rest of us do not desire this building; it would be
too expensive for the congregation and for us also. A new house, new
furniture! Our guests would not feel more comfortable with us, now
they are once accustomed to the old building. Here we can treat them
liberally; there we should find ourselves straightened in a wider
sphere. Thus the matter stands; but do not you fail to be agreeable. I
thank you for it, from my heart."

Another lady who joined us asked about some novels,--whether Frederica
had read them. She answered in the negative, for she had read but
little altogether. She had grown up in a cheerful, decorous enjoyment
of life, and was cultivated accordingly. I had the _Vicar of Wakefield_
on the tip of my tongue, but did not venture to propose it, the
similarity of the situations being too striking and too important. "I
am very fond of reading novels," she said; "one finds in them such nice
people, whom one would like to resemble."

[Side-note: Plan for the New Parsonage.]

The measurement of the house took place the following day. It was a
somewhat slow proceeding, as I was as little accustomed to such arts
as the schoolmaster. At last a tolerable project came to my aid. The
good father told me his views, and was not displeased when I asked
permission to prepare the plan more conveniently in the town. Frederica
dismissed me with joy; she was convinced of my affection, and I of
hers; and the six leagues no longer appeared a distance. It was so easy
to travel to Drusenheim in the diligence, and by this vehicle, as well
as by messengers, ordinary and extraordinary, to keep up a connexion,
George being entrusted with the despatches.

When I had arrived in the town, I occupied myself in the earliest hours
(for there was no notion of a long sleep) with the plan, which I drew
as neatly as possible. In the meanwhile I had sent Frederica some
books, accompanied by a few kind words. I received an answer at once,
and was charmed with her light, pretty, hearty hand. Contents and style
were natural, good, amiable, as if they came from within; and thus the
pleasing impression she had made upon me was ever kept up and renewed.
I but too readily recalled to myself the endowments of her beautiful
nature, and nurtured the hope that I should see her soon, and for a
longer time.

There was now no more any need of an address from our good instructor.
He had, by those words, spoken at the right time, so completely cured
me, that I had no particular inclination to see him and his patients
again. The correspondence with Frederica became more animated. She
invited me to a festival, to which also some friends from the other
side of the Rhine would come. I was to make arrangements for a longer
time. This I did, by packing a stout portmanteau upon the diligence,
and in a few hours I was in her presence. I found a large merry party,
took the father aside, and handed him the plan, at which he testified
great delight. I talked over with him what I had thought while
completing it. He was quite beside himself with joy, and especially
praised the neatness of the drawing. This I had practised from my
youth upwards, and had on this occasion taken especial pains, with the
finest paper. But this pleasure was very soon marred for our good host,
when, against my counsel, and in the joy of his heart, he laid the
sketch before the company. Far from uttering the desired sympathy, some
thought nothing at all of this precious work; others, who thought they
knew something of the matter, made it still worse, blaming the sketch
as not artistical, and, when the old man looked off for a moment,
handled the clean sheets as if they were only so many rough draughts,
while one, with the hard strokes of a lead-pencil, marked his plans of
improvement on the fine paper, in such a manner, that a restoration of
the primitive purity was not to be thought of.

I was scarcely able to console the extremely irritated man, whose
pleasures had been so outrageously destroyed, much as I assured him
that I myself looked upon them only as sketches, which we would talk
over, and on which we would construct new drawings. In spite of all
this he went off in a very ill-humour, and Frederica thanked me for
my attention to her father, as well as for my patience during the
unmannerly conduct of the other guests.

[Side-note: Festival at the Parsonage.]

But I could feel no pain nor ill-humour in her presence. The party
consisted of young and tolerably noisy friends, whom, nevertheless,
an old gentleman tried to outdo, proposing even odder stuff than they
practised. Already, at breakfast, the wine had not been spared. At a
very well-furnished dinner-table there was no want of any enjoyment,
and the feast was relished the more by everybody, after the violent
bodily exercise during the somewhat warm weather, and if the official
gentleman went a little too far in the good things, the young people
were not left much behind him.

I was happy beyond all bounds at the side of Frederica;--talkative,
merry, ingenious, forward, and yet kept in moderation by feeling,
esteem, and attachment. She, in a similar position, was open, cheerful,
sympathizing, and communicative. We all appeared to live for the
company, and yet lived only for each other.

After the meal they sought the shade, social games were begun, and the
turn came to forfeits. On redeeming the forfeits, everything of every
kind was carried to excess; the gestures which were commanded, the acts
which were to be done, the problems which were to be solved, all showed
a mad joy which knew no limits. I myself heightened these wild jokes
by many a comical prank, and Frederica shone by many a droll thought;
she appeared to me more charming than ever, all hypochondriacal
superstitious fancies had vanished, and when the opportunity offered of
heartily kissing one whom I loved so tenderly, I did not miss it, still
less did I deny myself a repetition of this pleasure.

The hope of the party for music was at last satisfied; it was heard,
and all hastened to the dance. _Allemandes_, waltzing and turning, were
beginning, middle and end. All had given up to this national dance;
even I did honour enough to my private dancing-mistress, and Frederica,
who danced as she walked, sprang, and ran, was delighted to find in
me a very expert partner. We generally kept together, but were soon
obliged to leave off, and she was advised on all sides not to go on any
further in this wild manner. We consoled ourselves by a solitary walk,
hand in hand, and when we had reached that quiet spot, by the warmest
embrace and the most faithful assurance that we loved each other
heartily.

Older persons, who had risen with us from the game, took us with them.
At supper people did not return to their sober senses. Dancing went on
far into the night, and there was as little want of healths and other
incitements to drinking as at noon.

I had scarcely for a few hours slept very profoundly, when I was
awakened by a heat and tumult in my blood. It is at such times and in
such situations that care and repentance usually attack man, who is
stretched out defenceless. My imagination at once presented to me the
liveliest forms; I saw Lucinda, how, after the most ardent kiss, she
passionately receded from me, and, with glowing cheek and sparkling
eyes, uttered that curse, by which she intended to menace her sister
only, but by which she also unconsciously menaced innocent persons,
who were unknown to her. I saw Frederica standing opposite to her,
paralysed at the sight, pale, and feeling the consequences of the
curse, of which she knew nothing. I found myself between them, as
little able to ward off the spiritual effects of the adventure, as to
avoid the evil-boding kiss. The delicate health of Frederica seemed
to hasten the threatened calamity, and now her love to mo wore a most
unhappy aspect, and I wished myself at the other side of the world.

But something still more painful to me, which lay in the background,
I will not conceal. A certain conceit kept that superstition alive
in me;--my lips, whether consecrated or cursed, appeared to me more
important than usual, and with no little complacency was I aware of my
self-denying conduct, in renouncing many an innocent pleasure, partly
to preserve my magical advantage, partly to avoid injuring a harmless
being by giving it up.

But now all was lost and irrevocable: I had returned into a mere common
position, and I thought that I had harmed, irretrievably injured, the
dearest of beings. Thus, far from my being freed from the curse, it was
flung back from my lips into my own heart.

All this together raged in my blood, already excited by love and
passion, "wine and dancing, confused my thoughts and tortured my
feelings, so that, especially as contrasted with the joys of the day
before, I felt myself in a state of despair which seemed unbounded.
Fortunately daylight peered in upon me through a chink in the shutter,
and the sun stepping forth and vanquishing all the powers of night, set
me again upon my feet; I was soon in the open air, and refreshed, if
not restored.

[Side-note: Correspondence with Frederica.]

Superstition, like many other fancies, very easily loses in power,
when, instead of flattering our vanity, it stands in its way, and
would fain produce an evil hour to this delicate being. "We then see
well enough that we can get rid of it when we choose; we renounce it
the more easily, as all of which we deprive ourselves turns to our
own advantage. The sight of Frederica, the feeling of her love, the
cheerfulness of everything around me--all reproved me, that in the
midst of the happiest days I could harbour such dismal night-birds in
my bosom. The confiding conduct of the dear girl, which became more and
more intimate, made me thoroughly rejoiced, and I felt truly happy,
when, at parting, she openly gave a kiss to me, as well as the other
friends and relations.

In the city many occupations and dissipations awaited me, from the
midst of which I collected myself for the sake of my beloved, by means
of a correspondence, which we regularly established. Even in her
letters she always remained the same; whether she related anything new,
or alluded to well-known occurrences, lightly described or cursorily
reflected, it was always as if, even with her pen, she appeared going,
coming, running, bounding with a step as light as it was sure. I also
liked very much to write to her, for the act of rendering present her
good qualities increased my affection even during absence, so that this
intercourse was little inferior to a personal one, nay, afterwards
became pleasanter and dearer to me.

For that superstition had been forced to give way altogether. It was
indeed based upon the impressions of earlier years, but the spirit of
the day, the liveliness of youth, the intercourse with cold sensible
men, all was unfavourable to it, so that it would not have been easy to
find among all who surrounded me a single person to whom a confession
of my whims would not have been perfectly ridiculous. But the worst
of it was, that the fancy, while it fled, left behind it a real
contemplation of that state in which young people are placed, whose
early affections can promise themselves no lasting result. So little
was I assisted in getting free from error, that understanding and
reflection used me still worse in this instance. My passion increased
the more I learned to know the virtue of the excellent girl, and the
time approached when I was to lose, perhaps for ever, so much that was
dear and good.

We had quietly and pleasantly passed a long time together, when friend
Weyland had the waggery to bring with him to Sesenheim the _Vicar of
Wakefield_, and when they were, talking of reading aloud, to hand
it over to me unexpectedly, as if nothing further was to be said. I
managed to collect myself, and read with as much cheerfulness and
freedom as I could. Even the faces of my hearers at once brightened,
and it did not seem unpleasant to them to be again forced to a
comparison. If they had found comical counterparts to Raymond and
Melusina, they here saw themselves in a glass which by no means gave a
distorted likeness. They did not openly confess, but they did not deny,
that they were moving among persons akin both by mind and feeling.

All men of a good disposition feel, with increasing cultivation, that
they have a double part to play in the world,--a real one and an
ideal one, and in this feeling is the ground of everything noble to
be sought. The real part which has been assigned to us we experience
but too plainly; with respect to the second, we seldom come to a clear
understanding about it. Man may seek his higher destination on earth
or in heaven, in the present or in the future, he yet remains on this
account exposed to an eternal wavering, to an influence from without
which ever disturbs him, until he once for all makes a resolution to
declare that that is right which is suitable to himself.

Among the most venial attempts to acquire something higher, to place
oneself on an equality with something higher, may be classed the
youthful impulse to compare oneself with the characters in novels. This
is highly innocent, and whatever may be urged against, it, the very
reverse of mischievous. It amuses at times when we should necessarily
die of _ennui_, or grasp at the recreation of passion.

How often is repeated the litany about the mischief of novels--and yet
what misfortune is it if a pretty girl or a handsome young man put
themselves in the place of a person who fares better or worse than
themselves? Is the citizen life worth so much? or do the necessities
of the day so completely absorb the man, that he must refuse every
beautiful demand which is made upon him?

[Side-note: Results of Novel-Reading.]

The historico-poetical Christian names which have intruded into the
German church in the place of the sacred names, not unfrequently to
the annoyance of the officiating clergyman, are without doubt to be
regarded as small ramifications of the romantico-poetical pictures.
This very impulse to honour one's child by a well-sounding name--even
if the name has nothing further behind it--is praiseworthy, and this
connexion of an imaginary world with the real one diffuses an agreeable
lustre over the whole life of the person. A beautiful child, whom
with satisfaction we call "Bertha," we should think we offended if we
were to call it "Urselblandine." With a cultivated man, not to say a
lover, such a name would certainly falter on the lips. The cold world,
which judges only from one side, is not to be blamed if it sets down
as ridiculous and objectionable all that comes forward as imaginary,
but the thinking connoisseur of mankind must know how to estimate it
according to its worth.

For the position of the loving couple on the fair Rhine-bank, this
comparison, to which a wag had compelled them produced the most
agreeable results. We do not think of ourselves when we look in a
mirror, but we feel ourselves, and allow ourselves to pass. Thus is it
also with those moral imitations, in which we recognise our manners and
inclinations, our habits and peculiarities, as in a _silhouette_, and
strive to grasp it and embrace it with brotherly affection.

The habit of being together became more and more confirmed, and nothing
else was known but that I belonged to this circle. The affair was
allowed to take its course without the question being directly asked
as to what was to be the result. And what parents are there who do
not find themselves compelled to let daughters and sons continue for
a while in such a wavering condition, until accidentally something is
confirmed for life, better than it could have been produced by a long
arranged plan.

It was thought that perfect confidence could be placed both in
Frederica's sentiments and in my rectitude, of which, on account of
my forbearance even from innocent caresses, a favourable opinion
had been entertained. We were left unobserved, as was generally the
custom, there and then, and it depended on ourselves to go over the
country, with a larger or smaller party, and to visit the friends in
the neighbourhood. On both sides of the Rhine, in Hagenau, Fort-Louis,
Philippsburg, the Ortenau, I found dispersed those persons whom I had
seen united at Sesenheim, every one by himself, a friendly, hospitable
host, throwing open kitchen and cellar just as willingly as gardens and
vineyards, nay, the whole spot. The islands on the Rhine were often a
goal for our water-expeditions. There, without pity, we put the cool
inhabitants of the clear Rhine into the kettle, on the spit, into the
boiling fat, and would here, perhaps more than was reasonable, have
settled ourselves in the snug fishermen's huts, if the abominable
Rhine-gnats (_Rhein-schnaken_) had not, after some hours, driven us
away. At this intolerable interruption of one of our most charming
parties of pleasure, when everything else was prosperous, when the
affection of the lovers seemed to increase with the good success of
the enterprise, and we had nevertheless come home too soon, unsuitably
and inopportunely. I actually, in the presence of the good reverend
father, broke out into blasphemous expressions, and assured him that
these gnats alone were sufficient to remove from me the thought that
a good and wise Deity had created the world. The pious old gentleman,
by way of reply, solemnly called me to order, and explained to me that
these gnats and other vermin had not arisen until after the fall of
our first parents, or that if there were any of them in Paradise, they
had only pleasantly hummed there, and had not stung. I certainly felt
myself calmed at once, for an angry man may easily be appeased if we
can succeed in making him smile; but I nevertheless asserted that there
was no need of the angel with the burning sword to drive the guilty
pair out of the garden; my host, I said, must rather allow me to think
that this was effected by means of great gnats on the Tigris and the
Euphrates. And thus I again made him laugh; for the old man understood
a joke, or at any rate let one pass.

[Side-note: The Pastor's Chair.]

However, the enjoyment of the day-time and season in this noble country
was more serious and more elevating to the heart. One had only to
resign oneself to the present, to enjoy the clearness of the pure
sky, the brilliancy of the rich earth, the mild evenings, the warm
nights, by the side of a beloved one, or in her vicinity. For months
together we were favoured with pure ethereal mornings, when the sky
displayed itself in all its magnificence, having watered the earth with
superfluous dew; and that this spectacle might not become too simple,
clouds after clouds piled themselves over the distant mountains,
now in this spot, now in that. They stood for days, nay, for weeks,
without obscuring the pure sky, and even the transient storms refreshed
the country, and gave lustre to the green, which again glistened in
the sunshine before it could become dry. The double rainbow, the
two-coloured borders of a dark grey and nearly black streak in the
sky, were nobler, more highly coloured, more decided, but also more
transient, than I had ever observed.

In the midst of these objects the desire of poetising, which I had not
felt for a long time, again came forward. For Frederica I composed many
songs to well-known melodies. They would have made a pretty little
book; a few of them still remain, and will easily be found among my
others.

Since on account of my strange studies and other circumstances I was
often compelled to return to the town, there arose for our affection a
new life, which preserved us from all that unpleasantness which usually
attaches itself as an annoying consequence to such little love-affairs.
Though far from me, she yet laboured for me, and thought of some new
amusement against I should return; though far from her, I employed
myself for her, that by some new gift or new notion I myself might be
again new to her. Painted ribbons had then just come into fashion, I
painted at once for her a few pieces, and sent them on with a little
poem, as on this occasion I was forced to stop away longer than I had
anticipated. That I might fulfil and even go beyond my promise to the
father of a new and elaborated plan, I persuaded a young adept in
architecture to work instead of myself. He took as much pleasure in
the task as he had kindness for me, and was still further animated by
the hope of a good reception in so agreeable a family. He finished the
ground-plan, sketch, and section of the house; court-yard and garden
were not forgotten, and a detailed but very moderate estimate was
added, to show the possibility of carrying out an extensive project.

These testimonials of our friendly endeavours obtained for us the
kindest reception; and since the good father saw that we had the best
will to serve him, he came forward with one wish more; it was the wish
to see his pretty but one-coloured chair adorned with flowers and other
ornaments. We showed ourselves accommodating. Colours, pencils, and
other requisites were fetched from the tradesmen and apothecaries of
the nearest towns. But that we might not be wanting in a _Wakefield_
mistake, we did not remark, until all had been most industriously and
variously painted, that we had taken a false varnish which would not
dry; neither sunshine nor draught, neither fair nor wet weather were
of any avail. In the meanwhile we were obliged to make use of an old
lumber-room, and nothing was left us but to rub out the ornaments with
more assiduity than we had painted them. The unpleasantness of this
work was still increased when the girls intreated us, for heaven's
sake, to proceed slowly and cautiously, for the sake of sparing the
ground; which, however, after this operation, was not again to be
restored to its former brilliancy.

By such little disagreeable contigencies, which happened at intervals,
we were, however, just as little interrupted in our cheerful life as
Dr. Primrose and his amiable family; for many an unexpected pleasure
befell both ourselves and our friends and neighbours. Weddings and
christenings, the erection of a building, an inheritance, a prize in
the lottery, were reciprocally announced and enjoyed. We shared all joy
together, like a common property, and wished to heighten it by mind and
love. It was not the first nor the last time that I found myself in
families and social circles at the very moment of their highest bloom,
and if I may flatter myself that I contributed something towards the
lustre of such epochs, I must, on the other hand, be reproached with
the fact, that on this very account such times passed the more quickly
and vanished the sooner.

[Side-note: The Visit to Strasburg.]

But now our love was to undergo a singular trial. I will call it a
trial (_Prüfung_), although this is not the right word. The country
family with which I was intimate was related to some families in
the city of good note and respectability, and comfortably off as to
circumstances. The young towns-people were often at Sesenheim. The
older persons, the mothers and aunts, being less moveable, heard so
much of the life there, of the increasing charms of the daughters, and
even of my influence, that they first wished to become acquainted with
me, and after I had often visited them, and had been well received
by them, desired also to see us once altogether, especially as they
thought they owed the Sesenheim folks a friendly reception in return.

There was much discussion on all sides. The mother could scarcely leave
her household affairs, Olivia had a horror of the town, for which she
was not fitted, and Frederica had no inclination for it; and thus the
affair was put off, until it was at last brought to a decision by
the fact, that it happened to be impossible for me to come into the
country; for it was better to see each other in the city, and under
some restraint, than not to see each other at all. And thus I now
found my fair friends, whom I had been only accustomed to see in a
rural scene, and whose image had only appeared to me hitherto before a
background of waving boughs, flowing brooks, nodding field-flowers, and
a horizon open for miles; I now saw them, I say, for the first time, in
town-rooms, which were indeed spacious, but yet narrow, if we take into
consideration the carpets, glasses, clocks, and porcelain figures.

The relation to that which one loves is so decided, that the
surrounding objects have little to do with it, but nevertheless the
heart desires that these shall be the suitable, natural, and usual
objects. With my lively feeling for everything present, I could not at
once adapt myself to the contradiction of the moment. The respectable
and calmly noble demeanour of the mother was perfectly adapted to the
circle; she was not different from the other ladies; Olivia, on the
other hand, showed herself as impatient as a fish out of water. As she
had formerly called to me in the gardens, or beckoned me aside in the
fields, if she had anything particular to say to me, she also did the
same here, when she drew me into the recess of a window. This she did
awkwardly and with embarrassment, because she felt that it was not
becoming, and did it notwithstanding. She had the most unimportant
things in the world to say to me--nothing but what I knew already;
for instance, that she wished herself by the Rhine, over the Rhine,
or even in Turkey. Frederica, on the contrary, was highly remarkable
in this situation. Properly speaking, she also did not suit it, but
it bore witness to her character, that, instead of finding herself
adapted to this condition, she unconsciously moulded the condition
according to herself. She acted here as she had acted with the society
in the country. She knew how to animate every moment. Without creating
any disturbance, she put all in motion, and exactly by this pacified
society, which really is only disturbed by _ennui._ She thus completely
fulfilled the desire of her town aunts, who wished for once, on their
sofas, to be witnesses of those rural games and amusements. If this was
done to satisfaction, so also were the wardrobe, the ornaments, and
whatever besides distinguished the town nieces, who were dressed in
the French fashion, considered and admired without envy. With me also
Frederica had no difficulty, since she treated me the same as ever. She
seemed to give me no other preference but that of communicating her
desires and wishes to me rather than to another, and thus recognising
me as her servant.

To this service she confidently laid claim on one of the following
days, when she privately told me that the ladies wished to hear me
read. The daughters of the house had spoken much on this subject,
for at Sesenheim I had read what and when I was desired. I was ready
at once, but craved quiet and attention for several hours. This
was conceded, and one evening I read through the whole of _Hamlet_
without interruption, entering into the sense of the piece as well as
I was able, and expressing myself with liveliness and passion, as is
possible in youth. I earned great applause. Frederica drew her breath
deeply from time to time, and a transient red had passed over her
cheeks. These two symptoms of a tender heart internally moved, while
cheerfulness and calmness were externally apparent, were not unknown
to me, and were indeed the only reward which I had striven to obtain.
She joyfully collected the thanks of the party for having caused me to
read, and in her graceful manner did not deny herself the little pride
at having shone in me and through me.

This town visit was not to have lasted long: but the departure was
delayed. Frederica did her part for the social amusement, and I was not
wanting, but the abundant sources which yield so much in the country
now dried up in their turn, and the situation was the more painful, as
the elder sister gradually lost all self-control. The two sisters were
the only persons in the society who dressed themselves in the German
fashion. Frederica had never thought of herself in any other way, and
believed herself so right everywhere, that she made no comparisons with
any one else; but Olivia found it quite insupportable to move about in
a society of genteel appearance attired so like a maid-servant. In the
country she scarcely remarked the town costume of others, and did not
desire it, but in the town she could not endure the country style. All
this, together with the different lot of town ladies, and the thousand
trifles of a series of circumstances totally opposed to her own
notions, so worked for some days in her impassioned bosom, that I was
forced to apply all my flattering attention to appease her, according
to the wish of Frederica. I feared an impassioned scene. I looked
forward to the moment when she would throw herself at my feet, and
implore me by all that was sacred to rescue her from this situation.
She was good to a heavenly degree if she could conduct herself in her
own way, but such a restraint at once made her uncomfortable, and could
at last drive her even to despair. I now sought to hasten that which
was desired by the mother and Olivia, and not repugnant to Frederica. I
did not refrain from praising her as a contrast to her sister; I told
her what pleasure it gave me to find her unaltered, and, even under the
present circumstances, just as free as the bird among the branches. She
was courteous enough to reply that I was there, and that she wished to
go neither in nor out when I was with her.

At last I saw them take their departure, and it seemed as though a
stone fell from my heart; for my own feelings had shared the condition
of Frederica and Olivia; I was not passionately tormented like the
latter, but I felt by no means as comfortable as the former.

[Side-note: The "Disputation."]

Since I had properly gone to Strasburg to take my degree, it may be
rightly reckoned among the irregularities of my life, that I treated
this material business as a mere collateral affair. All anxiety as to
my examination I had put aside in a very easy fashion, but I had now
to think of the _disputation_[1] for on my departure from Frankfort I
had promised my father, and resolved within myself to write one. It is
the fault of those who can do many things, nay, much, that they trust
everything to themselves, and youth must indeed be in this position, if
anything is to be made of it. A survey of the science of jurisprudence
and all its framework I had pretty well acquired, single subjects of
law sufficiently interested me, and as I had the good Leyser for my
model, I thought I should get tolerably through with my own little
common-sense. Great movements were showing themselves in jurisprudence;
judgments were to be more according to equity, all rights by usage
were daily seen to be compromised, and in the criminal department
especially a great change was impending. As for myself, I felt well
enough that I lacked an infinite deal to fill up the legal commonplace
which I had proposed. The proper knowledge was wanting, and no inner
tendency urged me to such subjects. Neither was there any impulse from
without, nay, quite another faculty[2] had completely earned me away.
In general, if I was to take any interest in a thing, it was necessary
for me to gain something from it, to perceive in it something that
appeared fertile to me, and gave me prospects. Thus I had once more
noted down some materials, had afterwards made collections, had taken
my books of extracts in hand, had considered the point which I wished
to maintain, the scheme according to which I wished to arrange the
single elements; but I was sharp enough soon to perceive that I could
not get on, and that to treat a special matter, a special and long
pursuing industry was requisite, nay, that such a special task cannot
be successfully accomplished unless, upon the whole, one is at any rate
an old hand, if not a master.

The friends to whom I communicated my embarrassment deemed me
ridiculous, because one can dispute upon _theses_ as well, nay, even
better, than upon a treatise, and in Strasburg this was not uncommon.
I allowed myself to be very well inclined to such an expedient, but
my father, to whom I wrote on the subject, desired a regular work,
which, as he thought, I could very well prepare, if I only chose so
to do and allowed myself proper time. I was now compelled to throw
myself upon some general topic, and to choose something which I should
have at my fingers' ends. Ecclesiastical history was almost better
known to me than the history of the world, and that conflict in which
the church--the publicly recognised worship of God--finds itself, and
always will find itself, in two different directions, had always highly
interested me. For now it lies in an eternal conflict with the state,
over which it will exalt itself; now with the individuals, all of
whom it will gather to itself. The state, on its side, will not yield
the superior authority to the church, and the individuals oppose its
restraints. The state desires everything for public, universal ends;
the individual for ends belonging to the home, heart, and feelings.
From my childhood upwards I had been a witness of such movements, when
the clergy now offended their authorities, now their congregations.
I had therefore established it as a principle in my young mind, that
the state--the legislator--had the right to determine a worship,
according to which the clergy should teach and conduct themselves,
and the laity, on the other hand, should direct themselves publicly
and externally; while there should be no question about any one's
thoughts, feelings, or notions. Thus I believed that I had at once
got rid of all collisions. I therefore chose for my _disputation_
the first half of this theme, namely, that the legislator was not
only authorised, but bound to establish a certain worship, from which
neither the clergy nor the laity might free themselves. I carried out
this theme partly historically, partly argumentatively, showing that
all public religions had been introduced by leaders of armies, kings,
and powerful men; that this had even been the case with Christianity.
The example of Protestantism lay quite close at hand. I went to work
at this task with so much the more boldness, as I really only wrote
it to satisfy my father, and desired and hoped nothing more ardently
than that it might not pass the censorship. I had imbibed from Behrisch
an unconquerable dislike to see anything of mine in print, and my
intercourse with Herder had discovered to mo but too plainly my own
insufficiency, nay, a certain mistrust in myself had through this
means been perfectly matured. As I drew this work almost entirely out
of myself, and wrote and spoke Latin with fluency, the time which I
expended on the treatise passed very agreeably. The matter had at least
some foundation, the style, naturally speaking, was not bad, the whole
was pretty well rounded off. As soon as I had finished it, I went
through it with a good Latin scholar, who, although he could not, on
the whole, improve my style, yet easily removed all striking defects,
so that something was produced that was fit to be shown. A fair copy
was at once sent to my father, who disapproved of one thing, namely,
that none of the subjects previously taken in hand had been worked out,
but nevertheless, as a thorough Protestant, he was well pleased with
the boldness of the plan. My singularities were tolerated, my exertions
were praised, and he promised himself an important effect from the
publication of the work.

[Side-note: The "Disputation."]

I now handed over my papers to the faculty, who fortunately behaved
in a manner as prudent as it was polite. The dean, a lively, clever
man, began with many laudations of my work, then went on to what
was doubtful, which he contrived gradually to change into something
dangerous, and concluded by saying that it might not be advisable
to publish this work as an academical dissertation. The _aspirant_
had shown himself to the faculty as a thinking young man, of whom
they might hope the best; they would willingly, not to delay the
affair, allow me to dispute on _theses._ I could afterwards publish
my treatise, either in its present condition or more elaborated, in
Latin, or in another language. This would everywhere be easy to me
as a private man and a Protestant, and I should have the pleasure of
an applause more pure and more general. I scarcely concealed from
the good man what a stone his discourse rolled from my heart; at
every new argument which he advanced, that he might not trouble me
nor make me angry by his refusal, my mind grew more and more easy,
and so did his own at last, when, quite unexpectedly, I offered no
resistance to his reasons, but, on the contrary, found them extremely
obvious, and promised to conduct myself according to his counsel and
guidance. I therefore sat down again with my _repetent._ _Theses_
were chosen and printed, and the disputation, with the opposition
of my fellow-boarders, went off with great merriment, and even with
facility, for my old habit of turning over the _Corpus Juris_ was very
serviceable to me, and I could pass for a well instructed man. A good
feast, according to custom, concluded the solemnity.

My father, however, was very dissatisfied that the little work had not
been regularly printed as a _disputation_, because he had hoped that I
should gain honour by it on my entrance into Frankfort. He therefore
wished to publish it specially, but I represented to him that the
subject, which was only sketched, could be more completely carried
out at some future time. He put up the manuscript carefully for this
purpose, and many years afterwards I saw it among his papers.

[Side-note: Schöpflin.]

I took my degree on the 6th August, 1771; and on the following day
Schöpflin died, in the 75th year of his age. Even without closer
contact, he had had an important influence upon me; for eminent
contemporaries may be compared to the greater stars, towards which,
so long as they merely stand above the horizon, our eye is turned,
and feels strengthened and cultivated, if it is only allowed to take
such perfections into itself. Bountiful nature had given Schöpflin an
advantageous exterior, a slender form, kindly eyes, a ready mouth, and
a thoroughly agreeable presence. Neither had she been sparing in gifts
of mind to her favourite; and his good fortune was the result of innate
and carefully-cultivated merits, without any troublesome exertion. He
was one of those happy men, who are inclined to unite the past and the
present, and understand how to connect historical knowledge with the
interests of life. Born in the Baden territory, educated at Basle and
Strasburg, he quite properly belonged to the paradisiacal valley of the
Rhine, as an extensive and well-situated fatherland. His mind being
directed to historical and antiquarian objects, he readily seized upon
them with a felicitous power of representation, and retained them by
the most convenient memory. Desirous as he was both of learning and
of teaching, he pursued a course of study and of life which equally
advanced. He soon emerges and rises above the rest, without any kind
of interruption; diffuses himself with ease through the literary
and citizen-world, for historical knowledge passes everywhere, and
affability attaches itself everywhere. He travels through Germany,
Holland, France. Italy; he comes in contact with all the learned men
of his time; he amuses princes, and it is only when, by his lively
loquacity, the hours of the table or of audience are lengthened, that
he is tedious to the people at court. On the other hand, he acquires
the confidence of the statesmen, works out for them the most profound
legal questions, and thus finds everywhere a field for his talent.
In many places they attempt to retain him, but he remains faithful
to Strasburg and the French court. His immoveable German honesty is
recognised even there, he is even protected against the powerful Prætor
Klingling, who is secretly his enemy. Sociable and talkative by nature,
he extends his intercourse with the world, as well as his knowledge and
occupations; and we should hardly be able to understand whence he got
all his time, did we not know that a dislike to women accompanied him
through his whole life; and that thus he gained many days and hours
which are happily thrown away by those who are well-disposed towards
the ladies.

For the rest, he belongs, as an author, to the ordinary sort of
character, and, as an orator, to the multitude. His programme, his
speeches, and addresses are devoted to the particular day--to the
approaching solemnity; nay, his great work, _Alsatia Illustrata_,
belongs to life, as he recalls the past, freshens up faded forms,
reanimates the hewn and the formed stone, and brings obliterated broken
inscriptions for a second time before the eyes and mind of his reader.
In such a manner, his activity fills all Alsatia and the neighbouring
country; in Baden and the Palatinate he preserves to an extreme old
age an uninterrupted influence; at Mannheim he founds the Academy of
Sciences, and remains president of it till his death.

I never approached this eminent man, excepting on one night, when we
gave him a torch-serenade. Our pitch-torches more filled with smoke
than lighted the court-yard of the old chapter-house, which was
over-arched by linden-trees. When the noise of the music had ended, he
came forward and stepped into the midst of us; and here also was in
his right place. The slender, well-grown, cheerful old man stood with
his light, free manners, venerably before us, and held us worthy the
honour of a well-considered address, which he delivered to us in an
amiable paternal manner, without a trace of restraint or pedantry, so
that we really thought ourselves something for the moment; for, indeed,
he treated us like the kings and princes whom he had been so often
called upon to address in public. We testified our satisfaction aloud,
trumpets and drums repeatedly sounded, and the dear, hopeful academical
_plebs_ then found its way home with hearty satisfaction.

[Side-note: Koch and Oberlin.]

His scholars and companions in study, Koch and Oberlin, were men
in close connexion with me. My taste for antiquarian remains was
passionate. They often let me into the museum, which contained, in
many ways, the vouchers to his great work on Alsace. Even this work I
had not known intimately until after that journey, when I had found
antiquities on the spot, and now being perfectly advanced, I could, on
longer or shorter expeditions, render present to myself the valley of
the Rhine as a Roman possession, and finish colouring many a dream of
times past.

Scarcely had I made some progress in this, than Oberlin directed me
to the monuments of the middle ages, and made me acquainted with the
ruins and remains, the seals and documents, which those times have
left behind them; nay, sought to inspire me with an inclination for
what we called the Maine-singers and heroic poets. To this good man, as
well as to Herr Koch, I have been greatly indebted; and if things had
gone according to their wish, I should have had to thank them for the
happiness of my life. The matter stood thus:--

Schöpflin, who for his whole lifetime had moved in the higher sphere of
political law, and well knew the great influence which such and kindred
studies are likely to procure for a sound head, in courts and cabinets,
felt an insuperable, nay, unjust aversion from the situation of a
civilian, and had inspired his scholars 'with the like sentiments. The
above-mentioned two men, friends of Salzmann, had taken notice of me in
a most friendly manner. My impassioned grasping at external objects,
the manner in which I continued to bring forward their advantages, and
to communicate to them a particular interest, they prized higher than
I did myself. My slight, and I may say, my scanty occupation with the
civil law, had not remained unobserved by them; they were well enough
acquainted with me to know how easily I was to be influenced; I had
made no secret of my liking for an academical life, and they therefore
thought to gain me over to history, political law, and rhetoric, at
first for a time, but after wards more decidedly. Strasbourg itself
offered advantages enough. The prospect of the German Chancery at
Versailles, the precedent of Schöpflin, whose merits, indeed, seemed
to me unattainable, were to incite to emulation, if not to imitation;
and perhaps a similar talent was thus to be cultivated, which might be
both profitable to him who could boast of it, and useful to others who
might choose to employ it on their own account. These, my patrons, and
Salzmann with them, set a great value on my memory and my capacity for
apprehending the sense of languages, and chiefly by these sought to
further their views and plans.

I now intend to describe, at length, how all this came to nothing, and
how it happened that I again passed over from the French to the German
side. Let me be allowed, as hitherto, some general reflections, by way
of transition.

There are few biographies which can represent a pure, quiet, steady
progress of the individual. Our life, as well as all in which we are
contained, is, in an incomprehensible manner, composed of freedom and
necessity. Our will is a prediction of what we shall do, under all
circumstances. But these circumstances lay hold on us in their own
fashion. The _what_ lies in us, the _how_ seldom depends on us, after
the _wherefore_ we dare not ask, and on this account we are rightly
referred to the _quia._

The French tongue I had liked from my youth upwards; I had learned to
know the language through a bustling life, and a bustling life through
the language. It had become my own, like a second mother-tongue,
without grammar and instruction--by mere intercourse and practice. I
now wished to use it with still greater fluency, and gave Strasburg the
preference, as a second university residence, to other high schools;
but, alas! it was just there that I had to experience the very reverse
of my hopes, and to be turned rather from than to this language and
these manners.

The French, who generally aim at good behaviour, are indulgent
towards foreigners who begin to speak their language; they will not
laugh any one out of countenance at a fault, or blame him in direct
terms. However, since they cannot endure sins committed against their
language, they have a manner of repeating, and, as it were, courteously
confirming what has been said with another turn, at the same time
making use of the expression which should properly have been employed;
thus leading the intelligent and the attentive to what is right and
proper.

[Side-note: Difficulty with the French Language.]

Now although, if one is in earnest--if one has self-denial enough to
profess oneself a pupil, one gains a great deal, and is much advanced
by this plan, one nevertheless always feels in some degree humiliated;
and, since one talks for the sake of the subject-matter also, often
too much interrupted, or even distracted, so that one impatiently lets
the conversation drop. This happened with me more than with others,
as I always thought that I had to say something interesting, and, on
the other hand, to hear something important, and did not wish to be
always brought back merely to the expression,--a case which often
occurred with me, as my French was just as motley as that of any other
foreigner. I had observed the accent and idiom of footmen, valets,
guards, young and old actors, theatrical lovers, peasants, and heroes;
and this Babylonish idiom was rendered still more confused by another
odd ingredient, as I liked to hear the French reformed clergy,
and visited their churches the more willingly, as a Sunday walk to
Bockenheim was on this account not only permitted but ordered. But even
this was not enough; for as in my youthful years, I had always been
chiefly directed to the German of the 16th century, I soon included the
French also of that noble epoch among the objects of my inclination.
Montaigne, Amyot, Rabelais, Marot, were my friends, and excited in me
sympathy and delight. Now all these different elements moved in my
discourse chaotically one with another, so that for the hearer the
meaning was lost in the oddity of the expression; nay an educated
Frenchman could no more courteously correct me, but had to censure me
and tutor me in plain terms. It therefore happened with me here once
more as it had happened in Leipzig, only that on this occasion I could
not appeal to the right of my native place to speak idiomatically, as
well as other provinces; but being on a foreign ground and soil, was
forced to adapt myself to traditional laws.

Perhaps we might even have resigned ourselves to this, if an evil
genius had not whispered into our ears that all endeavours by a
foreigner to speak French would remain unsuccessful; for a practised
ear can perfectly well detect a German, Italian, or Englishman under a
French mask. One is tolerated, but never received into the bosom of the
only church of language.

Only a few exceptions were granted. They named to us a Herr von
Grimm; but even Schöpflin, it seemed, did not reach the summit. They
allowed that he had early seen the necessity of expressing himself in
French to perfection; they approved of his inclination to converse
with every one, and especially to entertain the great and persons of
rank; they praised him, that living in the place where he was, he
had made the language of the country his own, and had endeavoured
as much as possible to render himself a Frenchman of society and
orator. But what does he gain by the denial of his mother-tongue,
and his endeavours after a foreign one? He cannot make it right with
anybody. In society they are pleased to deem him vain; as if any one
would or could converse with others without some feeling for self and
self-complacency! Then the refined connoisseurs of the world and of
language assert that there is in him more of dissertation and dialogue
than of conversation, properly so called. The former was generally
recognised as the original and fundamental sin of the Germans, the
latter as the cardinal virtue of the French. As a public orator he
fares no better. If he prints a well-elaborated address to the king or
the princes, the Jesuits, who are ill-disposed to him as a Protestant,
lay wait for him, and show that his terms of expression are _not
French._

Instead of consoling ourselves with this, and bearing as green wood
that which had been laid upon the dry, we were annoyed at such pedantic
injustice. We fall into despair, and, by this striking example, are
the more convinced that it is a vain endeavour to try to satisfy the
French by the matter itself, as they are too closely bound to the
external conditions under which everything is to appear. We therefore
embrace the opposite resolution of getting rid of the French language
altogether, and of directing ourselves more than ever, with might and
earnestness, to our own mother-tongue.

And for this we found opportunity and sympathy in actual life. Alsace
had not been connected with France so long that an affectionate
adherence to the old constitution, manners, language, and costume
did not still exist with old and young. If the conquered party loses
half his existence by compulsion, he looks upon it as disgraceful
voluntarily to part with the other half. He therefore holds fast to all
that can recall to him the good old time, and foster in him the hope
that a better epoch will return. Very many inhabitants of Strasburg
formed little circles, separate, indeed, but nevertheless united in
spirit, which were always increased and recruited by the numerous
subjects of German princes who held considerable lands under French
sovereignty, since fathers and sons, either for the sake of study or
business, resided for a longer or shorter time at Strasburg.

At our table nothing but German was spoken. Salzmann expressed himself
in French with much fluency and elegance; but, with respect to his
endeavours and acts, was a perfect German. Lerse might have been set up
as a pattern of a German youth. Meyer, of Lindau, liked to get on with
good German too well to shine in good French; and if, among the rest,
many were inclined to the Gallic speech and manners, they yet, while
they were with us, allowed the general tone to prevail with them.

[Side-note: Dislike to the French.]

From the language we turned to political affairs. We had not, indeed,
much to say in praise of our own imperial constitution. We granted that
it consisted of mere legal contradictions; but exalted ourselves so
much the more above the present French constitution, which lost itself
in mere lawless abuses, while the government only showed its energy
in the wrong place, and was forced to admit that a complete change in
affairs was already publicly prophesied with black forebodings.

If, on the other hand, we looked towards the north, we were shone upon
by Frederic, the polar-star, who seemed to turn about himself Germany,
Europe, nay, the whole world. His preponderance in everything was most
strongly manifested when the Prussian exercise and even the Prussian
stick was introduced into the French army. As for the rest, we forgave
him his predilection for a foreign language, since we felt satisfaction
that his French poets, philosophers, and _littérateurs_ continued to
annoy him, and often declared that he was to be considered and treated
only as an intruder.

But what, more than all, forcibly alienated us from the French, was the
unpolite opinion, repeatedly maintained, that the Germans in general,
as well as the king, who was striving after French cultivation, were
deficient in taste. With respect to this kind of talk, which followed
every judgment like a burden, we endeavoured to solace ourselves with
contempt; but we could so much the less come to a clear understanding
about it, as we were assured that Menage had already said, that the
French writers possessed everything but taste; and had also learned
from the then living Paris, that all the authors were wanting in taste,
and that Voltaire himself could not escape this severest of reproaches.
Having been before and often directed to nature, we would allow of
nothing but truth and uprightness of feeling, and the quick, blunt
expression of it.

    "Friendship, love, and brotherhood,
     Are they not self-understood?"

was the watchword and cry of battle, by which the members of our little
academical horde used to know and enliven each other. This maxim lay at
the foundation of all our social banquets, on the occasions of which we
did not fail to pay many an evening visit to Cousin Michel,[3] in his
well-known _Germanhood._

If, in what has hitherto been described, only external contingent
causes and personal peculiarities are found, the French literature had
in itself certain qualities which were rather repulsive than attractive
to an aspiring youth. It was advanced in years and genteel; and by
neither of these qualities can youth, which looks about for enjoyment
of life and for freedom, be delighted.

Since the sixteenth century, the course of French literature had
never been seen to be completely interrupted; nay, the internal and
religious disturbances, as well as the external wars, had accelerated
its progress; but, as we heard generally maintained, it was a hundred
years ago that it had existed in its full bloom. Through favourable
circumstances, they said, an abundant harvest had at once ripened,
and had been happily gathered in, so that the great talents of the
eighteenth century had to be moderately contented with mere gleanings.

In the meanwhile, however, much had become antiquated: first of all
comedy, which had to be freshened up to adapt itself, less perfectly,
indeed, but still with new interest, to actual life and manners. Of the
tragedies, many had vanished from the stage, and Voltaire did not let
slip the important opportunity which offered of editing Corneille's
works, that he might show how defective his predecessor had been, whom,
according to the general voice, he had not equalled.

[Side-note: Voltaire.]

And even this very Voltaire, the wonder of his time, had grown old,
like the literature, which, for nearly a century, he had animated and
governed. By his side still existed and vegetated many _littérateurs_,
in a more or less active and happy old age, who one by one disappeared.
The influence of society upon authors increased more and more; for
the best society, consisting of persons of birth, rank, and property,
chose for one of their chief recreations literature, which thus became
quite social and genteel. Persons of rank and _littérateurs_ mutually
cultivated and necessarily perverted each other; for the genteel has
always something excluding in its nature; and excluding also was the
French criticism, being negative, detracting, and fault-finding. The
higher class made use of such judgments against the authors; the
authors, with somewhat less decorum, proceeded in the same manner
against each other, nay, against their patrons. If the public was not
to be awed, they endeavoured to take it by surprise, or gain it by
humility; and thus--apart from the movements which shook church and
state to their inmost core--there arose such a literary ferment, that
Voltaire himself stood in need of his full activity, and his whole
preponderance, to keep himself above the torrent of general disesteem.
Already he was openly called an old capricious child; his endeavours,
carried on indefatigably, were regarded as the vain efforts of a
decrepid age; certain principles, on which he had stood during his
whole life, and to the spread of which he had devoted his days, were no
more held in esteem and honour; nay, his Deity, by acknowledging whom
he continued to declare himself free from atheism, was not conceded
him; and thus he himself, the grandsire and patriarch, was forced,
like his youngest competitor, to watch the present moment, to catch at
new power--to do his friends too much good, and his enemies too much
harm; and under the appearance of a passionate striving for the love of
truth, to act deceitfully and falsely. Was it worth the trouble to have
led such a great active life, if it was to end in greater dependence
than it had begun? How insupportable such a position was, did not
escape his high mind, his delicate sensibility. He often relieved
himself by leaps and thrusts, gave the reins to his humour, and carried
a few of his sword-cuts too far,--at which friends and enemies, for
the most part, showed themselves indignant; for every one thought he
could play the superior to him, though no one could equal him. A public
which only hears the judgment of old men, becomes over-wise too soon;
and nothing is more unsatisfactory than a mature judgment adopted by an
immature mind.

To us youths, before whom, with our German love of truth and nature,
honesty towards both ourselves and others hovered as the best guide
both in life and learning, the factious dishonesty of Voltaire and the
perversion of so many worthy subjects became more and more annoying,
and we daily strengthened ourselves in our aversion from him. He could
never have done with degrading religion and the sacred books, for
the sake of injuring priestcraft,[4] as they called it, and had thus
produced in me many an unpleasant sensation. But when I now learned
that, to weaken the tradition of a deluge, he had denied all petrified
shells, and only admitted them as _lusus naturæ_, he entirely lost
my confidence; for my own eyes had, on the Baschberg, plainly enough
shown me that I stood on the bottom of an old dried-up sea, among the
_exuviæ_ of its original inhabitants. These mountains had certainly
been once covered with waves, whether before or during the deluge did
not concern me; it was enough that the valley of the Rhine had been a
monstrous lake, a bay extending beyond the reach of the eyesight; out
of this I was not to be talked. I thought much more of advancing in the
knowledge of lands and mountains, let what would be the result.

French literature, then, had grown old and genteel in itself, and
through Voltaire. Let us devote some further consideration to this
remarkable man.

From his youth upwards, Voltaire's wishes and endeavours had been
directed to an active and social life, to politics, to gain on a large
scale, to a connexion with the heads of the earth, and a profitable
use of this connexion, that he himself might be one of the heads of
the earth also. No one has easily made himself so dependent, for the
sake of being independent. He even succeeded in subjugating minds;
the nation became his own. In vain did his opponents unfold their
moderate talents, and their monstrous hate; nothing succeeded in
injuring him. The court he could never reconcile to himself, but by
way of compensation, foreign kings were his tributaries; Katharine
and Frederic the Great, Gustavus of Sweden, Christian of Denmark,
Peniotowsky of Poland, Henry of Prussia, Charles of Brunswick,
acknowledged themselves his vassals; even popes thought they must coax
him by some acts of indulgence. That Joseph the Second had kept aloof
from him did not at all redound to the honour of this prince, for it
would have done no harm to him and his undertakings, if, with such a
fine intellect and with such noble views, he had been somewhat more
practically clever,[5] find a better appreciator of the mind.

What I have here stated in a compressed form, and in some connexion,
sounded at that time as a cry of the moment, as a perpetual discord,
unconnected and uninstructive, in our ears. Nothing was heard but
the praise of those who had gone before. Something good and new was
required: but the newest was never liked. Scarcely had a patriot
exhibited on the long inanimate stage national-French, heart-inspiring
subjects,--scarcely had the _Siege of Calais_ gained enthusiastic
applause, than the piece, together with all its national comrades, was
considered empty, and in every sense objectionable. The delineations of
manners by Destouches, which had so often delighted me when a boy, were
called weak; the name of this honest man had passed away; and how many
authors could I not point out, for the sake of whom I had to endure
the reproach that I judged like a provincial, if I showed any sympathy
for such men and their works, in opposition to any one who was carried
along by the newest literary torrent.

Thus, to our other German comrades we became more and more annoying.
According to our view,--according to the peculiarity of our own nature,
we had to retain the impressions of objects, to consume them but
slowly, and if it was to be so, to let them go as late as possible. We
were convinced that by faithful observation, by continued occupation,
something might be gained from all things, and that by persevering zeal
we must at last arrive at a point where the ground of the judgment
may be expressed at the same time with the judgment itself. Neither
did we fail to perceive that the great and noble French world offered
us many an advantage and much profit; for Rousseau had really touched
our sympathies. But if we considered his life and his fate, he was
nevertheless compelled to find the great reward for all he did in
this--that he could live unacknowledged and forgotten at Paris.

[Side-note: The Encyclopedists.]

If we heard the encyclopedists mentioned, or opened a volume of their
monstrous work, we felt as if we were going between the innumerable
moving spools and looms in a great factory, where, what with the mere
creaking and rattling--what with all the mechanism, embarrassing
both eyes and senses--what with the mere incomprehensibility of an
arrangement, the parts of which work into each other in the most
manifold way--what with the contemplation of all that is necessary to
prepare a piece of cloth, we feel disgusted with the very coat which we
wear upon our backs.

Diderot was sufficiently akin to us, as, indeed, in everything, for
which the French blame him, he is a true German. But even his point
of view was too high, his circle of vision was too extended for
us to range ourselves with him, and place ourselves at his side.
Nevertheless, his children of nature, whom he continued to bring
forward and dignify with great rhetorical art, pleased us very much;
his brave poachers and smugglers enchanted us; and this rabble
afterwards throve but too well upon the German Parnassus. It was
he also, who, like Rousseau, diffused a disgust of social life--a
quiet introduction to those monstrous changes of the world, in which
everything permanent appeared to sink.

However, we ought now to put aside these considerations, and to
remark what influence these two men have had upon art. Even here they
pointed--even from here they urged us towards nature.

The highest problem of any art is to produce by appearance the illusion
of a higher reality. But it is a false endeavour to realize the
appearance until at last only something commonly real remains.

As an ideal locality, the stage, by the application of the laws of
perspective to _coulisses_ ranged one behind the other, had attained
the greatest advantage; and this very gain they now wished wantonly
to abandon, by shutting up the sides of the theatre, and forming real
room-walls. With such an arrangement of the stage, the piece itself,
the actors' mode of playing, in a word, everything was to coincide; and
thus an entirely new theatre was to arise.

The French actors had, in comedy, attained the summit of the true in
art. Their residence at Paris, their observations of the externals of
the court, the connexion of the actors and actresses with the highest
classes, by means of love affairs--all contributed to transplant to
the stage the greatest realness and seemliness of social life; and on
this point the friends of nature found but little to blame. However
they thought they made a great advance, if they chose for their pieces
earnest and tragical subjects, in which the citizen-life should not
be wanting, used prose for the higher mode of expression, and thus
banished unnatural verse, together with unnatural declamation and
gesticulation.

It is extremely remarkable, and has not been generally noticed, that
at this time, even the old, severe, rhythmical, artistical tragedy was
threatened with a revolution, which could only be averted by great
talents and the power of tradition.

In opposition to the actor Le Kain, who played his heroes with especial
theatrical decorum, with deliberation, elevation, and force, and kept
himself aloof from the natural and ordinary, came forward a man named
Aufresne, who declared war against everything unnatural, and in his
tragic acting sought to express the highest truth. This mode might not
have accorded with that of the other Parisian actors. He stood alone,
while they kept together, and adhering to his views obstinately enough,
he chose to leave Paris rather than alter them, and came through
Strasburg. There we saw him play the part of Augustus in _Cinna_,
that of Mithridates, and others of the sort, with the truest and most
natural dignity. He appeared as a tall, handsome man, more slender than
strong, not, properly speaking, with an imposing, but nevertheless with
a noble, pleasing demeanour. His acting was well-considered and quiet,
without being cold, and forcible enough where force was required. He
was a very well-practised actor, and one of the few who know how to
turn the artificial completely into nature, and nature completely
into the artificial. It is really those few whose misunderstood good
qualities always originate the doctrine of false "naturalness."

[Side-note: Rousseau's "Pygmalion."]

And thus will I also make mention of a work, which is indeed small,
but which made an epoch in a remarkable manner,--I mean Rousseau's
_Pygmalion_. A great deal could be said upon it; for this strange
production floats between nature and art, with the full endeavour of
resolving the latter into the former. We see an artist who has produced
what is most perfect, and yet does not find any satisfaction in having,
according to art, represented his idea externally to himself, and given
to it a higher life; no, it must also be drawn down to him into the
earthly life. He will destroy the highest thing that mind and deed have
produced, by the commonest act of sensuality.

All this and much else, right and foolish, true and half-true,
operating upon us as it did, still more perplexed our notions; we were
driven astray through many by-ways and roundabout ways, and thus on
many sides was prepared that German literary revolution, of which we
were witnesses, and to which, consciously or unconsciously, willingly
or unwillingly, we unceasingly contributed.

We had neither impulse nor tendency to be illumined and advanced
in a philosophical manner; on religious subjects we thought we
had sufficiently enlightened ourselves, and therefore the violent
contest of the French philosophers with the priesthood was tolerably
indifferent to us. Prohibited books condemned to the flames, which
then made a great noise, produced no effect upon us. I mention as an
instance, to serve for all, the _Système de la Nature_, which we took
in hand out of curiosity. We did not understand how such a book could
be dangerous. It appeared to us so dark, so Cimmerian, so deathlike,
that we found it a trouble to endure its presence, and shuddered at
it as at a spectre. The author fancies he gives his book a peculiar
recommendation, when he declares in his preface, that as a decrepit old
man, just sinking into the grave, he wishes to announce the truth to
his contemporaries and to posterity.

We laughed him out; for we thought we had observed that by old people
nothing in the world that is loveable and good is in fact appreciated.
"Old churches have dark windows; to know how cherries and berries
taste, we must ask children and sparrows." These were our gibes and
maxims; and thus that book, as the very quintessence of senility,
appeared to us as unsavoury, nay, absurd. "All was to be of necessity,"
so said the book, "and therefore there was no God." But could there not
be a God by necessity too? asked we. We indeed confessed, at the same
time, that we could not withdraw ourselves from the necessities of day
and night, the seasons, the influence of climate, physical and animal
condition; but nevertheless we felt within us something that appeared
like perfect freedom of will, and again something which sought to
counterbalance this freedom.

The hope of becoming more and more rational, of making ourselves more
and more independent of external things, nay, of ourselves, we could
not give up. The word freedom sounds so beautiful, that we cannot do
without it, even though it designates an error.

[Side-note: "Système de la Nature."]

None of us had read the book through; for we found ourselves deceived
in the expectations with which we had opened it. A system of nature
was announced; and therefore we hoped to learn really something of
nature--our idol. Physics and chemistry, descriptions of heaven and
earth, natural history and anatomy, with much else, had now for years,
and up to the last day, constantly directed us to the great adorned
world; and we would willingly have heard both particulars and generals
about suns and stars, planets and moons, mountains, valleys, rivers and
seas, with all that live and move in them. That in the course of this,
much must occur which would appear to the common man as injurious, to
the clergy as dangerous, and to the state as inadmissible, we had no
doubt; and we hoped that the little book had not unworthily stood the
fiery ordeal. But how hollow and empty did we feel in this melancholy,
atheistical half-night, in which earth vanished with all its images,
heaven with all its stars. There was to be a matter in motion from all
eternity, and by this motion, right and left and in every direction,
without anything further, it was to produce the infinite phenomena of
existence. Even all this we should have allowed to pass, if the author,
out of his moved matter, had really built up the world before our eyes.
But he seemed to know as little about nature as we did; for, having set
up some general ideas, he quits them at once, for the sake of changing
that which appears as higher than nature, or as a higher nature within
nature, into material, heavy nature, which is moved, indeed, but
without direction or form--and thus he fancies he has gained a great
deal.

If, after all, this book did us any mischief, it was this,--that we
took a hearty dislike to all philosophy, and especially metaphysics,
and remained in that dislike; while, on the other hand, we threw
ourselves into living knowledge, experience, action, and poetising,
with all the more liveliness and passion.

Thus, on the very borders of France, we had at once got rid and clear
of everything French about us. The French way of life we found too
defined and genteel, their poetry cold, their criticism annihilating,
their philosophy abstruse, and yet insufficient, so that we were on
the point of resigning ourselves to rude nature, at least by way of
experiment, if another influence had not for a long time prepared us
for higher and freer views of the world, and intellectual enjoyments
as true as they were poetical, and swayed us, first moderately and
secretly, but afterwards with more and more openness and force.

I need scarcely say that Shakspeare is intended; and having once said
this, no more need be added. Shakspeare has been acknowledged by the
Germans, more by them than by other nations, perhaps even more than by
his own. We have richly bestowed on him all that justice, fairness, and
forbearance which we refuse to ourselves. Eminent men have occupied
themselves in showing his talents in the most favourable light; and I
have always readily subscribed to what has been said to his honour, in
his favour, or even by way of excuse for him. The influence of this
extraordinary mind upon me has been already shown; an attempt has been
made with respect to his works, which has received approbation; and
therefore this general statement may suffice for the present, until I
am in a position to communicate to such, friends as like to hear me, a
gleaning of reflections on his great deserts, such as I was tempted to
insert in this very place.

At present I will only show more clearly the manner in which I
became acquainted with him. It happened pretty soon at Leipzig,
through Dodd's _Beauties of Shakspeare._ Whatever may be said against
such collections, which give authors in a fragmentary form, they
nevertheless produce many good effects. We are not always so collected
and so ready that we can take in a whole work according to its merits.
Do we not, in a book, mark passages which have an immediate reference
to ourselves? Young people especially, who are wanting in a thorough
cultivation, are laudably excited by brilliant passages; and thus
I myself remember, as one of the most beautiful epochs of my life,
that which is characterised by the above-mentioned work. Those noble
peculiarities, those great sayings, those happy descriptions, those
humorous traits--all struck me singly and powerfully.

Wieland's translation now made its appearance. It was devoured,
communicated and recommended to friends and acquaintances. We Germans
had the advantage that many important works of foreign nations were
first brought over to us in an easy and cheerful fashion. Shakspeare,
translated in prose, first by Wieland, afterwards by Eschenburg, was
able, as a kind of reading universally intelligible, and suitable
to any reader, to diffuse itself speedily, and to produce a great
effect. I revere the rhythm as well as the rhyme, by which poetry first
becomes poetry; but that which is really, deeply, and fundamentally
effective--that which is really permanent and furthering, is that which
remains of the poet when lip is translated into prose. Then remains the
pure, perfect substance, of which, when absent, a dazzling exterior
often contrives to make a false show, and which, when present, such an
exterior contrives to conceal. I therefore consider prose translations
more advantageous than poetical, for the beginning of youthful culture;
for it may be remarked that boys, to whom everything must serve as
a jest, delight themselves with the sound of words and the fall of
syllables, and by a sort of parodistical wantonness, destroy the deep
contents of the noblest work. Hence I would have it considered whether
a prose translation of Homer should not be next undertaken, though
this, indeed, must be worthy of the degree at which German literature
stands at present. I leave this, and what has been already said, to
the consideration of our worthy pedagogues, to whom an extensive
experience on this matter is most at command. I will only, in favour
of my proposition, mention Luther's translation of the Bible; for the
circumstance that this excellent man handed down a work, composed
in the most different styles, and gave us its poetical, historical,
commanding didactic tone in our mother-tongue, as if all were cast in
one mould, has done more to advance religion than if he had attempted
to imitate, in detail, the peculiarities of the original. In vain has
been the subsequent endeavour to make Job, the Psalms, and the other
lyrical books, capable of affording enjoyment in their poetical form.
For the multitude, upon whom the effect is to be produced, a plain
translation always remains the best. Those critical translations which
vie with the original, really only seem to amuse the learned among
themselves.

[Side-note: Influence of Shakspeare.]

And thus in our Strasburg society did Shakspeare, translated and
in the original, by fragments and as a whole, by passages and by
extracts, influence us in such a manner, that as there are Bible-firm
(_Bibelfest_) men, so did we gradually make ourselves firm in
Shakspeare, imitated in our conversations those virtues and defects
of his time with which he had made us so well acquainted, took the
greatest delight in his "quibbles,"[6] and by translating them, nay,
with original recklessness, sought to emulate him. To this, the fact
that I had seized upon him above all, with great enthusiasm, did not a
little contribute. A happy confession that something higher waved over
me was infectious for my friends, who all resigned themselves to this
mode of thought. We did not deny the possibility of knowing such merits
more closely, of comprehending them, of judging them with penetration,
but this we reserved for later epochs. At present we only wished to
sympathize gladly, and to imitate with spirit, and while we had so much
enjoyment, we did not wish to inquire and haggle about the man who
afforded it, but unconditionally to revere him.

[Side-note: Lenz.]

If any one would learn immediately what was thought, talked about,
and discussed in this lively society, let him read Herder's essay
on Shakspeare, in the part of his works upon the German manner and
art (_Ueber Deutsche Art und Kunst_), and also Lenz's remarks on the
theatre (_Anmerkungen übers Theater_), to which a translation of
_Love's Labour Lost_ was added.[7] Herder penetrates into the deepest
interior of Shakspeare's nature, and exhibits it nobly; Lenz conducts
himself more like an Iconoclast against the traditions of the theatre,
and will have everything everywhere treated in Shakspeare's manner.
Since I have had occasion to mention this clever and eccentric man
here, it is the place to say something about him by way of experiment.
I did not become acquainted with him till towards the end of my
residence at Strasburg. We saw each other seldom, his company was
not mine, but we sought an opportunity of meeting, and willingly
communicated with each other, because, as contemporary youths, we
harboured similar views. He had a small but neat figure, a charming
little head, to the elegant form of which his delicate but somewhat
flat features perfectly corresponded; blue eyes, blond hair, in
short, a person such as I have from time to time met among northern
youths; a soft and as it were cautious step, a pleasant but not quite
flowing speech, and a conduct which, fluctuating between reserve and
shyness, well became a young man. Small poems, especially his own, he
read very well aloud. For his turn of mind I only know the English
word "whimsical," which, as the dictionary shows, comprises very many
singularities under one notion. No one, perhaps, was more capable
than he to feel and imitate the extravagances and excrescences of
Shakspeare's genius. To this the translation above mentioned bears
witness. He treated his author with great freedom, was not in the least
close and faithful, but he knew how to put on the armour, or rather the
motley jacket, of his predecessor so very well, to adapt himself with
such humour to his gestures, that he was certain to obtain applause
from those who were interested in such matters.

The absurdities of the clowns especially constituted our whole
happiness, and we praised Lenz as a favoured man, when he succeeded in
rendering as follows the epitaph on the deer shot by the princess:--

    "Die schöne Princessin schoss und traf
     Eines jungen Hirschleins Leben;
     Es fiel dahin in schweren Schlaf
     Und wird ein Brätlein geben.
     Der Jagdhund boll! Ein L zu Hirsch
     So wird es denn ein Hirschel;
     Doch setzt ein römisch L zu Hirsch
     So macht es fünfzig Hirschel.
     Ich mache hundert Hirsche draus
     Schreib Hirschell mit zwei LLen."[8]

The tendency towards the absurd, which displays itself free and
unfettered in youth, but afterwards recedes more into the background,
without being on that account utterly lost, was in full bloom among us,
and we sought even by original jests to celebrate our great master. We
were very proud when we could lay before the company something of the
kind, which was in any degree approved, as, for instance, the following
on a riding-master, who had been hurt on a mid horse.

    "A rider in this house you'll find,
     A master too is he,
     The two into a nosegay bind,
     'Twill riding-master be.
     If master of the ride, I wis,
     Full well he bears the name,
     But if the ride the master is,
     On him and his be shame."[9]

About such things serious discussions were held as to whether they were
worthy of the clown or not, whether they flowed from the genuine pure
fool's spring, and whether sense and understanding had at all mingled
in an unfitting and inadmissible manner. Altogether our singular views
were diffused with the greater ardour, and more persons were in a
position to sympathize with them, as Lessing, in whom great confidence
was placed, had, properly speaking, given the first signal in his
_Dramaturgie._

In a society so attuned and excited I managed to take many a pleasant
excursion into Upper Alsace, whence, however, on this very account, I
brought back no particular instruction. The number of little verses
which flowed from us on that occasion, and which might serve to adorn
a lively description of a journey, are lost. In the cross-way of
Molsheim Abbey we admired the painted windows; in the fertile spot
between Colmar and Schlettstadt resounded some comic hymns to Ceres,
the consumption of so many fruits being circumstantially set forth
and extolled, and the important question as to the free or restricted
trade in them being very merrily taken up. At Ensisheim we saw the
monstrous aerolite hanging up in the church, and in accordance with
the scepticism of the time, ridiculed the credulity of man, never
suspecting that such air-born beings, if they were not to fall into our
corn-fields, were at any rate to be preserved in our cabinets.

[Side-note: The Ottilienberg.]

Of a pilgrimage to the Ottilienberg, accomplished with an hundred, nay,
a thousand of the faithful, I still love to think. Here, where the
foundation-wall of a Roman castle still remained, a count's beautiful
daughter, of a pious disposition, was said to have dwelt among
ruins and stony crevices. Near the chapel where the wanderers edify
themselves, her well is shown, and much that is beautiful is narrated.
The image which I formed of her, and her name, made a deep impression
upon me. I carried both about with me for a long time, until at last I
endowed with them one of my later, but not less beloved daughters,[10]
who was so favourably received by pure and pious hearts.

On this eminence also is repeated to the eye the majestic Alsace,
always the same, and always new. Just as in an amphitheatre, let one
take one's place where one will, one surveys the whole people, but sees
one's neighbours the plainest, so it is here with bushes, rocks, hills,
woods, fields, meadows, and districts near and in the distance. They
wished to show us even Basle in the horizon; that we saw it, I will not
swear, but the remote blue of the Swiss mountains even here exercised
its rights over us, by summoning us to itself, and since we could not
follow the impulse, by leaving a painful feeling.

To such distractions and cheerful recreations I abandoned myself the
more readily, and even with a degree of intoxication, because my
passionate connexion with Frederica now began to trouble me. Such a
youthful affection cherished at random, may be compared to a bomb-shell
thrown at night, which rises with a soft brilliant track, mingles
with the stars, nay, for a moment, seems to pause among them, then,
in descending, describes the same path in the reverse direction,
and at last brings destruction to the place where it has terminated
its course. Frederica always remained equal to herself; she seemed
not to think, nor to wish to think, that the connexion would so soon
terminate. Olivia, on the contrary, who indeed also missed me with
regret, but nevertheless did not lose so much as the other, had more
foresight, or was more open. She often spoke to me about my probable
departure, and sought to console herself both on her own and her
sister's account. A girl who renounces a man to whom she has not denied
her affections, is far from being in that painful situation in which a
youth finds himself who has gone so far in his declarations to a lady.
He always plays a pitiful part, since a certain survey of his situation
is expected of him as a growing man, and a decided levity does not suit
him. The reasons of a girl who draws back always seem sufficient, those
of a man--never.

But how should a flattering passion allow us to foresee whither it may
lead us? For even when we have quite sensibly renounced it, we cannot
get rid of it; we take pleasure in the charming habit, even if this is
to be in an altered manner. Thus it was with me. Although the presence
of Frederica pained me, I knew of nothing more pleasant than to think
of her while absent, and to converse with her. I went to see her less
frequently, but our correspondence became so much the more animated.
She knew how to bring before me her situation with cheerfulness, her
feelings with grace, and I called her merits to mind with fervour and
with passion. Absence made me free, and my whole affection first truly
bloomed by this communication in the distance. At such moments I could
quite blind myself as to the future; and was sufficiently distracted
by the progress of time and of pressing business. I had hitherto made
it possible to do the most various things by always taking a lively
interest in what was present and belonged to the immediate moment; but
towards the end all became too much crowded together, as is always the
case when one is to free oneself from a place.

One more event, which happened in an interval, took, from me the last
days. I found myself in a respectable society at a country-house,
whence there was a noble view of the front of the minster, and the
tower which rises over it. "It is a pity," said some one, "that the
whole was not finished, and that we have only one tower." "It is just
as unpleasant to me," answered I, "to see this one tower not quite
completed, for the four volutes leave off much too bluntly; there
should have been upon them four light spires, with a higher one in the
middle where the clumsy cross is standing."

When I had expressed this strong opinion with my accustomed animation,
a little lively man addressed me, and asked, "Who told you so?"
"The tower itself," I replied; "I have observed it so long and so
attentively, and have shown it so much affection, that it at last
resolved to make me this open confession." "It has not misinformed
you," answered he; "I am the best judge of that; for I am the person
officially placed over the public edifices. We still have among our
archives the original sketches, which say the same thing, and which
I can show to you." On account of my speedy departure I pressed him
to show me this kindness as speedily as possible. He let me see the
precious rolls; I soon, with the help of oiled paper, drew the spires,
which were wanting in the building as executed, and regretted that I
had not been sooner informed of this treasure. But this was always to
be the case with me, that by looking at things and considering them, I
should first attain a conception, which perhaps would not have been so
striking and so fruitful, if it had been given ready made.

[Side-note: Strasburg Minster.]

Amid all this pressure and confusion I could not fail to see Frederica
once more. Those were painful days, the memory of which has not
remained with me. When I reached her my hand from my horse, the
tears stood in her eyes, and I felt very uneasy. I now rode along
the footpath towards Drusenheim, and here one of the most singular
forebodings took possession of me. I saw, not with the eyes of the
body, but with those of the mind, my own figure coming towards me,
on horseback, and on the same road, attired in a dress which I had
never worn;--it was pike-grey (_hecht-grau_) with somewhat of gold.
As soon as I shook myself out of this dream, the figure had entirely
disappeared. It is strange, however, that eight years afterwards, I
found myself on the very road, to pay one more visit to Frederica, in
the dress of which I had dreamed, and which I wore, not from choice,
but by accident. However it may be with matters of this kind generally,
this strange illusion in some measure calmed me at the moment of
parting. The pain of quitting for ever the noble Alsace, with all
that I had gained in it, was softened, and having at last escaped
the excitement of a farewell, I found myself on a peaceful and quiet
journey, pretty well recovered.

Arrived at Mannheim, I hastened with great eagerness to see the hall
of antiquities, of which a great boast was made. Even at Leipzig, on
the occasion of Winckelmann's and Lessing's writings, I had heard much
said of those important works of art, but so much the less had I seen
them, for except Laocoön, the father, and the Faun with the crotola,
there were no casts in the academy, and whatever Oeser chose to say to
us on the subject of those works, was enigmatical enough. How can a
conception of the end of art be given to beginners?

Director Verschaffel's reception was kind. I was conducted to the
saloon by one of his associates, who, after he had opened it for me,
left me to my own inclinations and reflections. Here I now stood, open
to the most wonderful impressions, in a spacious, four-cornered, and,
with its extraordinary height, almost cubical saloon, in a space well
lighted from above by the windows under the cornice; with the noblest
statues of antiquity, not only ranged along the walls, but also set up
one with another over the whole area;--a forest of statues, through
which one was forced to wind; a great ideal popular assembly, through
which one was forced to press. All these noble figures could, by
opening and closing the curtains, be placed in the most advantageous
light, and besides this, they were moveable on their pedestals, and
could be turned about at pleasure.

After I had for a time sustained the first impression of this
irresistible mass, I turned to those figures which attracted me
the most, and who can deny that the Apollo Belvidere, with his
well-proportioned colossal stature, his slender build, his free
movement, his conquering glance, carried off the victory over our
feelings in preference to all the others? I then turned to Laocoön,
whom I here saw for the first time in connexion with his sons. I
brought to mind as well as possible the discussions and contests which
had been held concerning him, and tried to get a point of view of my
own; but I was now drawn this way, now that. The dying gladiator long
held me fast, but the group of Castor and Pollux, that precious though
problematical relic, I had especially to thank for my happiest moments.
I did not know how impossible it was at once to account to oneself for
a sight affording enjoyment. I forced myself to reflect, and little
as I succeeded in attaining any sort of clearness, I felt that every
individual figure from this great assembled mass was comprehensible,
that every object was natural and significant in itself.

[Side-note: Antiquities at Mannheim.]

Nevertheless my chief attention was directed to Laocoön, and I
decided for myself the famous question, why he did not shriek, by
declaring to myself that he could not shriek. All the actions and
movements of the three figures proceeded, according to my view, from
the first conception of the group. The whole position--as forcible
as artistical---of the chief body was composed with reference to two
impulses--the struggle against the snakes, and the flight from the
momentary bite. To soften this pain, the abdomen must be drawn in, and
shrieking rendered impossible. Thus I also decided that the younger son
was not bitten, and in other respects sought to elicit the artistical
merits of this group. I wrote a letter on the subject to Oeser, who,
however, did not show any special esteem for my interpretation, but
only replied to my good will with general terms of encouragement. I
was, however, fortunate enough to retain that thought, and to allow
it to repose in me for several years, until it was at last annexed to
the whole body of my experiences and convictions, in which sense I
afterwards gave it in editing my _Propylæa._

After a zealous contemplation of so many sublime plastic works, I was
not to want a foretaste of antique architecture. I found the cast of
a capital of the Rotunda, and do not deny that at the sight of those
acanthus-leaves, as huge as they were elegant, my faith in the northern
architecture began somewhat to waver.

This early sight, although so great and so effective throughout my
whole life, was nevertheless attended with but small results in the
time immediately following. How willingly would I have begun a book,
instead of ending one, with describing it; for no sooner was the door
of the noble saloon closed behind me, than I wished to recover myself
again, nay, I rather sought to remove those forms as cumbersome from
my memory; and it was only by a long circuitous route that I was
brought back into this sphere. However, the quiet fruitfulness is quite
inestimable of those impressions, which are received with enjoyment,
and without dissecting judgment. Youth is capable of this highest
happiness, if it will not be critical, but allows the excellent and the
good to act upon it without investigation and division.


[1] A polemic dissertation written on taking an university
degree.--_Trans._

[2] Medicine.--_Trans._

[3] "Michel" is exactly to the Germans what "John Bull" is to the
English.--_Trans._

[4] "Um den so genannten Pfaffen zu schaden." As we have not the
word for a priest, which exactly expresses the contempt involved in
"Pfaffe," the word "priestcraft" has been introduced.--_Trans._

[5] "Practically clever" is put as a kind of equivalent for the
difficult word "geistreich."--_Trans._

[6] This English word is used in the original.--_Trans._

[7] A complete edition of Lenz's works was published by Tieck in 1828.
In that will be found the essay and play in question, to the last of
which he gives the name _Amor vincit omnta._--_Trans._

[8] The lines in Shakspeare, which the above are intended to imitate,
are the following:--

"The praiseful princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket;
Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting. The
dogs did yell; put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket Or pricket,
sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting. If sore be sore, then L
to sore makes fifty sores, O sore L! Of one sore I an hundred make, by
adding but one more L."

Lenz's words, which cannot be rendered intelligibly into English,
furnish an instance of Goethe's meaning, when he commends Lenz as
happily catching the spirit of the original, without the slightest
pretence to accuracy.--_Trans._

[9] The above doggrel is pretty faithful, but it is as well to give the
original.

"Ein Ritter wohnt in diesem Haus; Ein Meister auch daneben; Macht man
davon einen Blumenstrauss So wird's einen Rittmeister geben. Ist er nun
Meister von dem Ritt Führt er mit Recht den Namen; Doch nimmt der Ritt
den Meister mit, Weh ihm und seinem Samen." --_Trans._

[10] By this _daughter_ he means "Ottilie" in the _Elective
Affinities._.--Trans.




TWELFTH BOOK


The wanderer had now at last reached home,--more healthy and cheerful
than on the first occasion,--but still in his whole being there
appeared something over-strained, which did not fully indicate
mental health. At the very first I put my mother into the position,
that, between my father's sincere spirit of order and my own various
eccentricities, she was forced to occupy herself with bringing passing
events into a certain medium. At Mayence, a harp-playing boy had so
well pleased me, that, as the fair was close at hand, I invited him
to Frankfort, and promised to give him lodging and to encourage him.
In this occurrence appeared once more that peculiarity which has
cost me so much in my lifetime,--namely, that I liked to see younger
people gather round me and attach themselves to me, by which, indeed,
I am at last encumbered with their fate. One unpleasant experience
after another could not reclaim me from this innate impulse, which
even at present, and in spite of the clearest conviction, threatens
from time to time to lead me astray. My mother, clearer than myself,
plainly foresaw how strange it would appear to my father, if a musical
fair-vagabond went from such a respectable house to taverns and
drinking-houses to earn his bread. Hence she provided him with board
and lodging in the neighbourhood. I recommended him to my friends; and
thus the lad did not fare badly. After several years I saw him again,
when he had grown taller and more clumsy, without having advanced much
in his art. The good lady, well contented with this first attempt at
squaring and hushing up, did not think that this art would immediately
become completely necessary to her. My father, leading a contented life
amid his old tastes and occupations, was comfortable, like one who, in
spite of all hindrances and delays, carries out his plans. I had now
gained my degree, and the first step to the further graduating course
of citizen-life was taken. My _Disputation_ had obtained his applause;
a further examination of it, and many a preparation for a future
edition gave him occupation. During my residence in Alsace, I had
written many little poems, essays, notes on travel, and several loose
sheets. He found amusement in bringing these under heads, in arranging
them, and in devising their completion; and was delighted with the
expectation that my hitherto insuperable dislike to see any of these
things printed would soon cease. My sister had collected around her a
circle of intelligent and amiable women. Without being domineering, she
domineered over all, as her good understanding could overlook much, and
her good-will could often accommodate matters; moreover, she was in the
position of playing the confidant, rather than the rival. Of my older
friends and companions, I found in Horn the unalterably true friend
and cheerful associate. I also became intimate with Riese, who did not
fail to practise and try my acuteness by opposing, with a persevering
contradiction, doubt and negation to a dogmatic enthusiasm into which
I too readily fell. Others, by degrees, entered into this circle, whom
I shall afterwards mention; but among the persons who rendered my new
residence in my native city pleasant and profitable, the brothers
Schlosser certainly stood at the head. The elder, Heronymus, a profound
and elegant jurist, enjoyed universal confidence as counsellor. His
favourite abode was amongst his books and papers, in rooms where the
greatest order prevailed; there I have never found him otherwise than
cheerful and sympathising. In a larger society also he showed himself
agreeable and entertaining, for his mind, by extensive reading, was
adorned with all the beauty of antiquity. He did not, on occasion,
disdain to increase the social pleasures by agreeable Latin poems;
and I still possess several sportive distiches which he wrote under
some portraits drawn by me of strange and generally known Frankfort
caricatures. Often I consulted with him as to the course of life and
business I was now commencing; and if an hundredfold inclinations and
passions had not tom me from this path, he would have been my surest
guide.

Nearer to me, in point of age, was his brother George, who had
again returned from Treptow, from the service of the Duke Eugene of
Würtemberg. While he had advanced in knowledge of the world and in
practical talent, he had not remained behindhand in a survey of German
and foreign literature. He liked, as before, to write in all languages;
but did not further excite me in this respect, as I devoted myself
exclusively to German, and only cultivated other languages so far as to
enable me, in some measure, to read the best authors in the original.
His honesty showed itself the same as ever; nay, his acquaintance with
the world may have occasioned him to adhere with more severity and even
obstinacy to his well-meaning views.

[Side-note: Merk.]

Through these two friends, I very soon became acquainted with Merck, to
whom I had not been unfavourably announced by Herder, from Strasburg.
This strange man, who had the greatest influence on my life, was a
native of Darmstadt. Of his early education I can say but little. After
finishing his studies, he conducted a young man to Switzerland, where
he remained for some time, and came back married. When I made his
acquaintance, he was military paymaster at Darmstadt. Born with mind
and understanding, he had acquired much elegant knowledge, especially
in modern literature, and had paid attention to all times and places
in the history of the world and of man. He had the talent of judging
with certainty and acuteness. He was prized as a thorough, decisive man
of business, and a ready accountant. With ease he gained an entrance
everywhere, as a very pleasant companion for those to whom he had not
rendered himself formidable by sarcasms. His figure was long and lean;
a sharp prominent nose was remarkable; light blue, perhaps grey eyes,
gave something tiger-like to his glance, which wandered attentively
here and there. Lavater's _Physiognomy_ has preserved his profile for
us. In his character there was a wonderful contradiction. By nature
a good, noble, upright man, he had embittered himself against the
world, and allowed this morbid whim to sway him to such a degree,
that he felt an irresistible inclination to be wilfully a rogue, or
even a villain. Sensible, quiet, kind at one moment, it might strike
him in the next---just as a snail puts out his horns--to do something
which might hurt, wound, or even injure another. Yet as one readily
associates with something dangerous when one believes oneself safe
from it, I felt so much the greater inclination to live with him, and
to enjoy his good qualities, since a confident feeling allowed me to
suspect that he would not turn his bad side towards me. While now, by
this morally restless mind,--by this necessity of treating men in
a malignant and spiteful way, he on one side destroyed social life,
another disquiet, which also he very carefully fostered within himself,
opposed his internal comfort; namely he felt a certain _dilettantish_
impulse to production, in which he indulged the more readily, as he
expressed himself easily and happily in prose and verse, and might well
venture to play a part among the _beaux esprits_ of the time. I myself
still possess poetical epistles, full of uncommon boldness, force,
and Swift-like gall, which are highly remarkable from their original
views of persons and things, but are at the same time written with such
wounding power, that I could not publish them, even at present, but
must either destroy them or preserve them for posterity as striking
documents of the secret discord in our literature. However, the fact
that in all his labours he went to work negatively and destructively,
was unpleasant to himself, and he often declared that he envied me that
innocent love of setting forth a subject which arose from the pleasure
I took both in the original and the imitation.

For the rest, his literary _dilettantism_ would have been rather useful
than injurious to him, if he had not felt an irresistible impulse to
enter also into the technical and mercantile department. For when he
once began to curse his faculties, and was beside himself that he could
not, with sufficient genius, satisfy his claims to a practical talent,
he gave up now plastic art, now poetry, and thought of mercantile and
manufacturing undertakings, which were to bring in money while they
afforded him amusement.

In Darmstadt there was besides a society of very cultivated men.
Privy Councillor von Hess, Minister of the Landgrave, Professor
Petersen, Rector Wenk, and others, were the naturalized persons whose
worth attracted by turns many neighbours from other parts, and many
travellers through the city. The wife of the privy councillor and
her sister, Demoiselle Flachsland, were ladies of uncommon merit
and talents; the latter, who was betrothed to Herder, being doubly
interesting from her own qualities and her attachment to so excellent a
man.

How much I was animated and advanced by this circle is not to be
expressed. They readily heard me read aloud my completed or begun
works; they encouraged me, when I openly and circumstantially told
what I was then planning, and blamed me when on every new occasion I
laid aside what I had already commenced. _Faust_ had already advanced;
_Götz von Berlichingen_ was gradually building itself up in my mind:
the study of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries occupied me; and
the minster had left in me a very serious impression, which could well
stand as a background to such poetical inventions.

[Side-note: Paper on German Architecture.]

What I had thought and imagined with respect to that style of
architecture, I wrote in a connected form. The first point on which I
insisted was, that it should be called German, and not Gothic; that it
should be considered not foreign, but native. The second point was,
that it could not be compared with the architecture of the Greeks and
Romans, because it sprang from quite another principle. If these,
living under a more favourable sky, allowed their roof to rest upon
columns, a wall, broken through, arose of its own accord. We, however,
who must always protect ourselves against the weather, and everywhere
surround ourselves with walls, have to revere the genius who discovered
the means of endowing massive walls with variety, of apparently
breaking them through, and of thus occupying the eye in a worthy and
pleasing manner on the broad surface. The same principle applied to the
steeples, which are not, like cupolas, to form a heaven within, but to
strive towards heaven without, and to announce to the countries far
around the existence of the sanctuary which lies at their base. The
interior of these venerable piles I only ventured to touch by poetical
contemplation and a pious tone.

If I had been pleased to write down these views, the value of which I
will not deny, clearly and distinctly, in an intelligible style, the
paper "On German Architecture, I: M: Ervini a Steinback," would then,
when I published it, have produced more effect, and would sooner have
drawn the attention of the native friends of art. But, misled by the
example of Herder and Hamann, I obscured these very simple thoughts and
observations by a dusty cloud of words and phrases, and both for myself
and others, darkened the light which had arisen within me. However,
the paper was well received, and reprinted in Herder's work on German
manner and art.

If now, partly from inclination, partly with poetical and other
views, I very readily occupied myself with the antiquities of my
country, and sought to render them present to my mind, I was from
time to time distracted from this subject by biblical studies and
religious sympathies, since Luther's life and deeds, which shine forth
so magnificently in the sixteenth century, always necessarily brought
me back to the Holy Scriptures, and to the observation of religious
feelings and opinions. To look upon the Bible as a work of compilation,
which had gradually arisen, and had been elaborated at different
times, was flattering to my little self-conceit, since this view
was then by no means predominant,--much less was it received in the
circle in which I lived. With respect to the chief sense, I adhered to
Luther's expression; in matters of detail, I went to Schmidt's literal
translation, and sought to use my little Hebrew as well as possible.
That there are contradictions in the Bible, no one will now deny.
These they sought to reconcile by laying down the plainest passage as
a foundation, and endeavouring to assimilate to that those that were
contradictory and less clear. I, on the contrary, wished to find out,
by examination, what passage best expressed the sense of the matter. To
this I adhered, and rejected the rest as interpolated.

For a fundamental opinion had already confirmed itself in me, without
my being able to say whether it had been imparted to me, or had been
excited in me, or had arisen from my own reflection. It was this,--that
in anything which is handed down to us, especially in writing, the
real point is the ground, the interior, the sense, the tendency of
the work; that here lies the original, the divine, the effective, the
intact, the indestructible; and that no time, no external operation or
condition, can in any degree affect this internal primeval nature, at
least no more than the sickness of the body affects a well-cultivated
soul. Thus, according to my view, the language, the dialect, the
peculiarity, the style, and finally the writing, were to be regarded as
the body of every work of mind; this body, although nearly enough akin
to the internal, was yet exposed to deterioration and corruption; as,
indeed, altogether no tradition can be given quite pure, according to
its nature; nor, indeed, if one were given pure, could it be perfectly
intelligible at every following period,--the former on account of the
insufficiency of the organs through which the tradition is made,--the
latter on account of the difference of time and place,--but specially
the diversify of human capacities and modes of thought; for which
reason the interpreters themselves never agree.

Hence it is everybody's duty to seek out for what is internal and
peculiar in a book which particularly interests us, and at the same
time, above all things, to weigh in what relation it stands to our
own inner nature, and how far, by that vitality, our own is excited
and rendered fruitful. On the other hand, everything external that is
ineffective with respect to ourselves, or is subject to a doubt, is to
be consigned over to criticism, which, even if it should be able to
dislocate and dismember the whole, would never succeed in depriving us
of the only ground to which we hold fast, nor even in perplexing us for
a moment with respect to our once formed confidence.

[Side-note: Study of the Bible.]

This conviction, sprung from faith and sight, which in all cases that
we recognise as the most important, is applicable and strengthening,
lies at the foundation of the moral as well as the literary edifice of
my life, and is to be regarded as a well-invested and richly productive
capital, although in particular cases we may be seduced into making an
erroneous application. By this notion, the Bible first became really
accessible to me. I had, as is the case in the religious instruction
of Protestants, run through it several times, nay, had made myself
acquainted with it, by way of leaps from beginning to end and back
again. The blunt naturalness of the Old Testament, and the tender
_naïveté_ of the New, had attracted me in particular instances; as a
whole, indeed, it never properly appealed to me; but now the diverse
characters of the different books no more perplexed me; I knew how to
represent to myself their significance faithfully and in proper order,
and had too much feeling for the book to be ever able to do without
it. By this very side of feeling I was protected against all scoffing,
because I saw its dishonesty at once. I not only detested it, but could
even fall in a rage about it; and I still perfectly remember that in my
childishly fanatical zeal I should have completely throttled Voltaire,
on account of his _Saul_, if I could only have got at him. On the
other hand, every kind of honest investigation pleased me greatly; the
revelations as to the locality and costume of the East, which diffused
more and more light, I received with joy, and continued to exercise
all my acuteness on such valuable traditions.

It is known that at an earlier period I sought to initiate myself
into the situation of the world, as described to us by the first book
of Moses. As I now thought to proceed stepwise, and in proper order,
I seized, after a long interruption, on the second book. But what a
difference! Just as the fulness of childhood had vanished from my life,
so did I find the second book separated from the first by a monstrous
chasm. The utter forgetfulness of a bygone time is already expressed
in the few important words, "Now there arose a new king over Egypt,
which knew not Joseph." But the people also, innumerable as the stars
of heaven, had almost forgotten the ancestor to whom, under the starry
heaven, Jehovah had made the very promise which was now fulfilled. I
worked through the five books with unspeakable trouble and insufficient
means and powers, and in doing this fell upon the strangest notions.
I thought I had discovered that it was not our ten commandments which
stood upon the tables that the Israelites did not wander through the
desert for forty years, but only for a short time; and thus I fancied
that I could give entirely new revelations as to the character of Moses.

Even the New Testament was not safe from my inquiries; with my passion
for dissection, I did not spare it, but with love and affection I
chimed in with that wholesome word, "The evangelists may contradict
each other, provided only the gospel does not contradict itself." In
this region also I thought I should make all sorts of discoveries.
That gift of tongues imparted at Pentecost with lustre and clearness,
I interpreted for myself in a somewhat abstruse manner, not adapted to
procure many adherents.

Into one of the chief Lutheran doctrines, which has been still more
sharpened by the Hernhuters,--namely, that of regarding the sinful
principle as predominant in man,--I endeavoured to accommodate myself,
but without remarkable success. Nevertheless I had made the terminology
of this doctrine tolerably my own, and made use of it in a letter,
which, in the character of country pastor, I was pleased to send to a
new brother in office. However, the chief theme in the paper was that
watchword of the time, called "Toleration," which prevailed among the
better order of brains and minds.

Such things, which were produced by degrees, I had printed at my own
cost in the following year, to try myself with the public,--made
presents of them, or sent them to Eichenberg's shop, in order to
get rid of them as fast as possible, without deriving any profit
myself. Here and there a review mentions them, now favourably, now
unfavourably,--but they soon passed away. My father kept them carefully
in his archives, otherwise I should not have possessed a copy of them.
I shall add these, as well as some things of the kind which I have
found, to the new edition of my works.

[Side-note: Hamann.]

Since I had really been seduced into the sybilline style of such
papers, as well as into the publication of them, by Hamann, this
seems to me a proper place to make mention of this worthy and
influential man, who was then as great a mystery to us as he has
always remained to his native country. His _Socratio Memorabilia_ was
more especially liked by those persons who could not adapt themselves
to the dazzling spirit of the time. It was suspected that he was a
profound, well-grounded man, who, accurately acquainted with the
public world and with literature, allowed of something mysterious and
unfathomable, and expressed himself on this subject in a manner quite
his own. By those who then ruled the literature of the day, he was
indeed considered an abstruse mystic, but an aspiring youth suffered
themselves to be attracted by him. Even the "Quiet-in-the-lands," as
they were called--half in jest, half in earnest--those pious souls,
who, without professing themselves members of any society, formed an
invisible church, turned their attention to him; while to my friend
Fräulein von Klettenberg, and no less to her friend Moser, the "Magus
from the North" was a welcome apparition. People put themselves the
more in connexion with him, when they had learned that he was tormented
by narrow domestic circumstances, but nevertheless understood how to
maintain this beautiful and lofty mode of thought. With the great
influence of President von Moser, it would have been easy to provide a
tolerable and convenient existence for such a frugal man. The matter
was set on foot, nay, so good an understanding and mutual approval was
attained, that Hamann undertook the long journey from Königsberg to
Darmstadt. But as the president happened to be absent, that odd man,
no one knows on what account, returned at once, though a friendly
correspondence was kept up. I still possess two letters from the
Königsberger to his patron, which bear testimony to the wondrous
greatness and sincerity of their author.

But so good an understanding was not to last long. These pious men had
thought the other one pious in their own fashion; they had treated
him with reverence as the "Magus of the North," and thought that he
would continue to exhibit himself with a reverend demeanour. But
already in the _Clouds_, an after-piece of _Socratic Memorabilia_, he
had given some offence; and when he now published the _Crusades of a
Philologist_, on the title-page of which was to be seen not only the
goat-profile of a horned Pan, but also on one of the first pages, a
large cock, cut in wood, and setting time to some young cockerels,
who stood before him with notes in their claws, made an exceedingly
ridiculous appearance, by which certain church-music, of which the
author did not approve, was to be made a laughing-stock,--there arose
among well-minded and sensitive people a dissatisfaction, which was
exhibited to the author, who, not being edified by it, shunned a closer
connexion. Our attention to this man was, however, always kept alive
by Herder, who, remaining in correspondence with us and his betrothed,
communicated to us at once all that proceeded from that extraordinary
man. To these belonged his critiques and notices, inserted in the
_Königsberg Zeitung_, all of which bore a very singular character.
I possess an almost complete collection of his works, and a very
important essay on Herder's prize paper concerning the origin of
language, in which, in the most peculiar manner, he throws flashes of
light upon this specimen of Herder.

I do not give up the hope of superintending myself, or at least
furthering, an edition of Hamann's works; and then, when these
documents are again before the public, it will be time to speak more
closely of the author, his nature and character. In the meanwhile,
however, I will here adduce something concerning him, especially as
eminent men are still living who felt a great regard for him, and
whose assent or correction will be very welcome to me. The principle
to which all Hamann's expressions may be referred is this: "All that
man undertakes to perform, whether by deed, by word, or otherwise,
must proceed from all his powers united; everything isolated is
worthless." A noble maxim, but hard to follow. To life and art it may
indeed be applied, but in every communication by words, that is not
exactly poetic, there is, on the contrary, a grand difficulty; for a
word must sever itself, isolate itself, to say or signify anything.
Man, while he speaks, must, for the moment, become one-sided; there is
no communication, no instruction, without severing. Now since Hamann,
once for all, opposed this separation, and because he felt, imagined,
and thought in unity, chose to speak in unity likewise, and to require
the same of others, he came into opposition with his own style, and
with all that others produced. To produce the impossible, he therefore
grasps at every element; the deepest and most mystical contemplations
in which nature and mind meet each other-illuminating flashes of the
understanding, which beam forth from such a contact--significant
images, which float in these regions--forcible aphorisms from sacred
and profane writers--with whatever else of a humorous kind could be
added--all this forms the wondrous aggregate of his style and his
communications. If, now, one cannot associate oneself with him in his
depths--cannot wander with him on his heights--cannot master the forms
which float before him--cannot, from an infinitely extended literature,
exactly find out the sense of a passage which is only hinted at--we
find that the more we study him, the more dim and dark it becomes;
and this darkness always increases with years, because his allusions
were directed to certain definite peculiarities which prevailed, for
the moment, in life and in literature. In my collection there are some
of his printed sheets, where he has cited with his own hand, in the
margin, the passages to which his hints refer. If one opens them, there
is again a sort of equivocal double light, which appears to us highly
agreeable; only one must completely renounce what is ordinarily called
understanding. Such leaves merit to be called sybilline, for this
reason, that one cannot consider them in and for themselves, but must
wait for an opportunity to seek refuge with their oracles. Every time
that one opens them one fancies one has found something new, because
the sense which abides in every passage touches and excites us in a
curious manner.

Personally I never saw him; nor did I hold any immediate communication
with him by means of letters. It seems to me that he was extremely
clear in the relations of life and friendship, and that he had a
correct feeling for the positions of persons among each other,
and with reference to himself. All the letters which I saw by him
were excellent, and much plainer than his works, because here the
reference to time, circumstances, and personal affairs, was more
clearly prominent. I thought, however, that I could discern this much
generally, that he, feeling the superiority of his mental gifts, in the
most _naïve_ manner, always considered himself somewhat wiser and more
shrewd than his correspondents, whom he treated rather ironically than
heartily. If this held good only of single cases, it applied to the
majority, as far as my own observation went, and was the cause that I
never felt a desire to approach him.

On the other hand, a kindly literary communication between Herder and
us was maintained with great vivacity, though it was a pity that he
could not keep himself quiet. But Herder never left off his teazing
and scolding; and much was not required to irritate Merck, who also
contrived to excite me to impatience. Because now Herder, among all
authors and men, seems to respect Swift the most, he was among us
called the "Dean," and this gave further occasion to all sorts of
perplexities and annoyances.

Nevertheless we were highly pleased when we learned that he was to
have an appointment at Bückeburg, which would bring him double honour,
for his new patron had the highest fame as a clear-headed and brave,
though eccentric man. Thomas Abt had been known and celebrated in this
service; his country still mourned his death, and was pleased with
the monument which his patron had erected for him. Now Herder, in the
place of the untimely deceased, was to fulfil all those hopes which his
predecessor had so worthily excited.

The epoch in which this happened gave a double brilliancy and value to
such an appointment; for several German princes already followed the
example of the Count of Lippe, inasmuch as they took into their service
not merely learned men, and men of business, properly so called, but
also persons of mind and promise. Thus, it was said, Klopstock had
been invited by the Margrave Charles of Baden, not for real business,
but that by his presence he might impart a grace and be useful to the
higher society. As now the regard felt for this excellent prince,
who paid attention to all that was useful and beautiful, increased
in consequence, so also was the veneration for Klopstock not a
little heightened. Everything that emanated from him was held dear
and valuable; and we carefully wrote down his odes and elegies as we
could get them. We were therefore highly delighted when the great
Land-gravine Caroline of Hesse-Darmstadt made a collection of them,
and we obtained possession of one of the few copies, which enabled us
to complete our own manuscript collection. Hence those first readings
have long been most in favour with us; nay, we have often refreshed and
delighted ourselves with poems which the author afterwards rejected.
So true it is, that the life which presses forth out of a "fine soul"
works with the greater freedom the less it appears to be drawn by
criticism into the department of art.

Klopstock, by his character and conduct, had managed to attain regard
and dignity, both for himself and for other men of talent; now they
were also, if possible, to be indebted to him for the security and
improvement of their domestic condition. For the book-trade, in the
previous period, had more to do with important scientific books,
belonging to the different faculties--with stock-works, for which a
moderate remuneration was paid. But the production of poetical works
was looked upon as something sacred; and in this case the acceptance or
increase of any remuneration would have been regarded almost as simony.
Authors and publishers stood in the strangest reciprocal position.
Both appeared, accordingly as it was taken, as patrons and clients.
The authors, who, irrespectively of their talent, were generally
respected and levered by the public as highly moral men, had a mental
rank, and felt themselves rewarded by the success of their labours;
the publishers were well satisfied with the second place, and enjoyed
a considerable profit. But now opulence again set the rich bookseller
above the poor poet, and thus everything stood in the most beautiful
equilibrium. Magnanimity and gratitude were not unfrequent on either
side. Breitkopf and Gottsched lived, all their lives, as inmates of the
same house. Stinginess and meanness, especially that of piracy, were
not yet in vogue.

[Side-note: Commotion in the Book-Trade.]

Nevertheless a general commotion had arisen among the German authors.
They compared their own very moderate, if not poor condition, with
the wealth of the eminent booksellers; they considered how great was
the fame of a Gellert, of a Rabener, and in what narrow domestic
circumstances an universally esteemed German poet must struggle
on, if he did not render life easy by some other calling. Even the
mediocre and lesser minds felt a strong desire to see their situation
improved,--to make themselves free of the publishers.

Now Klopstock came forward and offered his "Republic of Letters"
(_Gelehrte-Republik_) for subscription. Although the latter cantos of
the _Messiah_, partly on account of their subject, partly on account of
the treatment, could not produce the same effect as the earlier ones,
which, themselves pure and innocent, came into a pure and innocent
time, the same respect was always maintained for the poet, who, by
the publication of his odes, had drawn to himself the hearts, minds,
and feelings of many persons. Many well-thinking men, among whom were
several of great influence, offered to secure payment beforehand. This
was fixed at a _Louis d'or_, the object being, it was said, not so much
to pay for the book, as on this occasion to reward the author for his
services to his country. Now every one pressed forward; even youths and
young girls, who had not much to expend, opened their saving-boxes; men
and women, the higher and the middle classes, contributed to this holy
offering; and perhaps a thousand subscribers, all paying in advance,
were collected. Expectation was raised to the highest pitch, and
confidence was as great as possible.

After this, the work, on its appearance, was compelled to experience
the strangest result in the world; it was, indeed, of important value,
but by no means universally interesting. Klopstock's thoughts on poetry
and literature were set forth in the form of an old German Druidical
republic; his maxims on the true and false were expressed in pithy
laconic aphorisms, in which, however, much that was instructive was
sacrificed to the singularity of form. For authors and _littérateurs_,
the book was and is invaluable; but it was only in this circle that
it could be useful and effective. He who had thought himself followed
the thinker; he who knew how to seek and prize what was genuine, found
himself instructed by the profound, honest man; but the amateur, the
general reader, was not enlightened,--to him the book remained sealed;
and yet it had been placed in all hands; and while every one expected
a perfectly serviceable work, most of them obtained one from which
they could not get the smallest taste. The astonishment was general,
but the esteem for the man was so great, that no grumbling, scarcely a
murmur, arose. The young and beautiful part of the world got over their
loss, and now freely gave away the copies they had so dearly purchased.
I received several from kind female friends, but none of them have
remained with me.

This undertaking, which was successful to the author, but a failure
to the public, had the ill consequence, that there was now no further
thought about subscriptions and prepayments; nevertheless the wish
had been too generally diffused for the attempt not to be renewed.
The Dessau publishing-house now offered to do this on a large scale.
Learned men and publishers were here, by a close compact, to enjoy,
both in a certain proportion, the hoped-for advantage. The necessity,
so long painfully felt, again awakened a great confidence; but this
could not last long; and after a brief endeavour the parties separated,
with a loss on both sides.

[Side-note: Combination of young poets.]

However, a speedy communication among the friends of literature was
already introduced. The _Musenalmanache_[1] united all the young poets
with each other; the journals united the poet with other authors. My
own pleasure in production was boundless; to what I had produced I
remained indifferent; only when, in social circles, I made it present
to myself and others, my affection for it was renewed. Moreover, many
persons took an interest in both my larger and smaller works, because
I urgently pressed every one who felt in any degree inclined and
adapted to production, to produce something independently, after his
own fashion, and was, in turn, challenged by all to new poetising and
writing. These mutual impulses, which were carried even to an extreme,
gave every one a happy influence in his own fashion; and from this
whirling and working, this living and letting-live, this taking and
giving, which was carried on by so many youths, from their own free
hearts, without any theoretical guiding-star, according to the innate
character of each, and without any special design, arose that famed,
extolled, and decried epoch in literature, when a mass of young genial
men, with all that audacity and assumption which is peculiar to their
own period of youth, produced, by the application of their powers,
much that was good, and by the abuse of these, much ill-feeling and
mischief; and it is, indeed, the action and reaction which proceeded
from this source, that form the chief theme of this volume.

In what can young people take the highest interest, how are they to
excite interest among those of their own age, if they are not animated
by love, and if affairs of the heart, of whatever kind they may be, are
not living within them? I had in secret to complain of a love I had
lost; this made me mild and tolerant, and more agreeable to society
than in those brilliant times when nothing reminded me of a want or a
fault, and I went storming along completely without restraint.

Frederica's answer to a written adieu rent my heart. It was the same
hand, the same tone of thought, the same feeling, which had formed
itself for me and by me. I now, for the first time, felt the loss which
she suffered, and saw no means to supply it, or even to alleviate it.
She was completely present to me; I always felt that she was wanting to
me and, what was worst of all, I could not forgive myself for my own
misfortune. Gretchen had been taken away from me; Annette had left me;
now, for the first time, I was guilty I had wounded the most beautiful
heart to its very depths; and the period of a gloomy repentance, with
the absence of a refreshing love, to which I had grown accustomed,
was most agonising, nay, insupportable. But man will live; and hence
I took an honest interest in others; I sought to disentangle their
embarrassments, and to unite what was about to part, that they might
not have the same lot as myself. They were hence accustomed to call
me the "confidant," and on account of wandering about the district,
the "wanderer." In producing that calm for my mind, which I felt under
the open sky, in the valleys, on the heights, in the fields and in the
woods, the situation of Frankfort was serviceable, as it lay in the
middle between Darmstadt and Hamburg, two pleasant places, which are on
good terms with each other, through the relationship of both courts. I
accustomed myself to live on the road, and, like a messenger, to wander
about between the mountains and the flat country. Often I went alone,
or in company, through my native city, as if it did not at all concern
me, dined at one of the great inns in the High-street, and after dinner
went further on my way. More than ever was I directed to the open
world and to free nature. On my way I sang to myself strange hymns
and dithyrambics, of which one entitled "The Wanderer's Storm-song"
(_Wanderer's Sturmlied_) still remains. This half-nonsense I sang
aloud, in an impassioned manner, when I found myself in a terrific
storm, which I was obliged to meet.

My heart was untouched and unoccupied; I conscientiously avoided all
closer connexion with ladies, and thus it remained concealed from me,
that, inattentive and unconscious as I was, an amiable spirit was
secretly hovering round me. It was not until many years afterwards,
nay, until after her death, that I learned of her secret heavenly
love, in a manner that necessarily overwhelmed me. But I was innocent,
and could purely and honestly pity an innocent being; nay, I could do
this the more, as the discovery occurred at an epoch when, completely
without passion, I had the happiness of living for myself and my own
intellectual inclinations.

At the time when I was pained by my grief at Frederica's situation,
I again, after my old fashion, sought aid from poetry. I again
continued the poetical confession which I had commenced, that by this
self-tormenting penance I might be worthy of an internal absolution.
The two Marias in _Götz von Berlichingen_ and _Clavigo_, and the two
bad characters who play the part of their lovers, may have been the
results of such penitent reflections.

[Side-note: Skating.]

But as in youth one soon overcomes mental wounds and diseases, because
a healthy system of organic life can rise up for a sick one, and
allow it time to grow healthy again, corporeal exercises, on many a
favourable opportunity, came forward with very advantageous effect;
and I was excited in many ways to man myself afresh, and to seek new
pleasures of life and enjoyments. Riding gradually took the place of
those sauntering, melancholy, toilsome, and at the same time tedious
and aimless rambles on foot; one reached one's end more quickly,
merrily, and commodiously. The young people again introduced fencing,
but in particular, on the setting-in of winter, a new world was
revealed to us, since I at once determined to skate,--an exercise
which I had never attempted,--and, in a short time, by practice,
reflection, and perseverance, brought it as far as was necessary to
enjoy with others a gay, animated course on the ice, without wishing to
distinguish myself.

For this new joyous activity we were also indebted to Klopstock,--to
his enthusiasm for this happy species of motion, which private accounts
confirmed, while his odes gave an undeniable evidence of it. I still
exactly remember that on a cheerful frosty morning I sprang out of bed,
and uttered aloud these passages:--

    "Already, glad with feeling of health,
     Far down along the shore, I have whiten'd
     The covering crystal.

    'How does the winter's advancing day
     Softly illumine the lake! The night has east
     The glittering frost, like stars, upon it.'

My hesitating and wavering resolution was fixed at once, and I flew
straight to the place where so old a beginner might with some degree
of propriety make his first trial. And, indeed, this manifestation of
our strength well deserved to be commended by Klopstock, for it is an
exercise which brings us into contact with the freshest childhood,
summons the youth to the full enjoyment of his suppleness, and is
fitted to keep off a stagnant old age. We were immoderately addicted
to this pleasure. To pass thus a splendid Sunday on the ice did not
satisfy us, we continued our movement late into the night. For as other
exertions fatigue the body, so does this give it a constantly new
power. The full moon rising from the clouds, over the wide nocturnal
meadows, which were frozen into fields of ice; the night-breeze, which
rustled towards us on our course; the solemn thunder of the ice, which
sank as the water decreased; the strange echo of our own movements,
rendered the scenes of Ossian just present to our minds. Now this
friend, now that, uttered an ode of Klopstock's, in a declamatory
recitative; and if we found ourselves together at dawn, the unfeigned
praise of the author of our joys broke forth:--

    "And should he not be immortal,
     Who found for us health and joys
     Which the horse, though bold in his course, never gave,
     And which even the ball is without?"

Such gratitude is earned by a man who knows how to honour and worthily
to extend an earthly act by spiritual incitement.

And thus, as children of talent, whose mental gifts have, at an early
period, been cultivated to an extraordinary degree, return, if they
can, to the simplest sports of youth, did we, too, often forget our
calling to more serious things. Nevertheless this very motion, so
often carried on in solitude--this agreeable soaring in undetermined
space--again excited many of my internal wants, which had, for a time,
lain dormant; and I have been indebted to such hours for a more speedy
elaboration of older plans.

The darker ages of German history had always occupied my desire for
knowledge and my imagination. The thought of dramatizing _Götz von
Berlichingen_, with all the circumstances of his time, was one which
I much liked and valued. I industriously read the chief authors; to
Datt's work, _De Pace Publica_, I devoted all my attention; I had
sedulously studied it through, and rendered those singular details as
visible to me as possible. These endeavours, which were directed to
moral and poetical ends, I could also use in another direction, and
I was now to visit Wetzlar. I had sufficient historical preparation;
for the Imperial Chamber had arisen in consequence of the public
tranquillity, and its history could serve as an important clue through
the confused events of Germany. Indeed, the constitution of the courts
and armies gives the most accurate insight into the constitution of
every empire. Even the finances, the influence of which are considered
so important, come much less under consideration; for if the whole is
deficient, it is only necessary to take from the individual what he has
laboriously scraped together, and thus the state is always sufficiently
rich.

What occurred to me at Wetzlar is of no great importance, but it may
inspire a greater interest, if the reader will not disdain a cursory
history of the Imperial Chamber, in order to render present to his mind
the unfavourable moment at which I arrived there.

[Side-note: History of the Imperial Chamber.]

The lords of the earth are such, principally because they can assemble
around them, in war, the bravest and most resolute, and in peace, the
wisest and most just. Even to the state of a German emperor belonged
a court of this kind, which always accompanied him in his expeditions
through the empire. But neither this precaution, nor the Suabian law,
which prevailed in the south of Germany, nor the Saxon law, which
prevailed in the north,--neither the judges appointed to maintain them,
nor the decisions of the peers of the contending parties,--neither
the umpires recognised by agreement, nor friendly compacts instituted
by the clergy,--nothing, in short, could quiet that excited chivalric
spirit of feuds which had been roused, fostered, and made a custom
among the Germans, by internal discord, by foreign campaigns, by the
crusades especially, and even by judicial usages. To the emperor,
as well as to the powerful estates, these squabbles were extremely
annoying, while, through them, the less powerful became troublesome
to each other, and if they combined, to the great also. All outward
strength was paralysed, while internal order was destroyed; and besides
this, a great part of the country was still encumbered with the
_Vehmgericht_, of the horrors of which a notion may be formed, if we
think that it degenerated into a secret police, which, at last, even
fell into the hands of private persons.

Many attempts to steer against these evils had been made in vain,
until, at last, the estates urgently proposed a court formed from
among themselves. This proposal, well-meant as it might have been,
nevertheless indicated an extension of the privileges of the estates,
and a limitation of the imperial power. Under Frederic III. the matter
is delayed; his son Maximilian, being pressed from without, complies.
He appoints the chief judge, the estates send the assistants. There
were to be four-and-twenty of them; but, at first, twelve are thought
sufficient.

An universal fault, of which men are guilty in their under-takings, was
the first and perpetual fundamental defect of the Imperial Chamber:
insufficient means were applied to a great end. The number of the
assessors was too small. How was the difficult and extensive problem
to be solved by them? But who could urge an efficient arrangement?
The emperor could not favour an institution which seemed to work more
against him than for him; far more reason had he to complete the
formation of his own court--his own council. If, on the other hand,
we regard the interest of the estates, all that they could properly
have to do with was the stoppage of bloodshed. Whether the wound was
healed, did not so much concern them: and now there was to be, besides,
a new expense. It may not have been quite plainly seen that by this
institution every prince increased his retinue, for a decided end
indeed,--but who readily gives money for what is necessary? Every one
would be satisfied, if he could have what is useful "for God's sake."

At first the assistants were to live on fees; then followed a moderate
grant from the estates; both were scanty. But to meet the great and
striking exigency, willing, clever, and industrious men were found,
and the court was established. Whether it was perceived that the
question here was concerning only the alleviation and not the cure
of the evil, or whether, as in similar cases, the flattering hope
was entertained that much was to be done with little, is not to be
decided. It is enough that the court served rather as a pretext to
punish the originators of mischief, than completely to prevent wrong.
But it has scarcely met, than a power grows out of itself; it feels the
eminence on which it is placed; it recognises its own great political
importance. It now endeavours, by a striking activity, to acquire for
itself a more decided respect; they briskly got through what can and
must be rapidly dispatched, what can be decided at the moment, or what
can otherwise be easily judged; and thus, throughout the empire, they
appear effective and dignified. On the other hand, matters of weightier
import, the law-suits, properly so called, remained behindhand,
and this was no misfortune. The only concern of the state is, that
possession shall be certain and secure; whether it is also legal, is of
less consequence. Hence, from the monstrous and ever-swelling number
of delayed suits, no mischief arose to the empire. Against people who
employed force, provision was already made, and with such matters could
be settled; but those, on the other hand, who legally disputed about
possession, lived, enjoyed, or starved, as they could; they died, were
ruined, or made it up; but all this was the good or evil of individual
families,--the empire was gradually tranquillised. For the Imperial
Chamber was endowed with a legal club-law against the disobedient; had
it been able to hurl the bolt of excommunication, this would have been
more effective.

But now, what with the sometimes increased, sometimes diminished
number of assessors, what with the many interruptions, what with the
removal of the court from one place to another, these arrears, these
records necessarily increased to an infinite extent. Now, in the
distress of war, a part of the archives was sent for safety from Spire
to Aschaffenburg, a part to Worms, the third fell into the hands of
the French, who thought they had gained the state-archives, but would
afterwards have been glad to get rid of such a chaos of paper, if any
one would but have furnished the carriages.

During the negotiations for the peace of Westphalia, the chosen men,
who were assembled, plainly saw what sort of a lever was required to
move from its place a load like that of Sisyphus. Fifty assessors were
now to be appointed, but the number was never made up: the half of it
was again made to suffice, because the expense appeared too great;
but if the parties interested had all seen their advantage in the
matter, the whole might well have been afforded. To pay five-and-twenty
assessors about one hundred thousand florins (_gulden_) were required,
and how easily could double that amount have been raised in Germany?
The proposition to endow the Imperial Chamber with confiscated church
property could not pass, for how could the two religious parties agree
to such a sacrifice? The Catholics were not willing to lose any more,
and the Protestants wished to employ what they had gained, each for his
own private ends. The division of the empire into two religious parties
had here, in several respects, the worst influence. The interest which
the estates took in this their court diminished more and more; the more
powerful wished to free themselves from the confederation; licenses
exempting their possessor from being prosecuted before any higher
tribunal were sought with more and more eagerness; the greater kept
back with their payments, while the lesser, who, moreover, believed
themselves wronged in the estimates, delayed as long as they could.

How difficult was it, therefore, to raise the supplies necessary for
payment. Hence arose a new occupation, a new loss of time for the
chamber; previously the so-called annual "visitations" had taken care
of this matter. Princes in person, or their councillors, went only
for months or weeks to the place of the court, examined the state of
the treasury, investigated the arrears, and undertook to get them in.
At the same time, if anything was about to create an impediment in
the course of law or the court, or any abuse to creep in, they were
authorised to provide a remedy. The faults of the institution they
were to discover and remove, but it was not till afterwards that the
investigation and punishment of the personal crimes of its members
became a part of their duty. But because parties engaged in litigation
always like to extend their hopes a moment longer, and on this account
always seek and appeal to higher authorities, so did these "visitators"
become a court of revision, from which, at first in determined manifest
cases, persons hoped to find restitution, but at last in all cases,
delay and perpetuation of the controversy, to which the appeal to the
Imperial diet, and the endeavour of the two religious parties, if
not to outweigh each other, at any rate to preserve an equilibrium,
contributed their part.

But if one considers what this court might have been without such
obstacles, without such disturbing and destructive conditions, one
cannot imagine it remarkable and important enough. Had it been supplied
at the beginning with a sufficient number of persons, had a sufficient
support been secured to them, the monstrous influence which this body
might have attained, considering the aptness of the Germans, would have
been immeasurable. The honourable title of "Amphictyons," which was
only bestowed on them oratorically, they would actually have deserved,
nay, they might have elevated themselves into an intermediate power,
while revered by the head and the members.

But far removed from such great effects, the court, excepting for a
short time under Charles V., and before the Thirty Years' war, dragged
itself miserably along. One often cannot understand how men could be
found for such a thankless and melancholy employment. But what a man
does every day he puts up with, if he has any talent for it, even if
he does not exactly see that anything will come of it. The German
especially is of this persevering turn of mind, and thus for three
hundred years the worthiest men have employed themselves on these
labours and objects. A characteristic gallery of such figures would
even now excite interest and inspire courage.

For it is just in such anarchical times that the able man takes the
strongest position, and he who desires what is good finds himself right
in his place. Thus, for instance, the _Directorium_ of Fürstenberg was
still held in blessed memory, and with the death of this excellent man
begins the epoch of many pernicious abuses.

But all these defects, whether later or earlier, arose from one only
original source, the small number of persons. It was decreed that the
assistants were to act in a fixed order, and according to a determined
arrangement. Every one could know when the turn would come to him, and
which of the cases belonging to him it would affect; he could work
up to this point,--he could prepare himself. But now the innumerable
arrears had heaped themselves up, and they were forced to resolve to
select the more important cases, and to deal with them out of order.
But with a pressure of important affairs, the decision as to which
matter has the more weight, is difficult, and selection leaves room for
favour. Now, another critical case occurred. The _Referent_ tormented
both himself and the court with a difficult involved affair, and at
last no one was found willing to take up the judgment. The parties had
come to an agreement, had separated, had died, had changed their minds.
Hence they resolved to take in hand only the cases of which they were
reminded. They wished to be convinced of the continued obstinacy of the
parties, and hence was given an introduction to the greatest defects,
for he who commends his affairs, must commend them to somebody, and to
whom can one commend them better, than to him who has them already in
his hands? To keep this one regularly secret was impossible; for how
could he remain concealed with so many subordinates, all acquainted
with the matter? If acceleration is requested, favour may well be
requested likewise, for the very fact that people urge their cause,
shows that they consider it just. This will perhaps not be done in a
direct manner, certainly it will be first done through subordinates;
these must be gained over, and thus an introduction is given to all
sorts of intrigues and briberies.

The Emperor Joseph, following his own impulse, and in imitation of
Frederic, first directed his attention to arms and the administration
of justice. He cast his eyes upon the Imperial Chamber; traditional
wrongs, introduced abuses had not remained unknown to him. Even here
something was to be stirred up, shaken, and done. Without inquiring
whether it was his imperial right, without foreseeing the possibility
of a happy result, he proposed a revival of the "visitation," and
hastened its opening. For one hundred and sixty years no regular
"visitation" had taken place; a monstrous chaos of papers lay swelled
up and increased every year, since the seventeen assessors were not
even able to despatch the current business. Twenty thousand processes
were heaped up; sixty could be settled every year, and double that
number was brought forward. Besides, it was not a small number of
revisions that awaited the "visitators,"--they were estimated at fifty
thousand. Many other abuses, in addition to this, hindered the course
of justice; but the most critical matter of all was the personal
delinquency of some assessors, which appeared in the background.

[Side-note: The "visitation" at Wetzlar.]

When I was about to go to Wetzlar, the "visitation" had been already
for some years in operation, the parties accused had been suspended
from office, the investigation had been carried a long way; and because
the masters and commissioners of German political law could not let
pass this opportunity of exhibiting their sagacity and devoting it
to the common weal, several profound, well-designed works appeared,
from which every one, who possessed only some preparatory knowledge,
could derive solid instruction. When on this occasion they went back
into the constitution of the empire and the books written upon it,
it was striking to me how the monstrous condition of this thoroughly
diseased body, which was kept alive by a miracle alone, was the very
thing that most suited the learned. For the venerable German industry,
which was more directed to the collection and development of details
than to results, found here an inexhaustible impulse to new employment,
and whether the empire was opposed to the Emperor, the lesser to
the greater estates, or the Catholics to the Protestants, there was
necessarily always, according to the diversity of interest, a diversity
of opinion, and always an occasion for new contests and controversies.

Since I had rendered all these older and newer circumstances as present
to my mind as possible, it was impossible for me to promise myself
much pleasure from my abode at Wetzlar. The prospect of finding in a
city, which was indeed well situated, but small and ill-built, a double
world; first the domestic, old traditional world, then a foreign new
one, authorized to scrutinize the other with severity,--a judging
and a judged tribunal; many an inhabitant in fear and anxiety, lest
he might also be drawn into the impending investigation; persons of
consideration, long held in respect, convicted of the most scandalous
misdeeds, and marked out for disgraceful punishment;--all this together
made the most dismal picture, and could not lure me to go deeper into a
business, which, involved in itself, seemed so much perplexed by wrong.

That, excepting the German civil and public law, I should find
nothing remarkable in the scientific way, that I should be without
all poetical communication, I thought I could foresee, when, after
some delay, the desire of altering my situation more than impulse to
knowledge led me to this spot. But how surprised I was, when, instead
of a crabbed society, a third academical life sprang towards me. At a
large _table d'hôte_ I found a number of young lively people, nearly
all subordinates to the commission; they gave me a friendly reception,
and the very first day it remained no secret to me that they had
cheered their noon-meetings by a romantic fiction. With much wit and
cheerfulness they represented a table of knights. At the top sat the
grand-master, by his side the chancellor, then the most important
officers of the state; now followed the knights, according to their
seniority. Strangers, on the other hand, who visited, were forced to
be content with the lowest places, and to these the conversation was
almost unintelligible, because the language of the society, in addition
to the chivalric expressions, was enriched with many allusions. To
every one a name with an epithet was assigned. Me they called "Götz
von Berlichingen the honest." The former I earned by the attention
to the gallant German patriarch, the latter by my upright affection
and devotion for the eminent men with whom I became acquainted. To
the Count von Kielmannsegg I was much indebted during this residence.
He was the most serious of all, highly clever, and to be relied on.
There was Von Goué, a man hard to be deciphered and described, a
blunt, kind, quietly reserved Hanoverian figure. He was not wanting
in talent of various kinds. It was conjectured concerning him that he
was a natural son; he loved, besides, a certain mysterious deportment,
and concealed his most peculiar wishes and plans under various
eccentricities, as indeed he was, properly speaking, the very soul of
the odd confederation of knights, without having striven to attain the
post of grand-master. On the contrary, when, just at this time, the
head of the knighthood departed, he caused another to be elected, and
through him exercised his influence. Thus he managed so to direct
several little trifles, that they appeared of importance, and could be
carried out in mythical forms. But with all this no serious purpose
could be remarked in him,--he was only concerned to get rid of the
tedium which he and his colleagues, during their protracted occupation,
necessarily felt, and to fill up the empty space, if only with cobwebs.
For the rest, this mythical caricature was carried on with great
external seriousness, and no one found it ridiculous if a certain mill
was treated as a castle, and the miller as lord of the fortress, if
the "Four Sons of Haimon" was declared a canonical book, and on the
occasion of ceremonies, extracts from it were read with veneration. The
dubbing of knights took place with traditional symbols, borrowed from
several orders of knighthood. A chief motive for jest was the fact,
that what was manifest was treated as a secret; the affair was carried
on publicly, and yet nothing was to be said about it. The list of the
whole body of knights was printed with as much importance as a calendar
of the Imperial diet, and if families ventured to scoff at this, and to
declare the whole matter absurd and ridiculous, they were punished by
an intrigue being carried on until a solemn husband or near relation
was induced to join the company and to be dubbed a knight; for then
there was a splendid burst of malicious joy at the annoyance of the
connexions.

[Side-note: Whimsical Societies at Wetzlar.]

Into this chivalric state of existence another strange order had
insinuated itself, which was to be philosophical and mystical, and
had no name of its own. The first degree was called the "Transition,"
the second the "Transition's transition," the third the "Transition's
transition to the transition," and the fourth the "Transition's
transition to the transition's transition." To interpret the high sense
of this series of degrees was now the duty of the initiated, and this
was done according to the standard of a little printed book, in which
these strange words were explained, or rather amplified, in a manner
still more strange. Occupation with these things was the most desirable
pastime. The folly of Behrisch and the perversity of Lenz seemed here
to have united themselves; I only repeat that not a trace of purpose
was to be found behind these veils.

Although I very readily took part in such fooleries, had first brought
into order the extracts from "The Four Sons of Haimon," made proposals
how they should be read on feasts and solemn occasions, and even
understood how to deliver them myself with great emphasis, I had,
nevertheless, grown weary of such things before, and therefore as I
missed my Frankfort and Darmstadt circles, I was highly pleased to
have found Gotter, who attached himself to me with honest affection,
and to whom I showed in return a hearty good-will. His turn of mind
was delicate, clear, and cheerful, his talents were practised and
well regulated, he aimed at French elegance, and was pleased with
that part of English literature which is occupied with moral and
agreeable subjects. We passed together many pleasant hours, in which
we communicated to each other our knowledge, plans, and inclinations.
He excited me to many little works, especially as, being in connexion
with the people of Göttingen, he desired some of my poems for Boie's
_Almanach._

I thus came into contact with those, who, young and hill of talent,
held themselves together, and afterwards effected so much and in such
various ways. The two Counts Stolberg, Bürger, Voss, Hölty, and others
were assembled in faith and spirit around Klopstock, whose influence
extended in every direction. In such a poetical circle, which more and
more extended itself, was developed at the same time with such manifold
poetical merits, another turn of mind, to which I can give no exactly
proper name. It might be called the need of independence, which always
arises in time of peace, and exactly when, properly speaking, one is
not dependent. In war we bear the rude force as well as we can, we feel
ourselves physically and economically, but not morally, wounded; the
constraint shames no one, and it is no disgraceful service to serve
the time; we accustom ourselves to suffer from foes and friends; we
have wishes, but no particular views. In peace, on the contrary, man's
love of freedom becomes more and more prominent, and the more free one
is, the more free one wishes to be. We will not tolerate anything over
us; we will not be restrained, no one shall be restrained; and this
tender, nay, morbid feeling, appears in noble souls under the form of
justice. This spirit and feeling then showed itself everywhere, and
just because few were oppressed, it was wished to free even these from
temporary oppression, and thus arose a certain moral feud, a mixture of
individuals with the government, which, with laudable beginnings, led
to inevitably unfortunate results.

[Side-note: Difficulty of German patriotism.]

Voltaire, by the protection which he had bestowed on the family of
Calas, had excited great attention and made himself respected. In
Germany the attempt of Lavater against the _Landvogt_ (sheriff of the
province) had been almost more striking and important. The æsthetical
feeling, united with youthful courage, strove forward, and as, shortly
before, persons had studied to obtain offices, they now began to
act as overlookers of those in office; and the time was near when
the dramatist and novelist loved best to seek their villains among
ministers and official persons. Hence arose a world, half real, half
imaginary, of action and reaction, in which we afterwards lived to see
the most violent imputations and instigations, which the writers of
periodical publications and journals with a sort of passion allowed
themselves under the garb of justice, and went to work the more
irresistibly, as they made the public believe that it was itself the
true tribunal--a foolish notion, as no public has an executive power,
and in dismembered Germany public opinion neither benefited nor injured
any one.

Among us young people there was indeed nothing to be traced, which
could have been culpable, but a certain similar notion, composed of
poetry, morality, and a noble striving, and which was harmless but yet
fruitless, had taken possession of us.

By his _Hermann's-Schlacht_,[2] and the dedication of it to Joseph
the Second, Klopstock had produced a wonderful excitement. The
Germans who freed themselves from Roman oppression were nobly and
powerfully represented, and this picture was well suited to awaken
the self-feeling of a nation. But because in peace patriotism really
consists only in this, that every one sweeps his own door, minds his
own business, and learns his own lesson, that it may go well with his
house,--so did the feeling for fatherland, excited by Klopstock, find
no object on which it could exercise itself. Frederic had saved the
honour of one part of the Germans against an united world, and every
member of the nation, by applause and reverence of this great prince,
was allowed to share in his victory; but what was to come of this
excited, warlike spirit of defiance? what direction should it take,
and what effect produce? At first it was merely a poetical form, and
the songs ridiculous, were accumulated through this impulse,--this
incitement. There were no external enemies to fight; so people made
tyrants for themselves, and for this purpose princes and their servants
were obliged to bestow their figures, first only in general outline,
but gradually with particulars. Here it was that poetry attached itself
with vehemence to that interference with the administration of justice,
which is blamed above; and it is remarkable to see poems of that time
written in a spirit by which everything of a higher order, whether
monarchical or aristocratic, is abolished.

For my own part, I continued to make poetry the expression of my own
whims and feelings. Little poems like the "Wanderer" belong to this
time; they were inserted in the _Göttingen Musenalmanach._ But from
whatever of the above-mentioned mania had worked itself into me, I
shortly endeavoured to free myself in _Götz von Berlichingen_, since
I described how in disordered times this brave, well-thinking man
resolves to take the place of the law and the executive power, but is
in despair when, to the supreme authority, which he recognises and
reveres, he appears in an equivocal light, and even rebellious.

By Klopstock's odes, it was not so much the Northern mythology as the
nomenclature of the divinities, that had been introduced into German
poetry; and although I gladly made use of everything else that was
offered me, I could not bring myself to use this, for the following
causes: I had long become acquainted with the fables of the Edda, from
the preface to Mallet's _Danish History_, and had at once made myself
master of them. They belonged to those tales which, when asked by a
company, I most willingly related. Herder put Resenius into my hands,
and made me better acquainted with the heroic _sagas._ But all these
things, worthy as I held them, I could not bring within the circle
of my own poetic faculty. Nobly as they excited my imagination, they
nevertheless entirely withdrew themselves from the sensuous perception,
while the mythology of the Greeks, changed by the greatest artists in
the world into visible, easily imagined forms, still existed before
our own eyes in abundance. Gods in general I did not allow' often
to appear, because, at all events, they had their abode out of the
Nature, which I understood how to imitate. What now could have induced
to substitute Woden for Jupiter, and Thor for Mars, and instead of the
Southern, accurately described figures, to introduce forms of mist,
nay, mere verbal sounds, into my poems? On the one side, they were
related to the equally formless heroes of Ossian, only they were ruder
and more gigantic; on the other, I brought them into contact with the
cheerful tale; for the humoristic vein which runs through the whole
Northern mythus, was to me highly pleasing and remarkable. It appeared
to me the only one which jests with itself throughout,--wondrous
giants, magicians, and monsters opposed to an odd dynasty of gods, and
only occupied in leading astray and deriding the highest persons during
their government, while they threaten them, besides, with disgraceful
and inevitable destruction.

I felt a similar if not an equal interest for the Indian fables, which
I at first learned to know from Dapper's _Travels_, and likewise added
with great pleasure to my store of tales. In subsequent repetitions I
succeeded especially with the Altar of Ram; and notwithstanding the
great number of persons in this tale, the ape Hannemann remained the
favorite of my public. But even these unformed and over-formed monsters
could not satisfy me in a true poetic sense; they lay too far from the
truth, towards which my mind unceasingly strove.

[Side-note: Taste for Homer.]

But against all these goblins, so repulsive to art, my sense for the
beautiful was to be protected by the noblest power. Always fortunate
is that epoch in a literature when the great works of the past again
rise up as if thawed, and come into notice, because they then produce a
perfectly fresh effect. Even the Homeric light rose again quite new to
us, and indeed quite in the spirit of the time, which highly favoured
such an appearance; for the constant reference to nature had at last
the effect, that we learned to regard even the works of the ancients
from this side. What several travellers had done for explanation of
the Holy Scriptures, others had done for Homer. By Guys the matter was
introduced; Wood gave it an impulse. A Göttingen review of the original
work, which was at first very rare, made us acquainted with the design,
and taught us how far it had been carried out. We now no longer saw in
those poems a strained and inflated heroism, but the reflected truth
of a primeval present, and sought to bring this as closely to us as
possible. At the same time we could not give our assent, when it was
maintained that in order rightly to understand the Homeric natures, one
must make oneself acquainted with the wild races and their manners, as
described by the travellers in new worlds; for it cannot be denied that
both Europeans and Asiatics are represented in the Homeric poems as at
a higher grade of culture,--perhaps higher than the time of the Trojan
war could have enjoyed. But that maxim was nevertheless in harmony with
the prevailing confession of nature, and so far we let it pass.

With all these occupations, which were related to the knowledge of
mankind in the higher sense, as well as most nearly and dearly to
poetry, I was nevertheless forced every day to experience that I
was residing in Wetzlar. The conversation on the situation of the
business of the "Visitation," and its ever-increasing obstacles, the
discovery of new offences, was heard every hour. Here was the holy
Roman Empire once more assembled, not for mere outward forms, but for
an occupation which penetrated to the very depths. But even here that
half-empty banqueting-hall on the coronation-day occurred to me, where
the bidden guests remained without, because they were too proud. Here,
indeed, they had come, but even worse symptoms were to be seen. The
want of coherence in the whole, the mutual opposition of the parts,
were continually apparent; and it remained no secret that princes had
confidentially communicated to each other this notion, that they must
see whether, on this occasion, something could not be gained from the
supreme authority.

What a bad impression the petty detail of all the anecdotes of neglects
and delays, of injustices and corruptions, must make upon a young man
who desired what was good, and with this view cultivated his mind,
every honest person will feel. Under such circumstances, where was a
reverence for the law and the judge to arise? Even if the greatest
confidence had been placed in the effects of the "Visitation,"--if
it could have been believed that it would fully accomplish its high
purpose,--there was still no remedy to be found here for a joyous,
inwardly-striving youth. The formalities of the proceeding all tended
towards delay; if any one desired to do anything, and to be of any
importance, he was obliged to serve the party in the wrong--always the
accused--and to be skilled in the fencing-art of twisting and evading.

[Side-note: Æsthetic Speculations.]

Since, amid this distraction, I could not succeed in any æsthetic
labours, I again and again lost myself in æsthetic speculations, as
indeed all theorising indicates a defect or stagnation of productive
power. Before with Merk, now with Gotter, I endeavoured to find out
the maxims according to which one might go to work in production. But
neither with me nor with them would it succeed. Merk was a sceptic and
eclectic; Gotter adhered to such examples as pleased him the most.
The Sulzer theory was published more for the amateur than the artist.
In this sphere moral effects are required above all things; and here
at once arises a dissension between the class that produces and that
which uses; for a good work of art can, and will indeed, have moral
consequences; but to require moral ends of the artist, is to destroy
his profession.

What the ancients had said on these important subjects I had read
industriously for some years, by skips, at least, if not in regular
order. Aristotle, Cicero, Quintilian, Longinus--none were unconsidered;
but this did not help me in the least, for all these men presupposed an
experience which I lacked. They led me into a world infinitely rich in
works of art; they unfolded the merits of excellent poets and orators,
of most of whom the names alone are left us, and convinced me but too
well that a great abundance of objects must lie before us ere we can
think upon them; that one must first accomplish something oneself, nay,
fail in something, to learn to know one's own capacities, and those of
others. My acquaintance with so much that was good in those old times,
was only according to school and book, and by no means vital, since,
even with the most celebrated, orators, it was striking that they had
altogether formed themselves in life, and that one could never speak of
the peculiarities of their character as artists, without at the same
time mentioning the personal peculiarities of their disposition. With
the poets this seemed less to be the case; and thus the result of all
my thoughts and endeavours was the old resolution to investigate inner
and outer nature, and to allow her to rule herself in loving imitation.

For these operations, which rested in me neither day nor night, lay
before me two great, nay, monstrous materials, the wealth of which
I had only to prize, in order to produce something of importance.
There was the older epoch, into which falls the life of Götz von
Berlichingen, and the modern one, the unhappy bloom of which is
depicted in _Werther._ Of the historical preparation to that first work
I have already spoken; the ethical occasions of the second shall now be
introduced.

The resolution to preserve my internal nature according to its
peculiarities, and to let external nature influence me according to
its qualities, impelled me to the strange element in which _Werther_
is designed and written. I sought to free myself internally from all
that was foreign to me, to regard the external with love, and to allow
all beings, from man downwards, as low as they were comprehensible, to
act upon me, each after its own kind. Thus arose a wonderful affinity
with the single objects of nature, and a hearty concord, a harmony with
the whole, so that every change, whether of place and region, or of
the times of the day and year, or whatever else could happen, affected
me in the deepest manner. The glance of the painter associated itself
to that of the poet, the beautiful rural landscape, animated by the
pleasant river, increased my love of solitude, and favoured my silent
observations as they extended on all sides.

But since I had left the family circle in Sesenheim, and again my
family circle at Frankfort and Darmstadt, a vacuum had remained in
my bosom which I was not able to fill up; I therefore found myself
in a situation where the inclinations, if they appear in any degree
veiled, gradually steal upon us, and can render abortive all our good
resolutions.

And now, when the author has attained this step of his undertaking,
he for the first time feels light-hearted in his labour, since from
henceforward this book first becomes what it properly ought to be.
It has not been announced as an independent work; it is much more
designed to fill up the gaps of an author's life, to complete much
that is fragmentary, and to preserve the memory of lost and forgotten
ventures. But what is already done neither should nor can be repeated,
and the poet would now vainly call upon those darkened powers of
the soul, vainly ask of them to render present again those charming
circumstances, which rendered the period in Lahnthal so agreeable to
him. Fortunately the genius had already provided for that, and had
impelled him, in the vigorous period of youth, to hold fast, describe,
and with sufficient boldness and at the favourable hour publicly to
exhibit that winch had immediately gone by. That the little book
_Werther_ is here meant, requires no further indication, but something
is to be gradually revealed, both of the persons introduced in it and
the views which it exhibits.

[Side-note: Origin of "Werther".]

Among the young men, who, attached to the embassy, had to prepare
themselves for their future career of office, was one whom we were
accustomed to call only the "Bridegroom." He distinguished himself by
a calm, agreeable deportment, clearness of views, definiteness both in
speaking and in acting. His cheerful activity, his persevering industry
so much recommended him to his superiors, that an appointment at an
early period was promised him. Being justified by this, he ventured to
betroth himself to a lady, who fully corresponded to his tone of mind
and his wishes. After the death of her mother, she had shown herself
extremely active as the head of a numerous young family, and had alone
sustained her father in his widowhood, so that a future husband might
hope the same for himself and his posterity, and expect a decided
domestic felicity. Every one confessed, without having these selfish
ends immediately in view, that she was a desirable lady. She belonged
to those who, if they do not inspire ardent passion, are nevertheless
formed to create a general feeling of pleasure. A figure lightly built
and neatly formed, a pure healthy temperament, with a glad activity of
life resulting from it, an unembarrassed management of the necessities
of the day--all these were given her together. I always felt happy in
the contemplation of such qualities, and I readily associated myself to
those who possessed them; and if I did not always find opportunity to
render them real service, I rather shared with them than with others
the enjoyment of those innocent pleasures which youth can always
find at hand, and seize without any great cost or effort. Moreover,
since it is now settled that ladies decorate themselves only for each
other, and are unwearied among each other to heighten the effect of
their adornments, those were always the most agreeable to me, who,
with simple purity, give their friend, their bridegroom, the silent
assurance that all is really done for him alone, and that a whole life
could be so carried on without much circumstance and outlay.

Such persons are not too much occupied with themselves; they have
time to consider the external world, and patience enough to direct
themselves according to it, and to adapt themselves to it; they become
shrewd and sensible without exertion, and require but few books for
their cultivation. Such was the bride.[3] The bridegroom, with his
thoroughly upright and confiding turn of mind, soon made many whom
he esteemed acquainted with her; and as he had to pass the greatest
part of his day in a zealous attention to business, was pleased when
his betrothed, after the domestic toils were ended, amused herself
otherwise, and took social recreation in walks and rural parties
with friends of both sexes. Lottie--for so we shall call her--was
unpretending in two senses; first, by her nature, which was rather
directed to a general kindly feeling than to particular inclinations;
and then she had set her mind upon a man who, being worthy of her,
declared himself ready to attach his fate to hers for life. The most
cheerful atmosphere seemed to surround her; nay, if it be a pleasing
sight to see parents bestow an uninterrupted care upon their children,
there is something still more beautiful when brothers and sisters do
the same for each other. In the former case we think we can perceive
more of natural impulse and social tradition; in the latter, more of
choice and of a free exercise of feeling.

The new comer, perfectly free from all ties, and careless in the
presence of a girl who, already engaged to another, could not interpret
the most obliging services as acts of courtship, and could take the
more pleasure in them accordingly, quietly went his way, but was soon
so drawn in and rivetted, that he no longer knew himself. Indolent
and dreamy, because nothing present satisfied him, he found what he
had lacked in a female friend, who, while she lived for the whole
year, seemed only to live for the moment. She liked him much as her
companion; he soon could not bear her absence, as she formed for him
the connecting link with the every-day world; and during extensive
household occupations, they were inseparable companions in the fields
and in the meadows, in the vegetable-ground and in the garden. If
business permitted, the bridegroom was also of the party; they had all
three accustomed themselves to each other without intention, and did
not know how they had become so mutually indispensable. During the
splendid summer they lived through a real German idyl, to which the
fertile land gave the form and a pure affection the poetry. Wandering
through ripe corn-fields, they took delight in the dewy morning; the
song of the lark, the cry of the quail, were pleasant tones; sultry
hours followed, monstrous storms came on,--they grew more and more
attached to each other, and by this continuous love many a little
domestic annoyance was easily extinguished. And thus one ordinary day
followed another, and all seemed to be holidays,--the whole calendar
should have been printed red. He will understand me who recollects what
was predicted by the happily unhappy friend of the "New Heloise:" "And
sitting at the feet of his beloved, he will break hemp, and he will
wish to break hemp to-day, to-morrow, and the day after, nay, for his
whole life."

[Side-note: Young Jerusalem.]

I can say but little, though just as much as may be necessary,
respecting a young man, whose name was afterwards but too often
mentioned. This was Jerusalem, the son of the freely and tenderly
thinking theologian. He also had an appointment with an embassy; his
form was pleasing, of a middle height, and well built; his face was
rather round than long; his features were soft and calm, and he had
the other appurtenances of a handsome blond youth, with blue eyes,
rather attractive than speaking. His dress was that introduced in
Lower Germany in imitation of the English,--a blue frock, waistcoat
and breeches of yellow leather, and boots with brown tops. The author
never visited him, nor saw him at his own residence, but often met him
among his friends. The expressions of this young man were moderate but
kindly. He took interest in productions of the most different kinds,
and especially loved those designs and sketches in which the the
tranquil character of solitary spots is caught. On such occasions he
showed Gesner's etchings, and encouraged the amateurs to study them. In
all that mummery and knighthood he took no part, but lived for himself
and his own sentiments. It was said he had a decided passion for the
wife of one of as friends. In public they were never seen together.
In general very little could be said of him, except that he occupied
himself with English literature. As the son of an opulent man, he had
no occasion either painfully to devote himself to business, or to make
pressing applications for an early appointment.

Those etchings by Gesner increased the pleasure and interest in rural
objects, and a little poem, which we passionately received into
our circle, allowed us from henceforward to think of nothing else.
Goldsmith's _Deserted Village_ necessarily delighted every one at that
grade of cultivation, in that sphere of thought. Not as living and
active, but as a departed, vanished existence was described, all that
one so readily looked upon, that one loved, prized, sought passionately
in the present, to take part in it with the cheerfulness of youth.
Highdays and holidays in the country, church consecrations and fairs,
the solemn assemblage of the elders under the village linden-tree,
supplanted in its turn by the lively delight of youth in dancing,
while the more educated classes show their sympathy. How seemly did
these pleasures appear, moderated as they were by an excellent country
pastor, who understood how to smooth down and remove all that went too
far,--that gave occasion to quarrel and dispute. Here again we found an
honest Wakefield, in his well-known circle, yet no longer in his living
bodily form, but as a shadow recalled by the soft mournful tones of the
elegiac poet. The very thought of this picture is one of the happiest
possible, when once the design is formed to evoke once more an innocent
past with a graceful melancholy. And in this kindly endeavour, how well
has the Englishman succeeded in every sense of the word! I shared the
enthusiasm for this charming poem with Gotter, who was more felicitous
than myself with the translation undertaken by us both; for I had too
painfully tried to imitate in our language the delicate significance of
the original, and thus had well agreed with single passages, but not
with the whole.

If now, as they say, the greatest happiness rests on a sense of longing
(_sehnsucht_), and if the genuine longing can only be directed to
something unattainable, everything had fallen together to render the
youth whom we now accompany on his wanderings the happiest of mortals.
An affection for one betrothed to another, the effort to acquire the
masterpieces of foreign literature for our own, the endeavour to
imitate natural objects, not only with words, but also with style
and pencil, without any proper technical knowledge,--each of these
particulars would singly have sufficed to me melt the heart and oppress
the bosom. But, that the sweetly suffering youth might be torn out
of this state, and that new circumstances might be prepared for new
disquiet, the following events occurred:--

[Side-note: Höpfner.]

Höpfner, professor of law, was at Giessen. He was acknowledged and
highly esteemed by Merck and Schlosser as clever in his office, and as
a thinking and excellent man. I had long ago desired his acquaintance,
and now, when these two friends thought to pay him a visit, to
negotiate about some literary matters, it was agreed that I should
likewise go to Giessen on this opportunity. Because, however--as
generally happens with the wilfulness of glad and peaceful times--we
could not easily do anything in the direct way, but, like genuine
children, sought to get a jest even out of what was necessary, I was
now, as an unknown person, to appear in a strange form, and once more
satisfy my desire to appear disguised. One cheerful morning, before
sunrise, I went from Wetzlar along the Lahne, up the charming valley;
such ramblings again constituted my greatest felicity. I invented,
connected, elaborated, and was quietly happy and cheerful with
myself; I set right what the ever-contradictory world had clumsily
and confusedly forced upon me. Arrived at the end of my journey, I
looked out for Höpfner's residence, and knocked at his study. When he
had cried out, "Come in!" I modestly appeared before him as a student
who was going home from the universities, and wished on his way to
become acquainted with the most worthy men. For his questions as to my
more intimate circumstances, I was prepared; I made up a plausible,
prosaic tale, with which he seemed satisfied, and as I gave myself out
for a jurist, I did not come off badly; for I well knew his merits
in this department, and also that he was occupied with natural law.
Conversation, however, sometimes came to a stand, and it seemed as
if he were looking for a _Stammbuch_[4] or for me to take my leave.
Nevertheless, I managed to delay my departure, as I expected with
certainty the arrival of Schlosser, whose punctuality was well known
to me. He came in reality, and after a side glance, took little notice
of me. Höpfner, however, drew me into conversation, and showed himself
throughout as a humane and kindly man. I at last took my leave, and
hastened to the inn, where I exchanged a few hurried words with Merck,
and awaited further proceedings.

The friends had resolved to ask Höpfner to dinner, and also that
Christian Heinrich Schmidt who had played a part, though a very
subordinate one, in German literature. For him the affair was really
designed, and he was to be punished in a mirthful manner. When the
guests had assembled in the dining-room, I asked, through the waiter,
whether the gentlemen would allow me to dine with them. Schlosser, whom
a certain earnestness well became, opposed this proposition, because
they did not wish their conversation interrupted by a third party. But,
on the pressing demand of the waiter and the advocacy of Höpfner, who
assured the other that I was a very tolerable person, I was admitted,
and at the commencement of the meal behaved as if modest and abashed.
Schlosser and Merck put no restraint upon themselves, and went on about
many subjects as freely as if no stranger were present. I now showed
myself somewhat bolder, and did not allow myself to be disturbed when
Schlosser threw out at me much that was in earnest, and Merck something
sarcastic; but I directed against Schmidt all my darts, which fell
sharply and surely on the uncovered places which I well knew.

I had been moderate over my pint of table-wine, but the gentlemen
ordered better wine to be brought, and did not fail to give me some.
After many affairs of the day had been talked over, conversation went
into general matters, and the question was discussed, which will be
repeated as long as there are authors in the world,--the question,
namely, whether literature was rising or declining, progressing
or retrograding? This question, about which old and young, those
commencing and those retiring, seldom agree, was discussed with
cheerfulness, though without any exact design of coming decidedly
to terms about it. At last I took up the discourse, and said, "The
different literatures, as it seems to me, have seasons, which
alternating with each other, as in nature, bring forth certain
phenomena, and assert themselves in due order. Hence I do not believe
that any epoch of a literature can be praised or blamed on the whole;
especially it displeases me when certain talents, which are brought
out by their time, are raised and vaunted so highly, while others are
censured and depreciated. The throat of the nightingale is excited
by the spring, but at the same time also that of the cuckoo. The
butterflies, which are so agreeable to the eye, and the gnats, which
are so painful to the feelings, are called into being by the same heat
of the sun. If this were duly considered, we should not hear the same
complaints renewed every ten years, and the vain trouble which is
taken to root out this or that offensive thing, would not so often be
wasted." The party looked at me, wondering whence I had got so much
wisdom and tolerance. I, however, continued quite calmly to compare
literary phenomena with natural productions, and (I know not how)
came to the _molluscæ_, of which I contrived to set forth all sorts
of strange things. I said that there were creatures to whom a sort of
body, nay, a certain figure, could not be denied; but that, since they
had no bones, one never knew how to set about rightly with them, and
they were nothing better than living slime; nevertheless, the sea must
have such inhabitants. Since I carried the simile beyond its due limits
to designate Schmidt, who was present, and that class of characterless
_littérateurs_, I was reminded that a simile carried too far at last
becomes nothing. "Well, then, I will return to the earth," I replied,
"and speak of the ivy. As these creatures have no bones, so this has
no trunk; but wherever it attaches itself, it likes to play the chief
part. It belongs to old walls, in which there is nothing more to
destroy; but from new buildings it is properly removed. It sucks up the
goodness of the trees; and is most insupportable to me when it clambers
up a post, and assures me that this is a living trunk, because it has
covered it with leaves."

[Side-note: Joke upon P. H. Schmidt.]

Notwithstanding I was again reproached with the obscurity and
inapplicability of my similes, I became more and more warm against
all parasitical creatures, and as far as my knowledge of nature then
extended, managed the affair pretty well. I at last sang a _vivat_ to
all independent men, a _pereat_ to those who forced themselves upon
them, seized Höpfner's hand after dinner, shook it violently, declared
him to be the best man in the world, and finally embraced both him and
the others right heartily. My excellent new friend thought he was
really dreaming, until Schlosser and Merk at last solved the riddle;
and the discovered joke diffused a general hilarity, which was shared
by Schmidt himself, who was appeased by an acknowledgment of his real
merits, and the interest we took in his tastes.

This ingenious introduction could not do otherwise than animate and
favour the literary congress, which was indeed, chiefly kept in view.
Merck, active now in æsthetics, now in literature, now in commerce,
had stimulated the well-thinking, well-informed Schlosser, whose
knowledge extended to so many branches, to edit the Frankfort _Gelehrte
Anzeige_ (_Learned Advertiser_) for that year. They had associated to
themselves Höpfner, and other university-men in Giessen, a meritorious
schoolman, Rector Wenk in Darmstadt, and many other good men. Every
one of them possessed enough historical and theoretical knowledge in
his department, and the feeling of the times allowed these men to work
in one spirit. The human and cosmopolitan is encouraged; really good
men justly celebrated are protected against obtrusion of every kind;
their defence is undertaken against enemies, and especially against
scholars, who use what has been taught them to the detriment of their
instructors. Nearly the most interesting articles are the critiques on
other periodical publications, the _Berlin Library_ (_Bibliothek_),
the _German Mercury_, where the cleverness in so many departments, the
judgment as well the fairness of the papers, is rightly admired.

As for myself, they saw well enough that I was deficient in everything
that belongs to a critic, properly so called. My historical knowledge
was unconnected, the histories of the world, science, and literature
had only attracted me by epochs, the objects themselves only partially
and in masses. My capacity of giving life to things, and rendering them
present to me out of their real connexion, put me in the position that
I could be perfectly at home in a certain century or in a department
of science, without being in any degree instructed as to what preceded
or what followed. Thus a certain theoretico-practical sense had been
awakened in me, by which I could give account of things, rather as
they should be than as they were, without any proper philosophical
connection, but by way of leaps. To this was added a very easy power of
apprehension, and a friendly reception of the opinions of others, if
they did not stand in direct opposition to my own convictions.

[Side-note: Frankfort "Gelehrte Anzeige."]

That literary union was also favoured by an animated correspondence,
and by frequent personal communication, which was possible from the
vicinity of the places. He who had first read a book was to give an
account of it; often another reviewer of the same book was found; the
affair was talked over, connected with kindred subjects, and if at
last a certain result had been obtained, one of them took the office
of editing. Thus many reviews are as clever as they are spirited, as
pleasant as they are satisfactory. I often had the task of introducing
the matter; my friends also permitted me to jest in their works, and to
appear independently with objects to which I felt myself equal, and in
which I especially took interest. In vain should I endeavour, either
by description or reflection, to recall the proper spirit and sense of
those days, if the two years of the above-mentioned periodical did not
furnish me with the most decisive documents. Extracts from passages, in
which I again recognise myself, may appear in future in their proper
place, together with similar essays.

During this lively interchange of knowledge, opinions, and convictions,
I very soon became better acquainted with Höpfner, and became very
fond of him. As soon as we were alone I spoke with him about subjects
connected with his department, which was to be my department also; and
found a very naturally connected explanation and instruction. I was not
then as yet plainly conscious that I could learn something from books
and conversation, but not from continuous professional lectures. A
book allowed me to pause at a passage, and even to look back, which is
impossible with oral delivery and a teacher. Often at the beginning of
the lecture, some thought in which I indulged laid hold of me, and thus
I lost what followed, and altogether got out of the connexion. Thus
it had happened to me with respect to the lectures on jurisprudence;
and on this account I could take many opportunities of talking with
Höpfner, who entered very readily into my doubts and scruples, and
filled up many gaps, so that the wish arose in me to remain with him at
Giessen, and derive instruction from him, without removing myself too
far from Wetzlar inclinations. Against this wish of mine my two friends
had laboured, first unconsciously, but afterwards consciously; for both
were in a hurry, not only to leave the place themselves, but had also
an interest to remove me from the spot.

Schlosser disclosed to me that he had formed, first a friendly then
a closer connexion with my sister, and that he was looking about for
an early appointment that he might be united to her. This explanation
surprised me to some degree, although I ought to have found it out
long ago in my sister's letters; but we easily pass over that which
may hurt the good opinion which we entertain of ourselves, and I now
remarked for the first time that I was really jealous about my sister;
a feeling which I concealed from myself the less, as, since my return
from Strasburg, our connexion had been much more intimate. How much
time had we not expended in communicating each little affair of the
heart, love-matters, and other matters, which had occurred in the
interval. In the field of imagination too, had there not been revealed
to me a new world, into which I sought to conduct her also? My own
little productions, and a far-extended world-poetry, was gradually to
be made known to her. Thus I made for her _impromptu_ translations of
those passages of Homer, in which she could take the greatest interest.
Clarke's literal translation I read into German, as well as I could; my
version generally found its way into metrical turns and terminations,
and the liveliness with which I had apprehended the images, the force
with which I expressed them, removed all the obstacles of a cramped
order of words; what I gave with mind, she followed with mind also. We
passed many hours of the day in this fashion; while, if her company
met, the Wolf Fenris and the Ape Hannemann were unanimously called
for, and how often have I not been obliged to repeat circumstantially
how Thor and his comrades were deluded by the magical giants! Hence
from these fictions such a pleasant impression has remained with me,
that they belong to the most valuable things which my imagination can
recall. Into the connexion with the Darmstadt people I had drawn my
sister also, and now my wanderings and occasional absence necessarily
bound us closer together, as I discoursed with her by letter respecting
every thing that occurred to me, communicated to her every little
poem, if even only a note of admiration, and let her first see all
the letters which I received, and all the answers which I wrote.
All these lively impulses had been stopped since my departure from
Frankfort, my residence at Wetzlar was not fertile enough for** such
a correspondence, and, moreover, my attachment to Charlotte may have
infringed upon my attentions to my sister; enough, she felt herself
alone, perhaps neglected, and therefore the more readily gave a hearing
to the honest wooing of an honourable man, who, serious and reserved,
estimable and worthy of confidence, had passionately bestowed on her
his affections, with which he was otherwise very niggardly. I was now
forced to resign myself and grant my friend his happiness, though I did
not fail in secret to say confidently to myself, that if the brother
had not been absent, it would not have gone so well with the friend.

My friend and probable brother-in-law was now very anxious that I
should return home, because, by my mediation, a freer intercourse was
possible, of which the feelings of this man, so unexpectedly attacked
by a tender passion, seemed to stand extremely in need. Therefore, on
his speedy departure, he elicited from me the promise that I would
immediately follow him.

[Side-note: Merck's Hatred of Students.]

Of Merck, whose time was free, I hoped that he would delay his
sojourn in Giessen, that I might be able to pass some hours of the
day with my good Höpfner, while my friend employed his time on the
Frankfort _Gelehrte Anzeige_; but he was not to be moved, and as my
brother-in-law was driven from the university by love, he was driven
by hate. For as there are innate antipathies--just as certain men
cannot endure cats, while this or that is repugnant to the soul of
others,--so was Merk a deadly enemy to all the academical citizens (the
students), who indeed at that time, at Giessen, took delight in the
greatest rudeness. For me they were well enough; I could have used them
as masks for one of my carnival plays, but with him the sight of them
by day, and their noise by night, destroyed every sort of good humour.
He had spent the best days of his youth in French Switzerland, and had
afterwards enjoyed the pleasant intercourse of people of the court,
world, and business, and of cultivated _littérateurs_; several military
persons, in whom a desire for mental culture had been awakened, sought
his society, and thus he had passed his life in a very cultivated
circle. That the rudeness of the students vexed him, was therefore
not to be wondered at, but his aversion from them was really more
passionate than became a sound man, although he often made me laugh by
his witty descriptions of their monstrous appearance and behaviour.
Höpfner's imitations and my persuasions were of no avail; I was obliged
to depart with him as soon as possible for Wetzlar.

I could scarcely wait any time, till I had introduced him to Charlotte,
but his presence in this circle did me no good; for as Mephistopheles,
let him go when he will, hardly brings a blessing with him, so did
he, by his indifference towards that beloved person, cause me no joy,
even if he did not make me waver. This I might have foreseen, if I
had recollected that it was exactly those slender, delicate persons,
who diffuse a lively cheerfulness around them, without making further
pretensions, who did not remarkably please him. He very quickly
preferred the Juno-form of one of her friends, and since he lacked
time to form a close connexion, he bitterly blamed me for not exerting
myself to gain this magnificent figure, especially as she was free and
without any tie. He thought that I did not understand my own advantage,
and that he here--very unwillingly--perceived my especial taste for
wasting my time.

If it is dangerous to make a friend acquainted with the perfections of
one's beloved, because he also may find her charming and desirable;
no less is the reverse danger, that he may perplex us by his dissent.
This, indeed, was not the case here, for I had too deeply impressed
upon myself the picture of her amiability for it to be so easily
obliterated; but his presence and his persuasions nevertheless hastened
my resolution to leave the place. He represented to me a journey on
the Rhine, which he was going to take with his wife and son, in the
most glowing colours, and excited in me the desire to see, at last,
with my eyes those objects of which I had often heard with envy. Now,
when he had departed, I separated myself from Charlotte with a purer
conscience indeed than from Frederica, but still not without pain. This
connexion also had by habit and indulgence grown more passionate than
was right on my side, while, on the other hand, she and her bridegroom
kept themselves with cheerfulness in a measure which could not be more
beautiful and amiable, and the security which resulted just from this
caused me to forget every danger. I could not, however, conceal from
myself that this adventure must come to a speedy end; for the union
of the young man with the amiable girl depended on a promotion which
was immediately to be expected, and as man, if he is in any degree
resolute, even dares to make a virtue of necessity, so did I embrace
the determination voluntarily to depart before I was driven away by
anything insupportable.


[1] Annual publications devoted to poetry only.--_Trans._

[2] The fight of Hermann, the "Arminius" of Tacitus, against the
Romans.--_Trans._

[3] Persons betrothed are in German called "bride" and
"bridegroom."--_Trans._

[4] A "stammbuch" is a sort of album for autographs and short
contributions.--_Trans._




THIRTEENTH BOOK.


It was agreed with Merck, that in the fine season we should meet at
Coblentz at Frau von Laroche's. I sent to Frankfort my baggage and
whatever I might want on my way down the Lahn by an opportunity which
offered, and now wandered down that beautiful river, so lovely in its
windings, so various in its shores, free as to my resolution, but
oppressed as to my feelings--in a condition, when the presence of
silently-living nature is so beneficial to us. My eye, accustomed to
discern those beauties of a landscape that suited the painter, and were
above him, rioted in the contemplation of near and distant objects, of
bushy rocks, of sunny heights, of damp valleys, of enthroned castles,
and of the blue range of mountains inviting us from the distance.

I wandered on the right bank of the river, which at some depth and
distance below me, and partly concealed by a rich bush of willows,
glided along in the sunlight. Then again arose in me the old wish,
worthily to imitate such objects. By chance I had a handsome
pocket-knife in my left hand, and at the moment, from the depth of
my soul, arose, as it were, an absolute command, according to which,
without delay, I was to fling this knife into the river. If I saw
it fall, my wish to become an artist would be fulfilled, but if
the sinking of the knife was concealed by the overhanging bush of
willows, I was to abandon the wish and the endeavour. This whim had no
sooner arisen in me than it was executed. For, without regarding the
usefulness of the knife, which comprised many instruments in itself, I
cast it with the left hand, as I held it, violently towards the river.
But here I had to experience that deceptive ambiguity of oracles, of
which, in antiquity, such bitter complaints were made. The sinking of
the knife into the water was concealed from me by the extreme twigs of
the willows, but the water, which rose from the fall, sprang up like a
strong fountain, and was perfectly visible. I did not interpret this
phenomenon in my favour, and the doubt which it excited in me was
afterwards the cause that I pursued these exercises more interruptedly
and more negligently, and gave occasion for the import of the oracle to
fulfil itself. For the moment at least the external world was spoiled
for me, I abandoned myself to my imaginations and feelings, and left
the well-situated castles and districts of Weilburg, Limburg, Diez, and
Nassau one by one behind me, generally walking alone, but often for a
short time associating myself with another.

[Side-note: The family Von Laroche.]

After thus pleasantly wandering for some days, I arrived at Ems, where
I several times enjoyed the soft bath, and then went down the river
in a boat. Then the old Rhine opened itself upon me, the beautiful
situation of Oberlahnstein delighted me, but noble and majestic above
all appeared to me the castle Ehrenbreitstein, which stood perfectly
armed in its power and strength. In most lovely contrast lay at its
feet the well-built little place called Thal, where I could easily find
my way to the residence of Privy Councillor von Laroche. Announced
by Merck, I was very kindly received by this noble family, and soon
considered as a member of it. My literary and sentimental tendencies
bound me to the mother, a cheerful feeling for the world bound me to
the father, and my youth bound me to the daughters.

The house, quite at the end of the valley, and little elevated above
the river, had a free prospect down the stream. The rooms were high
and spacious, and the walls, like a gallery, were hung with pictures,
placed close together. Every window on every side formed a frame to
a natural picture, which came out very-vividly by the light of a
mild sun. I thought I had never seen such cheerful mornings and such
splendid evenings.

I was not long the only guest in the house. As a member of the congress
which was held here, partly with an artistic view, partly as a matter
of feeling, Leuchselring, who came up from Düsseldorf, was likewise
appointed. This man, possessing a fine knowledge of modern literature,
had, on different travels, but especially during a residence in
Switzerland, made many acquaintances, and as he was pleasant and
insinuating, had gained much favour. He carried with him several boxes,
which contained the confidential correspondence with many friends; for
there was altogether such a general openness among people, that one
could not speak or write to a single individual, without considering it
directed to many. One explored one's own heart and that of others, and
with the indifference of the government towards such a communication,
the great rapidity of the Taxisch[1] post, the security of the seal,
and the reasonableness of the postage, this moral and literary
intercourse soon spread itself around.

Such correspondences, especially with important persons, were carefully
collected, and extracts from them were often read at friendly meetings.
Thus, as political discourses had little interest, one became pretty
well acquainted with the extent of the moral world.

Leuchselring's boxes contained many treasures in this sense. The
letters of one Julie Bondeli were very much esteemed; she was famed
as a lady of sense and merit, and a friend of Rousseau. Whoever had
stood in any relation to this extraordinary man, took part in the glory
which emanated from him, and in his name a silent community had been
disseminated far and wide.

I liked to be present at these readings, as I was thus transported
into an unknown world, and learned to know the real truth of many an
event that had just passed. All indeed was not valuable, and Herr von
Laroche, a cheerful man of the world and of business, who, although
a Catholic, had already in his writings made free with the monks
and priesthood, thought that he here saw a fraternity, where many a
worthless individual supported himself by a connexion with persons
of importance, by which, in the end, he, but not they, were admired.
Generally this excellent man withdrew from the company when the boxes
were opened. Even if he did listen to some letters now and then, a
waggish remark was to be expected. Among other things, he once said
that by this correspondence he was still more convinced of what he had
always believed, namely, that ladies might spare their sealing-wax, as
they need only fasten their letters with pins, and might be assured
that they would reach their address unopened. In the same way he
was accustomed to jest with everything that lay out of the sphere of
life and activity, and in this followed the disposition of his lord
and master, Count Stadion, minister to the Elector of Mayence, who
certainly was not fitted to counterbalance the worldliness and coldness
of the boy by a reverence for everything like mysterious foreboding.

[Side-note: Herr von Laroche and His Preceptor.]

An anecdote respecting the great practical sense of the count may here
find a place. When he took a liking to the orphan Laroche, and chose
him for a pupil, he at once required from the boy the services of a
secretary. He gave him letters to answer, despatches to prepare, which
he was then obliged to copy fair, oftener to write in cipher, to seal,
and to direct. This lasted for many years. When the boy had grown up
into a youth, and really did that which he had hitherto only supposed
he was doing, the count took him to a large writing-table, in which
all his letters and packets lay unbroken, having been preserved as
exercises of the former time.

Another exercise which the count required of his pupil, will not find
such universal applause. Laroche had been obliged to practise himself
in imitating, as accurately as possible, the handwriting of his lord
and master, that he might thus relieve him from the trouble of writing
himself. Not only in business, but also in love affairs, the young man
had to take the place of his preceptor. The count was passionately
attached to a lady of rank and talent. If he stopped in her society
till late at night, his secretary was, in the meanwhile, sitting at
home, and hammering out the most ardent love-letters; the count chose
one of these, and sent it that very night to his beloved, who was thus
necessarily convinced of the inextinguishable fire of her passionate
adorer. Such early experiences were scarcely fitted to give the youth
the most exalted notion of written communications about love.

An irreconcilable hatred of the priesthood had established itself in
this man, who served two spiritual electors, and had probably sprung
from the contemplation of the rude, tasteless, mind-destroying foolery
which the monks in Germany were accustomed to carry on in many parts,
and thus hindered and destroyed every sort of cultivation. His letters
on Monasticism caused great attention; they were received with great
applause by all Protestants and many Catholics.

If Herr von Laroche opposed everything that can be called sensibility,
and even decidedly avoided the very appearance of it, he nevertheless
did not conceal a tender paternal affection for his eldest daughter,
who, indeed, was nothing else but amiable. She was rather short
than tall of stature, and delicately built, her figure was free and
graceful, her eyes very black, while nothing could be conceived purer
and more blooming than her complexion. She also loved her father, and
inclined to his sentiments. Being an active man of business, most of
his time was consumed in works belonging to his calling; and as the
guests who stopped at his house were really attracted by his wife and
not by him, society afforded him but little pleasure. At table he was
cheerful and entertaining, and at least endeavoured to keep his board
free from the spice of sensibility.

"Whoever knows the views and mode of thought of Frau von Laroche--and
by a long life and many writings, she has become honourably known to
every German,--may perhaps suspect that a domestic incongruity must
have arisen here. Nothing of the kind. She was the most wonderful
woman; and I know no other to compare to her. Slenderly and delicately
built, rather tall than short, she had, even to her more advanced
years, managed to preserve a certain elegance both of form and of
conduct, which pleasantly fluctuated between the conduct of a noble
lady and that of one of the citizen class. Her dress had been the
same for several years. A neat little cap with wings very well became
her small head and delicate face, and her brown or grey clothing gave
repose and dignity to her presence. She spoke well, and always knew
how to give importance to what she said by an expression of feeling.
Her conduct was perfectly the same towards every body. But with all
this the greatest peculiarity of her character is not yet expressed;
it is difficult to designate it. She seemed to take interest in
everything, but really nothing acted upon her. She was gentle towards
every one, and could endure everything without suffering; the jests
of her husband, the tenderness of her friends, the sweetness of her
children--to all this she replied in the same manner, and thus she
always remained herself, without being affected in the world by
good and evil, or in literature by excellence and weakness. To this
disposition she owes that independence which she maintains even to an
advanced age, through many sad, nay, sorrowful events. But not to be
unjust, I must suite that her sons, then children of dazzling beauty,
often elicited from her an expression different from that which served
her for daily use.

[Side-note: Merk's influence.]

Thus I lived for a time in a wonderfully pleasant society, until Merck
came with his family. Here arose at once new affinities; for while the
two ladies approached each other, Merck had come into closer contact
with Herr von Laroche as a connoisseur of the world and of business,
as a well-informed and travelled man. The boy associated himself with
the boys, and the daughters, of whom the eldest soon particularly
attracted me, fell to my share. It is a very pleasant sensation when a
new passion begins to stir in us, before the old one is quite extinct.
Thus, when the sun is setting, one often likes to see the moon rise on
the opposite side, and one takes delight in the double lustre of the
two heavenly luminaries.

There was now no lack of rich entertainment either in or out of the
house. We wandered about the spot, and ascended Ehrenbreitstein on
this side of the river, and the _Carthaus_ on the other. The city, the
Moselle-bridge, the ferry which took us over the Rhine, all gave us the
most varied delight. The new castle was not yet built; we were taken
to the place where it was to stand, and allowed to see the preparatory
sketches.

Nevertheless, amid those cheerful circumstances was internally
developed that element of unsociableness which, both in cultivated and
uncultivated circles, ordinarily shows its malign effects. Merck, at
once cold and restless, had not long listened to that correspondence
before he uttered aloud many waggish notions concerning the things
which were the subjects of discourse, as well as the persons and
their circumstances, while he revealed to me in secret the oddest
things, which really were concealed under them. Political secrets were
never touched on, nor indeed anything that could have had a definite
connexion; he only made me attentive to persons who, without remarkable
talents, contrive, by a certain tact, to obtain personal influence,
and, by an acquaintance with many, try to make something out of
themselves; and from this time forwards I had opportunity to observe
several men of the sort. Since such persons usually change their place,
and, as travellers come, now here, now there, they have the advantage
of novelty, which should neither be envied nor spoiled; for this is a
mere customary matter, which every traveller has often experienced to
his benefit, and every resident to his detriment.

Be that as it may, it is enough that from that time forward we
cherished an uneasy, nay, envious attention to people of the sort, who
went about on their own account, cast anchor in every city, and sought
to gain an influence at least in some families. I have represented
a tender and soft specimen of these guild-brethren in "Pater Brey,"
another of more aptness and bluntness in a carnival play to be
hereafter published, which bears the title, _Satyros, or the deified
Wood-devil._ This I have done, if not with fairness, at least with good
humour.

However, the strange elements of our little society still worked quite
tolerably one upon another; we were partly united by our own manner
and style of breeding, and partly restrained by the peculiar conduct
of our hostess, who, being but lightly touched by that which passed
around her, always resigned herself to certain ideal notions, and while
she understood how to utter them in a friendly and benevolent way,
contrived to soften everything sharp that might arise in the company,
and to smooth down all that was uneven.

Merck had sounded a retreat just at the right time, so that the party
separated on the best of terms. I went with him and his in a yacht,
which was returning up the Rhine towards Mayence; and although this
vessel went very slowly of itself, we nevertheless besought the captain
not to hurry himself. Thus we enjoyed at leisure the infinitely various
objects, which, in the most splendid weather, seem to increase in
beauty every hour, and both in greatness and agreeableness ever to
change anew; and I only wish that, while I utter the names, Rheinfels
and St. Goar, Bacharach, Bingen, Ellfeld, and Biberich, every one of my
readers may be able to recall these spots to memory.

We had sketched industriously, and had thus at least gained a deeper
impression of the thousandfold changes of those splendid shores.
At the same time, by being so much longer together, by a familiar
communication on so many sorts of things, our connexion became so
much the more intimate, that Merck gained a great influence over
me, and I, as a good companion, became indispensable to him for a
comfortable existence. My eye, sharpened by nature, again turned to the
contemplation of art, for which the beautiful Frankfort collections
afforded me the best opportunity, both in paintings and engravings,
and I have been much indebted to the kindness of MM. Ettling and
Ehrenreich, but especially to the excellent Nothnagel. To see nature in
art became with me a passion, which, in its highest moments, must have
appeared to others, passionate amateurs as they might be, almost like
madness: and how could such an inclination be better fostered than by a
constant observation of the excellent works of the Netherlanders? That
I might make myself practically acquainted with these things, Nothnagel
gave me a little room, where I found every thing that was requisite for
oil painting, and painted after nature some simple subjects of still
life, one of which, a tortoise-shell knife-handle, inlaid with silver,
so astonished my master, who had last visited me an hour before, that
he maintained one of his subordinate artists must have been with me
during the time.

[Side-note: Reviving Taste for Art.]

Had I patiently gone on practising myself on such objects catching
their light and the peculiarities of their surface, I might have
formed a sort of practical skill, and made a way for something higher.
I was, however, prevented by the fault of all dilettantes--that of
beginning with what is most difficult, and ever wishing to perform
the impossible, and I soon involved myself in greater undertakings,
in which I stuck fast, both because they were beyond my technical
capabilities, and because I could not always maintain pure and
operative that loving attention and patient industry, by which even the
beginner accomplishes something.

At the same time, I was once more carried into a higher sphere, by
finding an opportunity of purchasing some fine plaster casts of antique
heads. The Italians, who visit the fairs, often brought with them
good specimens of the kind, and sold them cheap, after they had taken
moulds of them. In this manner I set up for myself a little museum, as
I gradually brought together the heads of the Laocoön, his sons, and
Niobe's daughters. I also bought miniature copies of the most important
works of antiquity from the estate of a deceased friend of art, and
thus sought once more to revive, as much as possible, the great
impression which I had received at Mannheim.

While I now sought to cultivate, foster, and maintain all the talent,
taste, or other inclination that might live in me, I applied a good
part of the day, according to my father's wish, in the duties of
an advocate, for the practice of which I chanced to find the best
opportunity. After the death of my grandfather, my uncle Textor had
come into the council, and consigned to me the little offices to which
I was equal; while the brothers Schlosser did the same. I made myself
acquainted with the documents; my father also read them with much
pleasure, as by means of his son, he again saw himself in an activity
of which he had been long deprived. We talked the matters over, and
with great facility; I then made the necessary statements. We had
at hand an excellent copyist, on whom one could rely for all legal
formalities; and this occupation was the more agreeable to me as it
brought me closer to my father, who, being perfectly satisfied with my
conduct in this respect, readily looked with an eye of indulgence on
all my other pursuits, in the ardent expectation that I should now soon
gather in a harvest of fame as an author.

Because now, in every epoch, all things are connected together, since
the ruling views and opinions are ramified in the most various manner,
so in the science of law those maxims were gradually pursued, according
to which religion and morals were treated. Among the attorneys, as
the younger people, and then among the judges, as the elder, a spirit
of humanity was diffused, and all vied with each other in being as
humane as possible, even in legal affairs. Prisons were improved,
crimes excused, punishments lightened, legitimations rendered easy,
separations and unequal marriages encouraged, and one of our eminent
lawyers gained for himself the highest fame, when he contrived, by hard
fighting, to gain for the son of an executioner an entrance into the
college of surgeons. In vain did guilds and corporations oppose; one
dam after another was broken through. The toleration of the religious
parties towards each other was not merely taught, but practised, and
the civil constitution was threatened with a still greater influence,
when the effort was made to recommend to that good-humoured age, with
understanding, acuteness, and power, toleration toward the Jews.
Those new subjects for legal treatment, which lay without the law and
tradition, and only laid claim to a fair examination, to a kindly
sympathy, required at the same time a more natural and animated style.
Here for us, the youngest, was opened a cheerful field, in which we
bustled about with delight, and I still recollect that an imperial
councillor's agent, in a case of the sort, sent me a very polite letter
of commendation. The French _plaidoyés_ served us for patterns and for
stimulants.

We were thus on the way to become better orators than jurists, a fact
to which George Schlosser once called my attention, blaming me while
doing so. I told him that I had read to my clients a controversial
paper written with much energy in their favour, at which they had shown
the greatest satisfaction. Upon this he replied to me, "In this case
you have shown yourself more an author than an advocate. We must never
ask how such a writing may please the client, but how it may please the
judge."

[Side-note: State of the German stage.]

As the occupations to which one devotes one's day are never so serious
and pressing that one cannot find time enough in the evening to go
to the play, thus was it also with me, who, in the want of a really
good stage, did not cease thinking of the German theatre, in order to
discover how one might cooperate upon it with any degree of activity.
Its condition in the second half of the last century is sufficiently
known, and every one who wishes to be instructed about it finds
assistance at hand everywhere. On this account I only intend to insert
here a few general remarks.

The success of the stage rested more upon the personality of the actors
than upon the value of the pieces. This was especially the case with
pieces half or wholly extemporized, when everything depended on the
humour and talent of the comic actors. The matter of such pieces must
be taken out of the commonest life, in conformity with the people
before whom they are acted. From this immediate application arises the
greatest applause, which these plays have always gained. They were
always at home in South Germany, where they are retained to the present
day; and the change of persons alone renders it necessary to give,
from time to time, some change to the character of the comic masks.
However, the German theatre, in conformity with the serious character
of the nation, soon took a turn towards the moral, which was still more
accelerated by an external cause. For the question arose, among strict
Christians, whether the theatre belonged to those sinful things which
are to be shunned, at all events, or to those indifferent things which
can be good to the good and bad to the bad. Some zealots denied the
latter, and held fast the opinion that no clergyman should ever enter
the theatre. Now the opposite opinion could not be maintained with
energy, unless the theatre was declared to be not only harmless, but
even useful. To be useful, it must be moral; and in this direction it
developed itself in North Germany the more as, by a sort of half-taste,
the comic character[2] was banished, and although intelligent persons
took his part, was forced to retire, having already gone from the
coarseness of the German _hanswurst_ (jack-pudding) into the neatness
and delicacy of the Italian and French harlequins. Even Scapin and
Crispin gradually vanished; the latter I saw played for the last time
by Koch, in his old age.

Richardson's novels had already made the citizen-world attentive to a
more delicate morality. The severe and inevitable consequences of a
feminine _faux pas_ were analysed in a frightful manner in _Clarissa._
Lessing's _Miss Sara Sampson_ treated the same theme: whilst the
_Merchant of London_ exhibited a misguided youth in the most terrible
situation. The French dramas had the same end, but proceeded more
moderately, and contrived to please by some accommodation at the end.
Diderot's _Père de Famille_, the _Honourable Criminal_, the _Vinegar
Dealer_, the _Philosopher without knowing it, Eugenie_, and other
works of the sort, suited that honest feeling of citizen and family
which began more and more to prevail. With us, the _Grateful Son_,
the _Deserter from Parental Love_, and all of their kin, went the
same way. The _Minister, Clementini_, and other pieces by Gehler, the
_German Father of a Family_, by Gemming, all brought agreeably to view
the worth of the middle and even of the lower class, and delighted
the great public. Eckhof by his noble personality, which gave to the
actor's profession a dignity in which it had hitherto been deficient,
elevated to an uncommon degree the leading characters in such pieces,
since, as an honest man, the expression of honesty succeeded with him
to perfection.

While now the German theatre was completely inclining to effeminacy,
Schröder arose as an author and actor, and prompted by the connexion
between Hamburg and England, adapted some English comedies. The
material of these he could only use in the most general way, since
the originals are for the most part formless, and if they begin well
and according to a certain plan, they wander from the mark at last.
The sole concern of their authors seems to be the introduction of the
oddest scenes; and whoever is accustomed to a sustained work of art, at
last unwillingly finds himself driven into the boundless. Besides this,
a wild, immoral, vulgarly dissolute tone so decidedly pervades the
whole, to an intolerable degree, that it must have been difficult to
deprive the plan and the characters of all their bad manners. They are
a coarse and at the same time dangerous food, which can only be enjoyed
and digested by a large and half-corrupted populace at a certain time.
Schröder did more for these things than is usually known; he thoroughly
altered them, assimilated them to the German mind, and softened them
as much as possible. But still a bitter kernel always remains in them,
because the joke often depends on the ill-usage of persons, whether
they deserve it or not. In these performances, which were also widely
spread upon our stage, lay a secret counterpoise to that too delicate
morality; and the action of both kinds of drama against each other
fortunately prevented the monotony into which people would otherwise
have fallen.

[Side-note: Schroeder's Adaptation of English Comedies.]

The German, kind and magnanimous by nature, likes to see no one
ill-treated. But as no man, however well he thinks, is secure that
something may not be put upon him against his inclination, and as,
moreover, comedy in general, if it is to please, always presupposes
or awakens something of malice in the spectator, so, by a natural
path, did people come to a conduct which hitherto had been deemed
unnatural: this consisted in lowering the higher classes, and more or
less attacking them. Satire, whether in prose or verse, had always
avoided touching the court and nobility. Rabener refrained from all
jokes in that direction, and remained in a lower circle. Zachariä
occupies himself much with country noblemen, comically sets forth
their tastes and peculiarities, but this is done without contempt.
Thümmel's _Wilhelmine_, an ingenious little composition, as pleasant
as it is bold, gained great applause, perhaps because the author,
himself a nobleman and courtier, treated his own class unsparingly. But
the boldest step was taken by Lessing, in his _Emilia Galotti_, where
the passions and intrigues of the higher classes are delineated in
a bitter and cutting manner. All these things perfectly corresponded
to the excited spirit of the time; and men of less mind and talent
thought they might do the same, or even more; as indeed Grossmann,
in six unsavoury dishes, served up to the malicious public all the
tidbits of his vulgar kitchen. An honest man, Hofrath Reinhardt, was
the major-domo at this unpleasant board, to the comfort and edification
of all the guests. From this time forward the theatrical villains were
always chosen from the higher ranks; and a person must be a gentleman
of the bedchamber, or at least a private secretary, to be worthy of
such a distinction. But for the most godless examples, the highest
offices and places in the court and civil list were chosen, in which
high society, even the justiciaries, found their place as villains of
the first water.

But as I must fear already that I have been carried beyond the time
which is now the subject in hand, I return back to myself, to mention
the impulse which I felt to occupy myself in my leisure hours with the
theatrical plans which I had once devised.

By my lasting interest in Shakspeare's works, I had so expanded
my mind, that the narrow compass of the stage and the short time
allotted to a representation, seemed to me by no means sufficient to
bring forward something important. The life of the gallant Götz von
Berlichingen, written by himself, impelled me into the historic mode
of treatment; and my imagination so much extended itself, that my
dramatic form also went beyond all theatrical bounds, and sought more
and more to approach the living events. I had, as I proceeded, talked
circumstantially on this subject with my sister, who was interested,
heart and soul, in such things, and renewed this conversation so often,
without going to any work, that she at last, growing impatient, and at
the same time wishing me well, urgently entreated me not to be always
casting my words into the air, but, once for all, to set down upon
paper that which must have been so present to my mind. Determined by
this impulse, I began one morning to write, without having made any
previous sketch or plan. I wrote the first scenes, and in the evening
they were read aloud to Cornelia. She gave them much applause, but only
conditionally, since she doubted that I should go on so; nay, she even
expressed a decided unbelief in my perseverance. This only incited me
the more; I wrote on the next day, and also the third. Hope increased
with the daily communications, and from step to step everything gained
more life, while the matter, moreover, had become thoroughly my own.
Thus I kept, without interruption, to my work, which I pursued straight
on, looking neither backwards nor forwards,--neither to the right nor
to the left; and in about six weeks I had the pleasure to see the
manuscript stitched. I communicated it to Merck, who spoke sensibly and
kindly about it. I sent it to Herder, who, on the contrary, expressed
himself unkindly and severely, and did not fail, in some lampoons
written for the occasion, to give me nicknames on account of it. I did
not allow myself to be perplexed by this, but took a clear view of my
object. The die was now cast, and the only question was how to play the
game best. I plainly saw that even here no one would advise me; and,
as after some time I could regard my work as if it had proceeded from
another hand, I indeed perceived that in my attempt to renounce unity
of time and place, I had also infringed upon that higher unity which is
so much the more required. Since, without plan or sketch, I had merely
abandoned myself to my imagination and to an internal impulse, I had
not deviated much at the beginning, and the first acts could fairly
pass for what they were intended to be. In the following acts, however,
and especially towards the end, I was unconsciously carried along by
a wonderful passion While trying to describe Adelheid as amiable, I
had fallen in love with her myself,--my pen was involuntarily devoted
to her alone,--the interest in her fate gained the preponderance; and
as, apart from this consideration. Götz, towards the end, is without
activity, and afterwards only returns to an unlucky participation in
the _Bauernkrieg_[3] nothing was more natural than that a charming
woman should supplant him in the mind of the author, who, casting
off the fetters of art, thought to try himself in a new field. This
defect, or rather this culpable superfluity, I soon perceived, since
the nature of my poetry always impelled me to unity. I now, instead of
the biography of Götz and German antiquities, kept my own work in mind,
and sought to give it more and more historical and national substance,
and to cancel that which was fabulous or merely proceeded from passion.
In this I indeed sacrificed much, as the inclination of the man had
to yield to the conviction of the artist. Thus, for instance, I
had pleased myself highly by malting Adelheid enter into a terrific
nocturnal gipsy-scene, and perform wonders by her beautiful presence.
A nearer examination banished her; and the love-affair between Franz
and his noble, gracious lady, which was very circumstantially carried
on in the fourth and fifth acts, was much condensed, and could only be
suffered to appear in its chief points.

[Side-note: Goetz von Berlichingen.]

Therefore, without altering anything in the first manuscript, which I
still actually possess in its original shape, I determined to rewrite
the whole, and did this with such activity, that in a few weeks an
entirely new-made piece lay before me. I went to work upon this
all the quicker, the less my intention was ever to have the second
poem printed, as I looked upon this likewise as a mere preparatory
exercise, which in future I should again lay at the foundation of a new
treatment, to be accomplished with greater industry and deliberation.

When I began to lay before Merck many proposals as to the way in which
I should set about this task, he laughed at me, and asked what was the
meaning of this perpetual writing and rewriting? The thing, he said,
by this means, becomes only different, and seldom better; one must see
what effect one thing produces, and then again try something new. "Be
in time at the hedge, if you would dry your linen."[4] he exclaimed,
in the words of the proverb; hesitation and delay only make uncertain
men. On the other hand, I replied to him that it would be unpleasant
to me to offer to a bookseller a work on which I had bestowed so much
affection, and perhaps to receive a refusal as an answer; for how would
they judge of a young, nameless, and also audacious author? As my
dread of the press gradually vanished, I had wished to see printed my
comedy _Die Mitschuldigen_, upon which I set some value, but I found no
publisher inclined in my favour.

Here the technically mercantile taste of my friend was at once excited.
By means of the _Frankfort Zeitung_ (Gazette), he had already formed a
connexion with learned men and booksellers, and therefore he thought
that we ought to publish at our own expense this singular and certainly
striking work, and that we should derive a larger profit from it.
Like many others, he used often to reckon up for the booksellers
their profit, which with many works was certainly great, especially
if one left out of the account how much was lost by other writings
and commercial affairs. Enough, it was settled that I should procure
the paper, and that he should take care of the printing. Thus we went
heartily to work, and I was not displeased gradually to see my wild
dramatic sketch in clean proof-sheets; it looked really neater than I
myself expected. We completed the work, and it was sent off in many
parcels. Before long a great commotion arose everywhere; the attention
which it created became universal. But because, with our limited means,
the copies could not be sent quick enough to all parts, a pirated
edition suddenly made its appearance. As, moreover, there could be no
immediate return, especially in ready money, for the copies sent out,
so was I, as a young man in a family whose treasury could not be in an
abundant condition, at the very time when much attention, nay, much
applause was bestowed upon me, extremely perplexed as to how I should
pay for the paper by means of which I had made the world acquainted
with my talent. On the other hand, Merck, who knew better how to help
himself, entertained the best hopes that all would soon come right
again; but I never perceived that to be the ease.

[Side-note: Goetz von Berlichingen.]

Through the little pamphlets which I had published anonymously, I had,
at my own expense, learned to know the critics and the public; and I
was thus pretty well prepared for praise Slid blame, especially as for
many years I had constantly folio wed up the subject, and had observed
how those authors were treated, to whom I had devoted particular
attention.

Here even in my uncertainty, I could plainly remark how much that was
groundless, one-sided, and arbitrary, was recklessly uttered. Now
the same thing befel me, and if I had not had some basis of my own,
how much would the contradictions of cultivated men have perplexed
me! Thus, for instance, there was in the _German Mercury_ a diffuse,
well-meant criticism, composed by some man of limited mind. Where he
found fault, I could not agree with him,--still less when he stated
how the affair could have been done otherwise. It was therefore highly
gratifying to me, when immediately afterwards I found a pleasant
explanation by Wieland, who in general opposed the critic, and took
my part against him. However, the former review was printed likewise;
I saw an example of the dull state of mind among well-informed and
cultivated men. How, then, would it look with the great public!

The pleasure of talking over such things with Merck, and thus
gaining light upon them, was of short duration, for the intelligent
Landgravine of Hesse-Darmstadt took him with her train on her journey
to Petersburg. The detailed letters which he wrote to me gave me a
farther insight into the world, which I could the more make my own
as the descriptions were made by a well-known and friendly hand. But
nevertheless I remained very solitary for a long time, and was deprived
just at this important epoch of his enlightening sympathy, of which I
then stood in so much need.

Just as one embraces the determination to become a soldier, and go to
the wars, and courageously resolves to bear danger and difficulties,
as well as to endure wounds and pains, and even death, but at the
same time never calls to mind the particular cases in which those
generally anticipated evils may surprise us in an extremely unpleasant
manner,--so it is with every one who ventures into the world,
especially an author; and so it was with me. As the great part of
mankind is more excited by a subject than by the treatment of it, so
it was to the subject that the sympathy of young men for my pieces was
generally owing. They thought they could see in them a banner, under
the guidance of which all that is wild and unpolished in youth might
find a vent; and those of the very best brains, who had previously
harboured a similar crotchet, were thus carried away. I still possess a
letter--I know not to whom--from the excellent and, in many respects,
unique Bürger, which may serve as an important voucher of the effect
and excitement which was then produced by that phenomenon. On the other
side, some men blamed me for painting the club-law in too favourable
colours, and even attributed to me the intention of bringing those
disorderly times back again. Others took me for a profoundly learned
man, and wished me to publish a new edition, with notes, of the
original narrative of the good Götz;--a task to which I felt by no
means adapted, although I allowed my name to be put on the title to the
new impression. Because I had understood how to gather the flowers of
a great existence, they took me for a careful gardener. However, this
learning and profound knowledge of mine were much doubted by others.
A respectable man of business quite unexpectedly pays me a visit.
I find myself highly honoured by this, especially as he opens his
discourse with the praise of my _Götz von Berlichingen_, and my good
insight into German history, but I am nevertheless astonished when
I remark that he has really come for the sole purpose of informing
me that Götz von Berlichingen was no brother-in-law to Franz von
Sichingen, and that therefore by this poetical matrimonial alliance I
have committed a great historical error. I sought to excuse myself by
the fact, that Götz himself calls him so, but was met by the reply,
that this is a form of expression which only denotes a nearer and
more friendly connexion, just as in modern times we call postilions
"brothers-in-law,"[5] without being bound to them by any family tie. I
thanked him as well as I could for this information, and only regretted
that the evil was now not to be remedied. This was regretted by him
also, while he exhorted me in the kindest manner to a further study of
the German history and constitution, and offered me his library, of
which I afterwards made a good use.

[Side-note: Goetz von Berlichingen.]

A droll event of the sort which occurred to me was the visit of a
bookseller, who, with cheerful openness, requested a dozen of such
pieces, and promised to pay well for them. That we made ourselves very
merry about this may be imagined; and yet, in fact, he was not so very
far wrong, for I was already greatly occupied in moving backwards and
forwards from this turning-point in German history, and in working up
the chief events in a similar spirit--a laudable design, which, like
many others, was frustrated by the rushing flight of time.

That play, however, had not solely occupied the author, but while
it was devised, written, rewritten, printed, and circulated, other
images and plans were moving in his mind. Those which could be treated
dramatically had the advantage of being oftenest thought over and
brought near to execution; but at the same time was developed a
transition to another form, which is not usually classed with those of
the drama, but yet has a great affinity with them. This transition was
chiefly brought about by a peculiarity of the author, which fashioned
soliloquy into dialogue.

Accustomed to pass his time most pleasantly in society, he changed
even solitary thought into social converse, and this in the following
manner:--He had the habit, when he was alone, of calling before his
mind any person of his acquaintance. This person he entreated to sit
down, walked up and down by him, remained standing before him, and
discoursed with him on the subject he had in his mind. To this the
person answered as occasion required, or by the ordinary gestures
signified his assent or dissent;--in which every man has something
peculiar to himself. The speaker then continued to carry out further
that which seemed to please the guest, or to condition and define more
closely that of which he disapproved; and, finally, was polite enough
to give up his notion. The oddest part of the affair was, that he never
selected persons of his intimate acquaintance, but those whom he saw
but seldom, nay, several who lived at a distance in the world, and with
whom he had had a transient connexion. They were, however, chiefly
persons who, more of a receptive than communicative nature, are ready
with a pure feeling to take interest in the things which fall within
their sphere, though he often summoned contradicting spirits to these
dialectic exercises. Persons of both sexes, of every age and rank
accommodated themselves to these discussions, and showed themselves
obliging and agreeable, since he only conversed on subjects which
were clear to them, and which they liked. Nevertheless, it would have
appeared extremely strange to many of them, could they have learned how
often they were summoned to these ideal conversations, since many of
them would scarcely have come to a real one.

How nearly such a mental dialogue is akin to a written correspondence,
is clear enough; only in the latter one sees returned the confidence
one has bestowed, while in the former, one creates for oneself
a confidence which is new, ever-changing, and unreturned. When,
therefore, he had to describe that disgust which men, without being
driven by necessity, feel for life, the author necessarily hit at once
upon the plan of giving his sentiments in letters; for all gloominess
is a birth, a pupil of solitude--whoever resigns himself to it flies
all opposition, and what is more opposed to him than a cheerful
society? The enjoyment in life felt by others is to him a painful
reproach; and thus, by that which should charm him out of himself, he
is directed back to his inmost soul. If he at all expresses himself
on this matter, it will be by letters; for no one feels immediately
opposed to a written effusion, whether it be joyful or gloomy,
while an answer containing opposite reasons gives the lonely one an
opportunity to confirm himself in his whims,--an occasion to grow still
more obdurate. The letters of Werther, which are written in this
spirit, have so various a charm, precisely because their different
contents were first talked over with several individuals in such ideal
dialogues, while it was afterwards in the composition itself that they
appeared to be directed to one friend and sympathizer. To say more
on the treatment of a little book which has formed the subject of so
much discussion, would be hardly advisable, but, with respect to the
contents, something may yet be added.

[Side-note: Weariness of Life.]

That disgust at life has its physical and its moral causes; the former
we will leave to the investigation of the physician, the latter to that
of the moralist, and in a matter so often elaborated, only consider the
chief point, where the phenomenon most plainly expresses itself. All
comfort in life is based upon a regular recurrence of external things.
The change of day and night--of the seasons, of flowers and fruits, and
whatever else meets us from epoch to epoch, so that we can and should
enjoy it--these are the proper springs of earthly life. The more open
we are to these enjoyments, the happier do we feel ourselves; out if
the changes in these phenomena roll up and down before us without our
taking interest in them, if we are insensible to such beautiful offers,
then comes on the greatest evil, the heaviest disease--we regard life
as a disgusting burden. It is said of an Englishman, that he hanged
himself that he might no longer dress and undress himself every day.
I knew a worthy gardener, the superintendent of the laying out of a
large park, who once cried out with vexation, "Shall I always see these
clouds moving from east to west?" The story is told of one of our
most excellent men, that he saw with vexation the returning green of
spring, and wished that, by way of change, it might once appear red.
These are properly the symptoms of a weariness of life, which does not
unfrequently result in suicide, and which, in thinking men, absorbed in
themselves, was more frequent than can be imagined.

Nothing occasions this weariness more than the return of love. The
first love, it is rightly said, is the only one, for in the second,
and by the second, the highest sense of love is already lost. The
conception of the eternal and infinite, which elevates and supports
it, is destroyed, and it appears transient like everything else that
recurs. The separation of the sensual from the moral, which, in the
complicated, cultivated world sunders the feelings of love and desire,
produces hers also an exaggeration which can lead to no good.

Moreover, a young man soon perceives in others, if not in himself,
that moral epochs change as well as the seasons of the year. The
graciousness of the great, the favour of the strong, the encouragement
of the active, the attachment of the multitude, the love of
individuals--all this changes up and down, and we can no more hold it
fast than the sun, moon, and stars. And yet these things are not mere
natural events; they escape us either by our own or by another's fault;
but change they do, and we are never sure of them.

But that which most pains a sensitive youth is the unceasing return of
our faults; for how late do we learn to see that while we cultivate
our virtues, we rear our faults at the same time. The former depend
upon the latter as upon their root, and the latter send forth secret
ramifications as strong and as various as those which the former send
forth in open light. Because now we generally practise our virtues with
will and consciousness, but are unconsciously surprised by our faults,
the former seldom procure us any pleasure, while the latter constantly
bring trouble and pain. Here lies the most difficult point in
self-knowledge, that which makes it almost impossible. If we conceive,
in addition to all this, a young, boiling blood, an imagination easily
to be paralyzed by single objects, and, moreover, the uncertain
movements of the day, we shall not find unnatural an impatient striving
to free oneself from such a strait.

However, such gloomy contemplations, which lead him who has resigned
himself to them into the infinite, could not have developed themselves
so decidedly in the minds of the German youths, had not an outward
occasion excited and furthered them in this dismal business. This
was caused by English literature, especially the poetical part, the
great beauties of which are accompanied by an earnest melancholy,
which it communicates to every one who occupies himself with it. The
intellectual Briton, from his youth upwards, sees himself surrounded
by a significant world, which stimulates all his powers; he perceives,
sooner or later, that he must collect all his understanding to come to
terms with it. How many of their poets have in their youth led a loose
and riotous life, and soon found themselves justified in complaining of
the vanity of earthly things? How many of them have tried their fortune
in worldly occupations, have taken parts, principal or subordinate,
in parliament, at court, in the ministry, in situations with the
embassy, shown their active co-operation in the internal troubles and
changes of state and government, and if not in themselves, at any rate
in their friends and patrons, more frequently made sad than pleasant
experiences! How many have been banished, imprisoned, or injured with
respect to property!

[Side-note: Effect of English poetry.]

Even the circumstance of being the spectator of such great events calls
man to seriousness; and whither can seriousness lead farther than
to a contemplation of the transient nature and worthlessness of all
earthly things? The German also is serious, and thus English poetry
was extremely suitable to him, and, because it proceeded from a higher
state of things, even imposing. One finds in it throughout a great,
apt understanding, well practised in the world, a deep, tender heart,
an excellent will, an impassioned action,--the very noblest qualities
which can be praised in an intellectual and cultivated man; but all
this put together still makes no poet. True poetry announces itself
thus, that, as a worldly gospel, it can by internal cheerfulness and
external comfort free us from the earthly burdens which press upon us.
Like an air-balloon, it lifts us, together with the ballast which is
attached to us, into higher regions, and lets the confused labyrinths
of the earth lie developed before us as in a bird's-eye view. The
most lively, as well as the most serious works, have the same aim of
moderating both pleasure and pain by a felicitous intellectual form.
Let us only in this spirit consider the majority of the English poems,
chiefly morally didactic, and on the average they will only show us a
gloomy weariness of life. Not only Young's _Night Thoughts_, where this
theme is pre-eminently worked out, but even the other contemplative
poems stray, before one is aware of it, into this dismal region, where
the understanding is presented with a problem which it cannot solve,
since even religion, much as it can always construct for itself, leaves
it in the lurch. Whole volumes might be compiled, which could serve as
a commentary to this frightful text--

    "Then old age and experience, hand in hand,
     Lead him to death, and make him understand,
     After a search so painful and so long,
     That all his life he has been in the wrong."

What further makes the English poets accomplished misanthropes, and
diffuses over their writings the unpleasant feeling of repugnance
against everything, is the fact that the whole of them, on account of
the various divisions of their commonwealth, must devote themselves
for the best part, if not for the whole of their lives, to one party or
another. Because now a writer of the sort cannot praise and extol those
of the party to which he belongs, nor the cause to which he adheres,
since, if he did, he would only excite envy and hostility, he exercises
his talent in speaking as badly as possible of those on the opposite
side, and in sharpening, nay, poisoning the satirical weapons as much
as he can. When this is done by both parties, the world which lies
between is destroyed and wholly annihilated, so that in a great mass
of sensibly active people, one can discover, to use the mildest terms,
nothing but folly and madness. Even their tender poems are occupied
with mournful subjects. Here a deserted girl is dying, there a faithful
lover is drowned, or is devoured by a shark before, by his hurried
swimming, he reaches his beloved; and if a poet like Gray lies down in
a churchyard, and again begins those well-known melodies, he too may
gather round him a number of friends to melancholy. Milton's _Allegro_
must scare away gloom in vehement verses, before he can attain a very
moderate pleasure; and even the cheerful Goldsmith loses himself in
elegiac feelings, when his _Deserted Village_, as charmingly as sadly,
exhibits to us a lost Paradise which his _Traveller_ seeks over the
whole earth.

I do not doubt that lively works, cheerful poems, can be brought
forward and opposed to what I have said, but the greatest number, and
the best of them, certainly belong to the older epoch; and the newer
works, which may be set down in the class, are likewise of a satirical
tendency, are bitter, and treat women especially with contempt.

Enough: those serious poems, undermining human nature, which, in
general terms, have been mentioned above, were the favourites
which we sought out before all others, one seeking, according to
his disposition, the lighter elegiac melancholy, another the heavy
oppressive despair, which gives up everything. Strangely enough, our
father and instructor, Shakspeare, who so well knew how to diffuse a
pure cheerfulness, strengthened our feeling of dissatisfaction. Hamlet
and his soliloquies were spectres which haunted all the young minds.
The chief passages every one knew by heart and loved to recite, and
every body fancied he had a right to be just as melancholy as the
Prince of Denmark, though he had seen no ghost, and had no royal father
to avenge.

But that to all this melancholy a perfectly suitable locality might not
be wanting, Ossian had charmed us even to the _Ultima Thule_, where
on a gray, boundless heath, wandering among prominent moss-covered
grave-stones, we saw the grass around us moved by an awful wind, and
a heavily clouded sky above us. It was not till moonlight that the
Caledonian night became day; departed heroes, faded maidens, floated
around us, until at last we really thought we saw the spirit of Loda in
his fearful form.

In such an element, with such surrounding influences, with tastes and
studies of this kind, tortured by unsatisfied passions, by no means
excited from without to important actions, with the sole prospect that
we must adhere to a dull, spiritless, citizen life, we became--in
gloomy wantonness--attached to the thought, that we could at all events
quit life at pleasure, if it no longer suited us, and thus miserably
enough helped ourselves through the disgusts and weariness of the
days. This feeling was so general, that _Werther_ produced its great
effect precisely because it struck a chord everywhere, and openly
and intelligibly exhibited the internal nature of a morbid youthful
delusion. How accurately the English were acquainted with this sort of
wretchedness is shown by the few significant lines, written before the
appearance of _Werther_--

    "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."

[Side-note: Suicide.]

Suicide is an event of human nature which, whatever may be said and
done with respect to it, demands the sympathy of every man, and in
every epoch must be discussed anew. Montesquieu grants his heroes and
great men the right of killing themselves as they think fit, since he
says that it must be free to every one to close the fifth act of his
tragedy as he pleases. But here the discourse is not of those persons
who have led an active and important life, who have sacrificed their
days for a great empire, or for the cause of freedom, and whom one
cannot blame if they think to follow in another world the idea which
inspires them, as soon as it has vanished from the earth. We have
here to do with those whose life is embittered by a want of action,
in the midst of the most peaceful circumstances in the world, through
exaggerated demands upon themselves. Since I myself was in this
predicament, and best knew the pain I suffered in it, and the exertion
it cost me to free myself, I will not conceal the reflections which I
made, with much deliberation, on the various kinds of death which one
might choose.

There is something so unnatural in a man tearing himself away from
himself, not only injuring, but destroying himself, that he mostly
seizes upon mechanical means to carry his design into execution. When
Ajax falls upon his sword, it is the weight of his body which does him
the last service. When the warrior binds his shield-bearer not to let
him fall into the hands of the enemy, it is still an external force
which he secures, only a moral instead of a physical one. Women seek
in water a cooling for their despair, and the extremely mechanical
means of fire-arms ensure a rapid act with the very least exertion.
Hanging, one does not like to mention, because it is an ignoble death.
In England one may first find it, because there, from youth upwards,
one sees so many hanged, without the punishment being precisely
dishonourable. By poison, by opening the veins, the only intention is
to depart slowly from life; and that most refined, rapid, and painless
death by an adder, was worthy of a queen, who had passed her life in
pleasure and brilliancy. But all these are external aids, enemies with
which man forms an alliance against himself.

When now I considered all these means, and looked about further in
history, I found among all those who killed themselves no one who did
this deed with such greatness and freedom of mind, as the Emperor
Otho. He, having the worst of it as a general, but being by no means
reduced to extremities, resolves to quit the world for the benefit of
the empire, which, in some measure, already belongs to him, and for
the sake of sparing so many thousands. He has a cheerful supper with
his friends, and the next morning it is found that he has plunged a
sharp dagger into his heart. This deed alone seemed to me worthy of
imitation; and I was convinced that whoever could not act in this
like Otho, had no right to go voluntarily out of the world. By these
convictions, I freed myself not so much from the danger as from the
whim of suicide, which in those splendid times of peace, and with
an indolent youth, had managed to creep in. Among a considerable
collection of weapons, I possessed a handsome, well polished dagger.
This I laid every night by my bed, and before I extinguished the
candle, I tried whether I could succeed in plunging the sharp point
a couple of inches deep into my heart. Since I never could succeed
in this, I at last laughed myself out of the notion, threw off all
hypochondriacal fancies, and resolved to live. But to be able to do
this with cheerfulness, I was obliged to solve a poetical problem, by
which all that I had felt, thought, and fancied upon this important
point, should be reduced to words. For this purpose I collected the
elements which had been at work in me for a few years; I rendered
present to my mind the cases which had most afflicted and tormented me;
but nothing would come to a definite form; I lacked an event, a fable,
in which they could be overlooked.

[Side-note: Jerusalem's Death.]

All at once I heard the news of Jerusalem's death, and immediately
after the general report, the most accurate and circumstantial
description of the occurrence, and at this moment the plan of _Werther_
was formed, and the whole shot together from all sides, and became a
solid mass, just as water in a vessel, which stands upon the point of
freezing, is concerted into hard ice by the most gentle shake. To hold
fast this singular prize, to render present to myself, and to carry out
in all its parts a work of such important and various contents was the
more material to me, as I had again fallen into a painful situation,
which left me even less hope than those which had preceded it, and
foreboded only sadness, if not vexation.

It is always a misfortune to step into new relations to which one has
not been inured; we are often against our will lured into a false
sympathy, the incompleteness[6] of such positions troubles us, and yet
we see no means either of completing them or of removing them.

Frau von Laroche had married her eldest daughter at Frankfort, and
often came to visit her, but could not reconcile herself to the
position which she herself had chosen. Instead of feeling comfortable,
or endeavouring to make any alteration, she indulged in lamentations,
so that one was really forced to think that her daughter was unhappy;
although, as she wanted nothing, and her husband denied her nothing,
one could not well see in what her unhappiness properly consisted. In
the meanwhile I was well received in the house, and came into contact
with the whole circle, which consisted of persons who had partly
contributed to the marriage, partly wished for it a happy result.
The Dean of St. Leonhard, Dumeitz, conceived a confidence, nay, a
friendship for me. He was the first Catholic clergyman with whom I had
come into close contact, and who, because he was a clear-sighted man,
gave me beautiful and sufficient explanations of the faith, usages, and
external and internal relations of the oldest church. The figure of a
well-formed though not young lady, named Servières, I still accurately
remember. I likewise came into contact with the Alossina-Schweizer,
and other families, forming a connexion with the sons, which long
continued in the most friendly manner, and all at once found myself
domesticated in a strange circle, in the occupations, pleasures, and
even religious exercises of winch I was induced, nay, compelled to
take part. My former relation to the young wife, which was, properly
speaking, only that of a brother to a sister, was continued after
marriage; my age was suitable to her own; I was the only one in the
whole circle in whom she heard an echo of those intellectual tones to
which she had been accustomed from her youth. We lived on together
in a childish confidence, and although there was nothing impassioned
in our intercourse, it was tormenting enough, because she also could
not reconcile herself to her new circumstances, and although blessed
with the goods of fortune, had to act as the mother of several
step-children, being moreover transplanted from the cheerful vale of
Ehrenbreitstein and a joyous state of youth into a gloomily-situated
mercantile house. Amid so many new family connexions was I hemmed in,
without any real participation or co-operation. If they were satisfied
with each other, all seemed to go on as a matter of course; but most
of the parties concerned turned to me in cases of vexation, which by
my lively sympathy I generally rendered worse rather than better. In
a short time this situation became quite insupportable to me; all
the disgust at life which usually springs from such half-connexions,
seemed to burden me with double and three-fold weight, and a new strong
resolution was necessary to free myself from it.

Jerusalem's death, which was occasioned by his unhappy attachment to
the wife of his friend, shook me out of the dream, and, because I
not only visibly contemplated that which had occurred to him and me,
but something similar which befel me at the moment, also stirred me
to passionate emotion, I could not do otherwise than breathe into
that production, which I had just undertaken, all that warmth which
leaves no distinction between the poetical and the actual. I had
completely isolated myself, nay, prohibited the visits of my friends,
and internally also I put everything aside that did not immediately
belong to the subject. On the other hand, I embraced everything that
had any relation to my design, and repeated to myself my nearest life,
of the contents of which I had as yet made no practical use. Under such
circumstances, after such long and so many preparations in secret,
I wrote _Werther_ in four weeks without any scheme of the whole, or
treatment of any part, being previously put on paper.

[Side-note: Werther.]

The manuscript, which was now finished, lay before me as a rough
draught, with few corrections and alterations. It was stitched at once,
for the binding is to a written work of about the same use as the
frame is to a picture; one can much better see whether there is really
anything in it. Since I had written thus much, almost unconsciously,
like a somnambulist, I was myself astonished, now I went through
it, that I might alter and improve it in some respects. But in the
expectation that after some time, when I had seen it at a certain
distance, much would occur to me that would turn to the advantage
of the work, I gave it to my younger friends to read, upon whom it
produced an effect so much the greater, as, contrary to my usual
custom, I had told no one of it, nor discovered my design beforehand.
Yet here again it was the subject-matter which really produced the
effect, and in this respect they were in a frame of mind precisely the
reverse of my own; for by this composition, more than by any other, I
had freed myself from that stormy element, upon which, through my own
fault and that of others, through a mode of life both accidental and
chosen, through design and thoughtless precipitation, through obstinacy
and pliability, I had been driven about in the most violent manner. I
felt, as if after a general confession, once more happy and free, and
justified in beginning a new life.

The old nostrum had been of excellent service to me on this occasion.
But while I felt myself eased and enlightened by having turned reality
into poetry, my friends were led astray by my work, for they thought
that poetry ought to be turned into reality, that such a moral was to
be imitated, and that at any rate one ought to shoot oneself. What had
first happened here among a few, afterwards took place among the larger
public, and this little book, which had been so beneficial to me, was
decried as extremely injurious.

But all the evils and misfortunes which it may have produced were
nearly prevented by an accident, since even after its production it ran
the risk of being destroyed. The matter stood thus:--Merck had lately
returned from Petersburg; I had spoken to him but little, because he
was always occupied, and only told him, in the most general terms, of
that _Werther_ which lay next my heart. He once called upon me, and as
he did not seem very talkative, I asked him to listen to me. He seated
himself on the sofa, and I began to read the tale, letter by letter.
After I had gone on thus for a while, without gaining from him any
sign of admiration, I adopted a more pathetic strain,--but what were
my feelings, when at a pause which I made, he struck me down in the
most frightful manner, with "Good! that's very pretty," and withdrew
without adding anything more. I was quite beside myself, for, as I took
great pleasure in my works, but at first passed no judgment on them, I
here firmly believed that I had made a mistake in subject, tone, and
style--all of which were doubtful--and had produced something quite
inadmissible. Had a fire been at hand, I should at once have thrown
in the work; but I again plucked up courage, and passed many painful
days, until he at last assured me in confidence, that at that moment he
had been in the most frightful situation in which a man can be placed.
On this account, he said, he had neither seen nor heard anything, and
did not even know what the manuscript was about. In the meanwhile
the matter had been set right, as far as was possible, and Merck,
in the times of his energy, was just the man to accommodate himself
to anything monstrous; his humour returned, only it had grown still
more bitter than before. He blamed my design of rewriting _Werther_,
with the same expressions which he had used on a former occasion, and
desired to see it printed just as it was. A fair copy was made, which
did not remain long in my hands, for on the very day on which my sister
was married to George Schlosser, a letter from Weygand, of Leipzig,
chanced to arrive, in which he asked me for a manuscript; such a
coincidence I looked upon as a favourable omen. I sent off _Werther_,
and was very well satisfied, when the remuneration I received for it
was not entirely swallowed up by the debts which I had been forced to
contract on account of _Götz von Berlichingen._

[Side-note: Effect of Werther.]

The effect of this little book was great, nay immense, and chiefly
because it exactly hit the temper of the times. For as it requires
but a little match to blow up an immense mine, so the explosion
which followed my publication was mighty, from the circumstance that
the youthful world had already undermined itself; and the shock was
great, because all extravagant demands, unsatisfied passions, and
imaginary wrongs, were suddenly brought to an eruption. It cannot be
expected of the public that it should receive an intellectual work
intellectually. In fact, it was only the subject, the material part,
that was considered, as I had already found to be the case among my own
friends; while at the same time arose that old prejudice, associated
with the dignity of a printed book,--that it ought to have a moral aim.
But a true picture of life has none. It neither approves nor censures,
but developes sentiments and actions in their consequences, and thereby
enlightens and instructs.

Of the reviews I took little notice. I had completely washed my hands
of the matter, and the good folks might now try what they could make
of it. Yet my friends did not fail to collect these things, and as
they were already initiated into my views, to make merry with them.
The _Joys of Young Werther_, with which Nicolai came forth, gave us
occasion for many a jest. This otherwise excellent, meritorious,
and well-informed man, had already begun to depreciate and oppose
everything that did not accord with his own way of thinking, which,
as he was of a very narrow mind, he held to be the only correct way.
Against me, too, he must needs try his strength, and his pamphlet was
soon in our hands. The very delicate vignette, by Chodowiecki, gave
me much delight; as at that time I admired this artist extravagantly.
The jumbling medley itself was cut out of that rough household stuff,
which the human understanding, in its homely limits, takes especial
pains to make sufficiently coarse. Without perceiving that there was
nothing here to qualify, that Werther's youthful bloom, from the very
first, appears gnawed by the deadly worm, Nicolai allows my treatment
to pass current up to the two hundred and fourteenth page, and then,
when the desolate mortal is preparing for the fatal step, the acute
psychological physician contrives to palm upon his patient a pistol,
loaded with chickens' blood, from which a filthy spectacle, but happily
no mischief, arises. Charlotte becomes the wife of Werther, and the
whole affair ends to the satisfaction of everybody.

So much I can recall to memory, for the book never came before my
eyes again. I had cut out the vignette, and placed it among my most
favourite engravings. I then, by way of quiet, innocent revenge,
composed a little burlesque poem, "Nicolai at the grave of Werther:"
which, however, cannot be communicated. On this occasion, too, the
pleasure of giving everything a dramatic shape, was again predominant.
I wrote a prose dialogue between Charlotte and Werther, which was
tolerably comical; Werther bitterly complains that his deliverance
by chickens' blood has turned out so badly. His life is saved, it is
true, but he has shot his eyes out. He is now in despair at being
her husband, without being able to see her; for the complete view of
her person would to him be much dearer than all those pretty details
of which he could assure himself by the touch. Charlotte, as may be
imagined, has no great catch in a blind husband, and thus occasion is
given to abuse Nicolai pretty roundly, for interfering unasked in other
people's affairs. The whole was written in a good-natured spirit, and
painted, with prophetic forebodings, that unhappy, conceited humour
of Nicolai's, which led him to meddle with things beyond his compass,
which gave great annoyance both to himself and others, and by which,
eventually, in spite of his undoubted merits, he entirely destroyed
his literary reputation. The original of this _jeu d'esprit_ was
never copied, and has been lost sight of for years. I had a special
predilection for the little production. The pure ardent attachment
of the two young persons, was rather heightened than diminished by
the comico-tragic situation into which they were thus transposed. The
greatest tenderness prevailed throughout; and even my adversary was not
treated illnaturedly, but only humourously. I did not, however, let the
book itself speak quite so politely; in imitation of an old rhyme it
expressed itself thus:--

    "By that conceited man--by _him_
     I'm dangerous declar'd,
     The heavy man, who cannot swim,
     Is by the water scar'd,
     That Berlin pack, priest-ridden lot--
     Their ban I do not heed,
     And those who understand me not
     Should better learn to read."

[Side-note: Effect of Werther.]

Being prepared for all that might be alleged against _Werther_, I
found those attacks, numerous as they were, by no means annoying; but
I had no anticipation of the intolerable torment provided for me by
sympathizers and well-wishers. These, instead of saying anything civil
to me about my book just as it was, wished to know, one and all, what
was really true in it; at which I grew very angry, and often expressed
myself with great discourtesy. To answer this question, I should have
been obliged to pull to pieces and destroy the form of a work on which
I had so long pondered, with the view of giving a poetical unity to its
many elements; and in this operation, if the essential parts were not
destroyed, they would, at least, have been scattered and dispersed.
However, upon a closer consideration of the matter, I could not take
the public inquisitiveness in ill part. Jerusalem's fate had excited
great attention. An educated, amiable, blameless young man, the son of
one of the first theologians and authors, healthy and opulent, had at
once, without any known cause, destroyed himself. Every one asked how
this was possible, and when they heard of an unfortunate love affair,
the whole youth were excited, and as soon as it transpired that some
little annoyances had occurred to him in the higher circles, the middle
classes also became excited; indeed every one was anxious to learn
further particulars. Now _Werther_ appeared an exact delineation, as it
was thought, of the life and character of that young man. The locality
and person tallied, and the narrative was so very natural, that they
considered themselves fully informed and satisfied. But, on the other
hand, on closer examination, there was so much that did not fit, that
there arose, for those who sought the truth, an unmanageable business,
because a critical investigation must necessarily produce a hundred
doubts. The real groundwork of the affair was, however, not to be
fathomed, for all that I had interwoven of my own life and suffering
could not be deciphered, because, as an unobserved young man, I had
secretly, though not silently, pursued my course.

While engaged in my work, I was fully aware how highly that artist was
favoured who had an opportunity of composing a Venus from the study of
a variety of beauties. Accordingly I took leave to model my Charlotte
according to the shape and qualities of several pretty girls, although
the chief characteristics were taken from the one I loved best. The
inquisitive public could therefore discover similarities in various
ladies; and even to the ladies themselves it was not quite indifferent
to be taken for the right one. But these several Charlottes caused
me infinite trouble, because every one who only looked at me seemed
determined to know where the proper one really resided. I endeavoured
to save myself, like Nathan[7] with the three rings, by an expedient,
which, though it might suit higher beings, would not satisfy either the
believing or the reading public. I hoped after a time to be freed from
such tormenting inquiries, but they pursued me through my whole life.
I sought, on my travels, to escape them, by assuming an _incognito_,
but even this remedy was, to my disappointment, unavailing, and thus
the author of the little work, had he even done anything wrong and
mischievous, was sufficiently, I may say disproportionately, punished
by such unavoidable importunities.

Subjected to this kind of infliction, I was taught but too
unequivocally, that authors and their public are separated by an
immense gulf, of which, happily, neither of them have any conception.
The uselessness, therefore, of all prefaces I had long ago seen; for
the more pains a writer takes to render his views clear, the more
occasion he gives for embarrassment. Besides, an author may preface as
elaborately as he will, the public will always go on making precisely
those demands which he has endeavoured to avoid. With a kindred
peculiarity of readers, which (particularly with those who print their
judgments) seems remarkably comical, I was likewise soon acquainted.
They live, for instance, in the delusion that an author, in producing
anything, becomes their debtor; and he always falls short of what they
wished and expected of him, although before they had seen our work,
they had not the least notion that anything of the kind existed, or
was even possible. Independent of all this, it was now the greatest
fortune, or misfortune, that every one wished to make the acquaintance
of this strange young author, who had stepped forward so unexpectedly
and so boldly. They desired to see him, to speak to him, and, even
at a distance, to hear something from him; thus he had to undergo a
very considerable crowd, sometimes pleasant, sometimes disagreeable,
but always distracting. For enough works already begun lay before him,
nay, and would have given him abundance of work for some years, if he
could have kept to them with his old fervour; but he was drawn forth
from the quiet, the twilight, the obscurity, which alone can favour
pure creation, into the noise of daylight, where one is lost in others,
where one is led astray, alike by sympathy and by coldness, by praise
and by blame, because outward contact never accords with the epoch
of our inner culture, and therefore, as it cannot further us, must
necessarily injure us.

[Side-note: Dramatic Tendency.]

Yet more than by all the distractions of the day, the author was kept
from the elaboration and completion of greater works by the taste then
prevalent in this society for _dramatizing_ everything of importance
which occurred in actual life. What that technical expression (for
such it was in our inventive society) really meant, shall here be
explained. Excited by intellectual meetings on days of hilarity, we
were accustomed, in short extemporary performances, to communicate, in
fragments, all the materials we had collected towards the formation of
larger compositions. One single simple incident, a pleasantly _naïve_
or even silly word, a blunder, a paradox, a clever remark, personal
singularities or habits, nay, a peculiar expression, and whatever else
would occur in a gay and bustling life--took the form of a dialogue, a
catechism, a passing scene, or a drama,--often in prose, but oftener in
verse.

By this practice, carried on with genial passion, the really poetic
mode of thought was established. We allowed objects, events, persons,
to stand for themselves in all their bearings, our only endeavour
being to comprehend them clearly, and exhibit them vividly. Every
expression of approbation or disapprobation was to pass in living forms
before the eyes of the spectator. These productions might be called
animated epigrams, which, though without edges or points, were richly
furnished with marked and striking features. The _Jahrmarktsfest_
(Fair-festival) is an epigram of this kind, or rather a collection of
such epigrams. All the characters there introduced are meant for actual
living members of that society, or for persons at least connected and
in some degree known to it; but the meaning of the riddle remained
concealed to the greater part; all laughed and few knew that their own
marked peculiarities served as the jest. The prologue to _Bahrdt's
Newest Revelations_ may be looked upon as a document of another kind;
the smallest pieces are among the miscellaneous poems, a great many
have been destroyed or lost, and some that still exist do not admit
of being published. Those which appeared in print only increased the
excitement of the public, and curiosity about the author; those which
were handed about in manuscript entertained the immediate circle,
which was continually increasing. Doctor Bahrdt, then at Giessen, paid
me a visit, apparently courteous and confiding; he laughed over the
prologue, and wished to be placed on a friendly footing. But we young
people still continued to omit no opportunity at social festivals,
of sporting, in a malicious vein, at the peculiarities which we had
remarked in others, and successfully exhibited.

If now it was by no means displeasing to the young author to be stared
at as a literary meteor, he nevertheless sought, with glad modesty,
to testify his esteem for the most deserving men of his country,
among whom, before all others, the admirable Justus Möser claims
especial mention. The little essays on political subjects by this
incomparable man, had been printed some years before in the _Osnabrück
Intelligenzblätter_, and made known to me through Herder, who
overlooked nothing of worth that appeared in his time, especially if
in print. Moser's daughter, Frau von Voigt, was occupied in collecting
these scattered papers. We had scarcely patience to wait for their
publication, and I placed myself in communication with her, to assure
her, with sincere interest, that the essays, which, both in matter and
form, had been addressed only to a limited circle, would be useful and
beneficial everywhere. She and her father received these assurances
from a stranger, not altogether unknown, in the kindest manner, since
an anxiety which they had felt, was thus preliminarily removed.

What is in the highest degree remarkable and commendable in these
little essays, all of which being composed in one spirit, form together
a perfect whole, is the very intimate knowledge they display of the
whole civil state of man. We see a system resting upon the past,
and still in vigorous existence. On the one hand there is a firm
adherence to tradition, on the other, movement and change which cannot
be prevented. Here alarm is felt at a useful novelty, there pleasure
in what is new, although it be useless, or even injurious. With what
freedom from prejudice the author explains the relative position
of different ranks, and the connexion in which cities, towns, and
villages mutually stand! We learn their prerogatives, together with
the legal grounds of them; we are told where the main capital of the
state is invested, and what interest it yields. We see property and its
advantages on the one hand, on the other, taxes and disadvantages of
various kinds; and then the numerous branches of industry; and in all
this past and present times are contrasted.

Osnaburg, as a member of the Hanseatic League, we are told, had in the
earlier periods an extensive and active commerce. According to the
circumstances of those times, it had a remarkable and fine situation;
it could receive the produce of the country, and was not too far
removed from the sea to transport it in its own ships. But now, in
later times, it lies deep in the interior, and is gradually removed and
shut out from the sea trade. How this has occurred, is explained in all
its bearings. The conflict between England and the coasts, and of the
havens with the interior, is mentioned; here are set forth the great
advantages of those who live on the sea-side, and deliberate plans are
proposed for enabling the inhabitants of the interior to obtain similar
advantages. We then learn a great deal about trades and handicrafts,
and how these have been outstripped by manufactures, and undermined by
shop-keeping; decline is pointed out as the result of various causes,
and this result, in its turn, as the cause of a further decline, in an
endless circle, which it is difficult to unravel; yet it is so clearly
set forth by the vigilant citizen, that one fancies one can see the way
to escape from it. The author throughout displays the clearest insight
into the most minute circumstances. His proposals, his counsel--nothing
is drawn from the air, and yet they are often impracticable; on
which account he calls his collection "patriotic fancies," although
everything in it is based on the actual and the possible.

[Side-note: Justus Moeser.]

But as everything in public life is influenced by domestic condition,
this especially engages his attention. As objects both of his serious
and sportive reflections, we find the changes in manners and customs,
dress, diet, domestic life, and education. It would be necessary to
indicate everything which exists in the civil and social world, to
exhaust the list of subjects which he discusses. And his treatment
of them is admirable. A thorough man of business discourses with the
people in weekly papers, respecting whatever a wise and beneficent
government undertakes or carries out, that he may bring it to
their comprehension in its true light. This is by no means done in
a learned manner, but in those varied forms which may be called
poetic, and which, in the best sense of the word, must certainly be
considered rhetorical. He is always elevated above his subject, and
understands how to give a cheerful view of the most serious subjects;
now half-concealed behind this or that mask, now speaking in his own
person, always complete and exhausting his subject,--at the same
time always in good humour; more or less ironical, thoroughly to the
purpose, honest, well-meaning, sometimes rough and vehement;--and all
this so well regulated, that the spirit, understanding, facility,
skill, taste, and character of the author cannot but be admired. In the
choice of subjects of general utility, deep insight, enlarged views,
happy treatment, profound yet cheerful humour, I know no one to whom I
can compare him but Franklin.

Such a man had an imposing effect upon us, and greatly influenced a
youthful generation, which demanded something sound, and stood ready
to appreciate it. We thought we could adapt ourselves to the form of
his exposition; but who could hope to make himself master of so rich
an entertainment, and to handle the most unmanageable subjects with so
much ease?

But this is our purest and sweetest illusion--one which we cannot
resign, however much pain it may cause us through life--that we would,
where possible, appropriate to ourselves, nay, even reproduce and
exhibit as our own, that which we prize and honour in others.


END OF THE THIRTEENTH BOOK


[1] The post, managed by the princes of Thurn and Taxis, in different
parts of Germany. An ancestor of this house first directed the post
system in Tyrol, in 1450, and Alexander Ferdinand von Thurn received,
in 1744, the office of Imperial Postmaster-General, as a fief of the
empire.--_Trans._

[2] "Die lustige person." That is to say, the permanent buffoon, like
"Kasperle" in the German puppet-shows, or "Sganarelle" in Moliere's
broad comedies.--_Trans._

[3] The peasant war, answering to the _Jaquerie_ in France.--_Trans._

[4] _Anglicé_: Make hay when the sun shines.--_Trans._

[5] It is a German peculiarity to apply the word "Schwager"
(brother-in-law) to a position.--_Trans._

[6] "Halbheit," "Halfness"--if there were such a word--would be the
proper expression.--_Trans._

[7] "Nathan the wise," in Lessing's play, founded on Boccacio's tale of
the rings.--_Trans._



FOURTEENTH BOOK.


With the movement which was spreading among the public, now arose
another of greater importance perhaps to the author, as it took place
in his immediate circle.

His early friends who had read, in manuscript, those poetical
compositions which were now creating so much sensation, and therefore
regarded them almost as their own, gloried in a success which they had
boldly enough predicted. This number was augmented by new adherents,
especially by such as felt conscious of a creative power in themselves,
or were desirous of calling one forth and cultivating it.

Among the former, Lenz was the most active and he deported himself
strangely enough. I have already sketched the outward appearance of
this remarkable mortal, and have touched affectionately on his talent
for humor. I will now speak of his character, in its results rather
than descriptively, because it would be impossible to follow him
through the mazy course of his life, and to transfer to these pages a
full exhibition of his peculiarities.

Generally known is that self-torture which in the lack of all outward
grievances, had now become fashionable, and which disturbed the very
best minds. That which gives but a transient pain to ordinary men
who never themselves meditate on that which they seek to banish from
their minds, was, by the better order, acutely observed, regarded,
and recorded in books, letters, and diaries. But now men united
the strictest moral requisitions on themselves and others with an
excessive negligence in action; and vague notions arising from
this half-self-knowledge misled them into the strangest habits and
out-of-the-way practices. But this painful work of self-contemplation
was justified by the rising empirical psychology which, while it was
not exactly willing to pronounce everything that produces inward
disquiet to be wicked and objectionable, still could not give it
an unconditional approval, and thus was originated an eternal and
inappeasable contest. In carrying on, and sustaining this conflict,
Lenz surpassed all the other idlers and dabblers who were occupied in
mining into their own souls, and thus he suffered from the universal
tendency of the times, which was said to have been let loose by
Werther; but a personal peculiarity distinguished him from all the
rest. While they were undeniably frank and honest creatures, he had
a decided inclination to intrigue, and, indeed, to intrigue for its
own sake, without having in view any special object, any reasonable,
attainable, personal object. On the contrary, it was always his custom
to propose to himself something whimsical, which served, for that very
reason, to keep him constantly occupied. In this way all his life long
he was an imposter in his imagination; his love, as well as his hate,
was imaginary; he dealt with his thoughts and feelings in a wilful
manner, so as always to have something to do. He endeavoured to give
reality to his sympathies and antipathies by the most perverse means,
and always himself destroyed his own work. Thus he never benefited any
one whom he loved, and never injured any one whom he hated. In general
he seemed to sin only to punish himself, and to intrigue for no purpose
but to graft a new fable upon an old one.

His talent, in which tenderness, facility, and subtlety rivalled each
other, proceeded from a real depth, from an inexhaustible creative
power, but was thoroughly morbid with all its beauty. Such qualities
are precisely the most difficult to judge. It is impossible to overlook
great features in his works--a lovely tenderness steals along through
pieces of caricature so odd and so silly that they can hardly be
pardoned, even in a humor so thorough and unassuming, and such a
genuine comic talent. His days were made up of mere nothings, to which
his nimble fancy could ever give a meaning, and he was the better able
to squander hours away, since, with a happy memory, the time which he
did employ in reading, was always fruitful, and enriched his original
mode of thought with various materials.

[Side-note: Lenz.]

He had been sent to Strasburg with some Livonian gentlemen, and a more
unfortunate choice of a Mentor could not have been made. The elder
baron went back for a time to his native country, and left behind him a
lady to whom he was tenderly attached. In order to keep at a distance
the second brother, who was paying court to the same lady, as well as
other lovers, and to preserve the precious heart for his absent friend,
Lenz determined either to feign that he had fallen in love with the
beauty, or if you please, actually to do so. He carried through this
plan with the most obstinate adherence to the ideal he had formed of
her, without being aware that he, as well as the others, only served
her for jest and pastime. So much the better for him! For him, too,
it was nothing but a game which could only be kept up by her meeting
him in the same spirit, now attracting him, now repelling him, now
encouraging him, and now slighting him. We may be sure that if he had
become aware of the way the affair sometimes went on, he would, with
great delight, have congratulated himself on the discovery.

As for the rest he, like his pupils, lived mostly with officers of the
garrison, and thus the strange notions he afterwards brought out in
his comedy _Die Soldaten_ (The Soldiers) probably originated. At any
rate, this early acquaintance with military men had on him the peculiar
effect, that he forthwith fancied himself a great judge of military
matters. And yet from time to time he really studied the subject in
detail with such effect, that some years afterward he prepared a long
memorial to the French Minister of War, from which he promised himself
the best results. The faults of the department were tolerably well
pointed out, but on the other hand, the remedies were ridiculous and
impracticable. However, he cherished a conviction that he should by
this means gain great influence at court, and was anything but grateful
to those of his friends who, partly by reasoning, and partly by active
opposition, compelled him to suppress, and afterwards to bum, this
fantastic work, after it had been fair-copied, put under cover with a
letter, and formally addressed.

First of all by word of mouth, and afterwards by letter, he had
confided to me all the mazes of his tortuous movements with regard to
the lady above mentioned. The poetry which he could infuse into the
commonest incidents often astonished me, so that I urged him to employ
his talents in turning the essence of this long-winded adventure to
account, and to make a little romance out of it. But that was not in
his line; he could only succeed when he poured himself out for ever
upon details, and span an endless thread without any purpose. Perhaps
it will be possible at a future time, to deduce from these premises
some account of his life up to tho time that he became a lunatic. At
present I confine myself to what is immediately connected with the
subject in hand.

Hardly had Götz von Berlichingen appeared when Lenz sent me a prolix
essay written on small draught paper, such as he commonly used, without
leaving the least margin, either at the top, the bottom, or the sides.
It was entitled, _Ueber unsere Ehe_, (On our Marriage,) and were it
still in existence, might enlighten us much more now than it then did
me, when I was as yet in the dark as to him and his character. The
leading purpose of this long manuscript was to compare my talent with
his own: now he seemed to make himself inferior to me, now to represent
himself as my equal; but it was all done with such humorous and neat
turns of expression that I gladly received the view he intended to
convey, and all the more so as I did, in fact, rate very high the
gifts he possessed, and was always urging him to concentrate himself
out of his aimless rambling, and to use his natural capacities with
some artistical control. I replied in the most friendly way to this
confidential communication, and as he had encouraged the greatest
intimacy between us, (as the whimsical title indicates,) from that
time forward I made known to him everything I had either finished or
designed. In return he successively sent me his manuscripts: _Der
Hofmeister_, (Private Tutor.) _Der neue Menoza_, (The New Menoza,)
_Die Soldaten_, (The Soldiers,) the imitations of Plautus, and the
translation from the English which I have before spoken of as forming
the supplement to his remarks on the theatre.

While reading the latter, I was somewhat struck to find him in a
laconic preface speaking in such a way as to convey the idea that this
essay, which contained a vehement attack upon the regular theatre, had,
many years before, been read to a society of the friends of literature
at a time, in short, when Götz was not yet written. That there should
have been among Lenz's acquaintances at Strasburg a literary circle of
which I was ignorant seemed somewhat problematical; however I let it
pass, and soon procured publishers for this and his other writings,
without having the least suspicion that he had selected me as the chief
object of his fanciful hatred, and as the mark of an odd and whimsical
persecution.

In passing, I will, for the sake of the sequel, just mention a good
fellow, who, though of no extraordinary gifts, was yet one of our
number. He was called Wagner, and was first a member of our Strasburg
society and then of that at Frankfort--a man not without spirit,
talent, and education. He appeared to be a striving sort of person,
and was therefore welcome. He, too, attached himself to me, and as
I made no secret of my plans, I shewed to him as well as others my
sketch of the Faust, especially the catastrophe of Gretchen. He caught
up the idea and used it for a tragedy, _Die Kindesmörderin_, (The
Infanticide.) It was the first time that any one had stolen from me
any of my plans. It vexed me, though I bore him no ill will on that
account. Since then I have often enough suffered such robberies and
anticipations of my thoughts, and with my dilatoriness and habit
of gossipping about the many things that I was ever planning and
imagining, I had no right to complain.

[Side-note: Klinger.]

If on account of the great effect which contrasts produce, orators
and poets gladly make use of them even at the expense of seeking them
out and bringing them from a distance, it must be the more agreeable
to the present writer that such a decided contrast presents itself,
in his speaking of Klinger after Lenz. They were contemporaries, and
in youth labored together. But Lenz, as a transient meteor, passed
but for a moment over the horizon of German literature, and suddenly
vanished without leaving any trace behind. Klinger, on the other hand,
has maintained his position up to the present time as an author of
influence, and an active man of business. Of him I will now speak, as
far as it is necessary, without following any farther a comparison,
which suggests itself; for it has not been in secret that he has
accomplished so much and exercised so great an influence, but both his
works and his influence are still remembered, far and near, and are
highly esteemed and appreciated.

Klinger's exterior, for I always like best to begin with this, was very
prepossessing. Nature had given him a tall, slender, well-built form,
and regular features. He was careful of his appearance, always dressed
neatly, and might justly have passed for the smartest member of our
little society. His manners were neither forward nor repulsive, and
when not agitated by an inward storm, mild and gentle.

In girls, we love what they are, but in young men what they promise to
be, and thus I was Klinger's friend as soon as I made his acquaintance.
He recommended himself by a pure good nature, and an unmistakeable
decision of character won him confidence. From youth upward, everything
had tended to incline him to seriousness. Together with a beautiful and
excellent sister, he had to provide for a mother, who in her widowhood
had need of such children for her support. He had made himself
everything that he was, so that no one could find fault with a trait of
proud independence which was apparent in his bearing. Strong natural
talents, such as are common to all well-endowed men, a facile power
of apprehension, an excellent memory, and great fluency of speech, he
possessed in a high degree; but he appeared to regard all these as
of less value than the firmness and perseverance which were likewise
innate with him, and which circumstances had abundantly strengthened.

To a young man of such a character, the works of Rousseau were
especially attractive. _Emile_ was his chief text-book, and its
sentiments, as they had an universal influence over the cultivated
world, were peculiarly fruitful with him, and influenced him more
than others. For he too was a child of nature,--he too had worked
his way upwards. What others had been compelled to cast away, he had
never possessed; relations of society from which they would have
to emancipate themselves, had never fettered him. Thus might he be
regarded as one of the purest disciples of that gospel of nature, and
in view of his own persevering efforts and his conduct as a man and
son, he might well exclaim, "All is good as it comes from the hands
of nature!" But the conclusion, "All is corrupted in the hands of
man!" was also forced upon him by adverse experience. It was not with
himself that he had to struggle, but beyond and out of himself with the
conventional world, from whose fetters the Citizen of Geneva designed
to set us free. And as from the circumstances of his youth the struggle
he had to undergo had often been difficult and painful, he had been
driven back upon himself too violently to attain a thoroughly serene
and joyous development. On the contrary, as he had had to force his way
against an opposing world, a trait of bitterness had crept into his
character, which he afterwards in some degree fed and cherished, but
for the most part strove against and conquered.

[Side-note: Klinger.]

His works, as far as I am able to recall them, bespeak a strong
understanding, an upright mind, an active imagination, a ready
perception of the varieties of human nature, and a characteristic
imitation of generic differences. His girls and boys are open and
amiable, his youths ardent, his men plain and intelligent, the
personages whom he paints in an unfavorable light are not overdrawn;
he is not wanting in cheerfulness and good humour, in wit and happy
notions; allegories and symbols are at his command; he can entertain
and please us, and the enjoyment would be still purer if he did not
here and there mar both for himself and us, his gay, pointed jesting by
a touch of bitterness. Yet this it is which makes him what he is. The
modes of living and of writing become as varied as they are, from the
fact that every one wavers theoretically between knowledge and error,
and practically between creation and destruction.

Klinger should be classed with those who have formed themselves for the
world, out of themselves, out of their own souls and understandings.
Because this takes place in and among a greater mass, and because
among themselves they use with power and effect, an intelligible
language flowing out of universal nature and popular peculiarities,
such men always cherish a warm hostility to all forms of the schools,
especially if these forms, separated from their living origin, have
degenerated into phrases, and have thus lost altogether their first,
fresh significance. Such men almost invariably declare war against new
opinions, views, and systems, as well as against new events and rising
men of importance who announce or produce great changes. They are
however not so much to blame on this account; their opposition is not
unnatural when they see all that which they are indebted to for their
own existence and culture menaced with ruin and in great danger.

In an energetic character this adherence to its own views becomes the
more worthy of respect when it has been maintained throughout a life
in the world and in business, and when a mode of dealing with current
events, which to many might seem rough and arbitrary, being employed at
the right time, has led surely to the desired end. This was the case
with Klinger; without pliability (which was never the virtue of the
born citizen of the empire,[1]) he had nevertheless risen, steadily,
and honorably, to posts of great importance, had managed to maintain
his position, and as he advanced in the approbation and favor of his
highest patrons, never forgot his old friends, or the path he had
left behind. Indeed, through all degrees of absence and separation,
he laboured pertinaciously to preserve the most complete constancy
of remembrance, and it certainly deserves to be remarked that in his
coat of arms though adorned by the badges of several orders, he, like
another Willigis, did not disdain to perpetuate the tokens of his early
life.

[Side-note: Lavater.]

It was not long before I formed a connection with Lavater. Passages
of my "Letter of a Pastor to his Colleagues" had greatly struck
him, for much of it agreed perfectly with his own views. With his
never-tiring activity our correspondence soon became lively. At the
time it commenced he was making preparations for his larger work on
Physiognomy,--the introduction to which had already been laid before
the public. He called on all the world to send him drawings and
outlines, and especially representations of Christ; and, although I
could do as good as nothing in this way, he nevertheless insisted on
my sending him a sketch of the Saviour such as I imagined him to look.
Such demands for the impossible gave occasion for jests of many kinds,
for I had no other way of defending myself against his peculiarities
but by bringing forward my own.

The number of those who had no faith in Physiognomy, or, at least,
regarded it as uncertain and deceptive was very great; and several who
had a liking for Lavater felt a desire to try him, and, if possible,
to play him a trick. He had ordered of a painter in Frankfort, who
was not without talent, the profiles of several well known persons.
Lavater's agent ventured upon the jest of sending Bahrdt's portrait
as mine, which soon brought back a merry but thundering epistle, full
of all kinds of expletives and asseverations that this was not my
picture,--together with everything that on such an occasion Lavater
would naturally have to say in confirmation of the doctrine of
Physiognomy. My true likeness, which was sent afterwards, he allowed to
pass more readily, but even here the opposition into which he fell both
with painters and with individuals showed itself at once. The former
could never work for him faithfully and sufficiently; the latter,
whatever excellences they might have, came always too far short of the
idea which he entertained of humanity and of men to prevent his being
somewhat repelled by the special characteristics which constitute the
personality of the individual.

The conception of Humanity which had been formed in himself and in his
own humanity, was so completely akin to the living image of Christ
which he cherished within him, that it was impossible for him to
understand how a man could live and breathe without at the same time
being a Christian. My own relation to the Christian religion lay merely
in my sense and feeling, and I had not the slightest notion of that
physical affinity to which Lavater inclined. I was, therefore, vexed by
the importunity, with which a man so full of mind and heart, attacked
me, as well as Mendelssohn and others, maintaining that every one must
either become a Christian with him, a Christian of his sort, or else
that one must bring him over to one's own way of thinking, and convince
him of precisely that in which one had found peace. This demand, so
directly opposed to that liberal spirit of the world, to which I was
more and more tending, did not have the best effect upon me. All
unsuccessful attempts at conversion leave him who has been selected for
a proselyte stubborn and obdurate, and this was especially the case
with me when Lavater at last came out with the hard dilemma--"Either
Christian or Atheist!" Upon this I declared that if he would not leave
me my own Christianity as I had hitherto cherished it, I could readily
decide for Atheism, particularly as I saw that nobody knew precisely
what either meant.

This correspondence, vehement as it was, did not disturb the good
terms we were on. Lavater had an incredible patience, pertinacity, and
endurance; he was confident in his theory, and, with his determined
plan to propagate his convictions in the world, he was willing by
waiting and mildness to effect what he could not accomplish by force.
In short, he belonged to the few fortunate men whose outward vocation
perfectly harmonizes with the inner one, and whose earliest culture
coinciding in all points with their subsequent pursuits, gives a
natural development to their faculties. Born with the most delicate
moral susceptibilities, he had chosen for himself the clerical
profession. He received the necessary instruction, and displayed
various talents, but without inclining to that degree of culture
which is called learned. He also, though born so long before, had,
like ourselves, been caught by the spirit of Freedom and Nature which
belonged to the time, and which whispered flatteringly in every ear,
"You have materials and solid power enough within yourself, without
much outward aid; all depends upon your developing them properly." The
obligation of a clergyman to work upon men morally, in the ordinary
sense, and religiously in the higher sense, fully coincided with his
mental tendencies. His marked impulse, even as a youth, was to impart
to others, and to excite in them, his own just and pious sentiments,
and his favorite occupation was the observation of himself and of
his fellow-men. The former was facilitated, if not forced upon him,
by an internal sensitiveness; the latter by a keen glance, which
could quickly read the outward expression. Still, he was not born for
contemplation; properly speaking, the gift of conveying his ideas
to others was not his. He felt himself rather, with all his powers,
impelled to activity, to action; and I have never known any one who
was more unceasingly active than Lavater. But because our inward
moral nature is incorporated in outward conditions, whether we belong
to a family, a class, a guild, a city, or a state, he was obliged,
in his desire to influence others, to come into contact with all
these external things, and to set them in motion. Hence arose many
a collision, many an entanglement, especially as the commonwealth
of which he was by birth a member enjoyed, under the most precise
and accurately-defined limits, an admirable hereditary freedom. The
republican from his boyhood is accustomed himself to think and to
converse on public affairs. In the first bloom of his life the youth
sees the period approaching when, as a member of a free corporation, he
will have a vote to give or to withhold. If he wishes to form a just
and independent judgment, he must, before all things, convince himself
of the worth of his fellow citizens; he must learn to know them; he
must inquire into their sentiments and their capacities; and thus, in
aiming to read others, he becomes intimate with his own bosom.

[Side-note: Lavater.]

Under such circumstances Lavater was early trained, and this business
of life seems to have occupied him more than the study of languages and
the analytic criticism, which is not only allied to that study, but is
its foundation as well as its aim. In later years, when his attainments
and his views had reached a boundless comprehensiveness, he frequently
said, both in jest and in seriousness, that he was not a learned man.
It is precisely to this want of deep and solid learning, that we must
ascribe the fact that he adhered to the letter of the Bible, and even
to the translation, and found in it nourishment, and assistance enough
for all that he sought and designed.

Very soon, however, this circle of action in a corporation or guild,
with its slow movement, became too narrow for the quick nature of
its occupant. For a youth to be upright is not difficult, and a pure
conscience revolts at the wrong of which it is still innocent. The
oppressions of a bailiff (_Landvogt_) lay plain before the eyes of the
citizens, but it was by no means easy to bring them to justice. Lavater
having associated a friend with himself, anonymously threatened the
guilty bailiff. The matter became notorious, and an investigation was
rendered necessary. The criminal was punished, but the prompters of
this act of justice were blamed if not abused. In a well ordered state
even the right must not be brought about in a wrong way.

On a tour which Lavater now made through Germany, he came into contact
with educated and right-thinking men; but that served only to confirm
his previous thoughts and convictions, and on his return home he worked
from his own resources with greater freedom than ever. A noble and good
man, he was conscious within himself of a lofty conception of humanity,
and whatever in experience contradicts such a conception,--all
the undeniable defects which remove every one from perfection, he
reconciled by his idea of the Divinity which in the midst of ages came
down into human nature in order completely to restore its earlier image.

So much by way of preface on the tendencies of this eminent man; and
now before all things, for a bright picture of our meeting and personal
intercourse. Our correspondence had not long been carried on, when he
announced to me and to others, that in a voyage up the Rhine which he
was about to undertake, he would soon visit Frankfort. Immediately
there arose a great excitement in our world; all were curious to see
so remarkable a person; many hoped to profit by him in the way of
moral and religious culture; the sceptics prepared to distinguish
themselves by grave objections; the conceited felt sure of entangling
and confounding him by arguments in which they had strengthened
themselves,--in short, there was everything, there was all the favor
and disfavor, which awaits a distinguished man who intends to meddle
with this motley world.

Our first meeting was hearty; we embraced each other in the most
friendly way, and I found him just like what I had seen in many
portraits of him. I saw living and active before me, an individual
quite unique, and distinguished in a way that no one had seen before or
will see again. Lavater, on the contrary, at the first moment, betrayed
by some peculiar exclamations, that I was not what he had expected.
Hereupon, I assured him, with the realism which had been born in me,
and which I had cultivated, that as it had pleased God and nature
to make me in that fashion we must rest content with it. The most
important of the points on which in our letters we had been far from
agreeing, became at once subjects of conversation, but we had not time
to discuss them thoroughly, and something occurred to me that I had
never before experienced.

The rest of us whenever we wish to speak of affairs of the soul and
of the heart, were wont to withdraw from the crowd, and even from all
society, because in the many modes of thinking, and the different
degrees of culture among men, it is difficult to be on an understanding
even with a few. But Lavater was of a wholly different turn; he liked
to extend his influence as far as possible, and was not at ease except
in a crowd, for the instruction and entertainment of which he possessed
an especial talent, based on his great skill in physiognomy. He had
a wonderful facility of discriminating persons and minds, by which
he quickly understood the mental state of all around him. Whenever
therefore this judgment of men was met by a sincere confession, a
true-hearted inquiry, he was able, from the abundance of his internal
and external experience, to satisfy every one with an appropriate
answer. The deep tenderness of his look, the marked sweetness of his
lips, and even the honest Swiss dialect which was heard through his
High German, with many other things that distinguished him, immediately
placed all whom he addressed quite at their ease. Even the slight stoop
in his carriage, together with his rather hollow chest, contributed not
a little to balance in the eyes of the remainder of the company the
weight of his commanding presence. Towards presumption and arrogance he
knew how to demean himself with calmness and address, for while seeming
to yield he would suddenly bring forward, like a diamond-shield, some
grand view, of which his narrow-minded opponent would never have
thought, and at the same time he would so agreeably moderate the light
which flowed from it, that such men felt themselves instructed and
convinced,--so long at least as they were in his presence. Perhaps
with many the impression continued to operate long afterwards, for
even conceited men are also kindly; it is only necessary by gentle
influences to soften the hard shell which encloses the fruitful kernel.

What caused him the greatest pain was the presence of persons whose
outward ugliness must irrevocably stamp them decided enemies of his
theory as to the significance of forms. They commonly employed a
considerable amount of common sense and other gifts and talents, in
vehement hostility and paltry doubts, to weaken a doctrine which
appeared offensive to their self-love; for it was not easy to find any
one so magnanimous as Socrates, who interpreted his faun-like exterior
in favour of an acquired morality. To Lavater the hardness, the
obduracy of such antagonists was horrible, and his opposition was not
free from passion; just as the smelting fire must attack the resisting
ore as something troublesome and hostile.

In such a case a confidential conversation, such as might appeal
to our own cases and experience, was not to be thought of; however
I was much instructed by observing the manner in which he treated
men,--instructed, I say, not improved by it, for my position was wholly
different from his. He that works morally loses none of his efforts,
for there comes from them much more fruit than the parable of the Sower
too modestly represents. But he whose labours are artistic, fails
utterly in every work that is not recognised as a work of art. From
this it may be judged how impatient my dear sympathizing readers were
accustomed to make me, and for what reasons I had such a great dislike
to come to an understanding with them. I now felt but too vividly
the difference between the effectiveness of my labors and those of
Lavater. His prevailed, while he was present, mine, when I was absent.
Every one who at a distance was dissatisfied with him became his friend
when they met, and every one who, judging by my work, considered me
amiable, found himself greatly deceived when he came in contract with a
man of coldness and reserve.

Merck, who had just come over from Darmstadt, played the part of
Mephistopheles, especially ridiculing the importunities of the women.
As some of these were closely examining the apartments which had
been set apart for the prophet, and, above all, his bed-chamber, the
wag said that "the pious souls wished to see where they had laid the
Lord." Nevertheless he, as well as the others, was forced to let
himself be exorcised. Lips, who accompanied Lavater, drew his profile
as completely and successfully as he did those of other men, both
important and unimportant, who were to be heaped together in the great
work on Physiognomy.

For myself, Lavater's society was highly influential and instructive,
for his pressing incitements to action set my calm, artistic,
contemplative nature into motion, not indeed to any advantage at the
moment, because the circumstances did but increase the distraction
which had already laid hold of me. Still, so many things were talked
about between us, as to give rise to the most earnest desire on my part
to prolong the discussion. Accordingly I determined to accompany him if
he went to Ems, so that, shut up in the carriage and separated from the
world, we might freely go over those subjects which lay nearest to both
our hearts.

Meanwhile the conversations between Lavater and Fraülein Yon
Klettenberg were to me exceedingly interesting and profitable. Here two
decided Christians stood in contrast to each other, and it was quite
plain how the same belief may take a different shape according to the
sentiments of different persons. In those tolerant times it was often
enough repeated that every man had his own religion and his own mode
of worship. Although I did not maintain this exactly, I could, in the
present case, perceive that men and women need a different Saviour.
Fraülein Von Klettenberg looked towards hers as to a lover to whom one
yields oneself without reserve, concentrating all joy and hope on him
alone, and without doubt or hesitation confiding to him the destiny
of life. Lavater, on the other hand, treated his as a friend, to be
imitated lovingly and without envy, whose merits he recognised and
valued highly, and whom, for that very reason, he strove to copy and
even to equal. What a difference between these two tendencies, which
in general exhibit the spiritual necessities of the two sexes! Hence
we may perhaps explain the fact that men of more delicate feeling have
so often turned to the Mother of God as a paragon of female beauty
and virtue, and like Sannazaro, have dedicated to her their lives and
talents, occasionally condescending to play with the Divine Infant.

How my two friends stood to each other, and how they felt towards each
other, I gathered not only from conversations at which I was present,
but also from revelations which both made to me in private. I could
not agree entirely with either; for my Christ had also taken a form
of his own, in accordance with my views. Because they would not allow
mine to pass at all, I teased them with all sorts of paradoxes and
exaggerations, and, when they got impatient, left them with a jest.

[Side-note: Faith and Knowledge.]

The contest between knowledge and faith was not yet the order of the
day, but the two words and the ideas connected with them occasionally
came forward, and the true haters of the world maintained that one was
as little to be relied on as the other. Accordingly I took pleasure
in declaring in favour of both, though without being able to gain the
assent of my friends. In Faith, I said, everything depends on the
fact of believing; what is believed is perfectly indifferent. Faith
is a profound sense of security for the present and future, and this
assurance springs from confidence in an immense, all-powerful, and
inscrutable Being. The firmness of this confidence is the one grand
point; but what we think of this Being depends on our other faculties,
or even on circumstances, and is wholly indifferent. Faith is a holy
vessel into which every one stands ready to pour his feelings, his
understanding, his imagination as perfectly as he can. With Knowledge
it is directly the opposite. There the point is not whether we know,
but what we know, how much we know, and how well we know it. Hence it
comes that men may dispute about knowledge because it can be corrected,
widened, and contracted. Knowledge begins with the particular, is
endless and formless, can never be all comprehended, or at least but
dreamily, and thus remains exactly the opposite of Faith.

Half truths of this kind, and the errors which arise from them may,
when poetically exhibited, be exciting and entertaining, but in life
they disturb and confuse conversation. For that reason I was glad to
leave Lavater alone with all those who wished to be edified by him and
through him, a deprivation for which I found myself fully compensated
by the journey we made together to Ems. Beautiful summer weather
attended us, and Lavater was gay and most amiable. For though of a
religious and moral turn, he was by no means narrow-minded, and was
not unmoved when by the events of life those around him were excited
to cheerfulness and gaiety. He was sympathizing, spirited, witty, and
liked the same qualities in others, provided that they were kept within
the bounds which his delicate sense of propriety prescribed. If any
one ventured further he used to clap him on the shoulder, and by a
hearty "_Bisch guet!_" would call the rash man back to good manners.
This journey afforded me instruction and inspiration of many kinds,
which, however, contributed to a knowledge of his character rather than
to the government and culture of my own. At Ems I saw him once again,
surrounded by society of every sort, and I went back to Frankfort,
because my little affairs were in such a state that I could scarcely
absent myself from them at all.

[Side-note: Basedow.]

But I was not destined to be restored so speedily to repose. BASEDOW
now came in to attract me, and touch me on another side. A more decided
contrast could not be found than that between these two men. A single
glance at Basedow showed the difference. Lavater's features displayed
themselves with openness to the observer, but those of Basedow were
crowded together and as it were drawn inward. Lavater's eye, beneath a
very wide eyelid, was clear and expressive of piety; Basedow's was deep
in his head, small, black, sharp, gleaming from under bristly brows,
while on the contrary, Lavater's frontal bone was edged with two arches
of the softest brown hair. Basedow's strong, rough voice, quick, sharp
expressions, a kind of sarcastic laugh, a rapid change of subjects in
conversation, with other peculiarities, were all the opposite of the
qualities and manners by which Lavater had spoiled us. Basedow was also
much sought after in Frankfort, and his great talents were admired,
but he was not the man either to edify souls or to lead them. His sole
office was to give a better cultivation to the wide field he had
marked out for himself, so that Humanity might afterwards take up its
dwelling in it with greater ease and accordance with nature; but to
this end he hastened even too directly.

I could not altogether acquiesce in his plans, or even get a clear
understanding of his views. I was of course pleased with his desire
of making all instruction living and natural; his wish, too, that the
ancient languages should be practised on present objects, appeared to
me laudable, and I gladly acknowledged all that in his project, tended
to the promotion of activity and a fresher view of the world. But I
was displeased that the illustrations of his elementary work, were
even more distracting than its subjects, whereas in the actual world,
possible things alone stand together, and for that reason, in spite of
all variety and apparent confusion, the world has still a regularity in
all its parts. Basedow's elementary work, on the contrary, sunders it
completely, inasmuch as things which in the world never are combined,
are here put together on account of the association of ideas; and
consequently, the book is without even those palpable methodical
advantages which we must acknowledge in the similar work of Amos
Comenius.

But the conduct of Basedow was much more strange and difficult to
comprehend than his doctrine. The purpose of his journey was, by
personal influence, to interest the public in his philanthropic
enterprise, and, indeed, to open not only hearts but purses. He had the
power of speaking grandly and convincingly of his scheme, and every
one willingly conceded what he asserted. But in a most inexplicable
way he pained the feelings of the very men whose assistance he wished
to gain; nay, he outraged them unnecessarily, through his inability
to keep back his opinions and fancies on religious subjects. In this
respect, too, Basedow appeared the very opposite of Lavater. While
the latter received the Bible literally, and with its whole contents,
as being word for word in force, and applicable even at the present
day, the former had the most unquiet itching to renovate everything,
and to remodel both the doctrines and the ceremonies of the church
in conformity with some odd notions of his own. Most imprudently he
showed no mercy to those conceptions which come not immediately from
the Bible, but from its interpretation;--all those expressions,
technical philosophical terms, or sensible figures, with which Councils
and Fathers of the church had sought to explain the inexpressible, or
to confute heretics. In a harsh and unwarrantable way, and before all
alike, he declared himself the sworn enemy of the Trinity, and would
never desist from arguing against this universally admitted mystery.
I, too, had to suffer a good deal from this kind of entertainment in
private conversation, and was compelled again and again to listen
to his tirades about the _Hypostasis_ and _Ousia_, as well as the
_Prosopon._ To meet them all I had recourse to the weapons of paradox,
and soaring even above the flight of his opinions, ventured to oppose
his rash assertions with something rasher of my own. This gave a new
excitement to my mind, and as Basedow was much more extensively read,
and had more skill in the fencing tricks of disputation than a follower
of nature like myself, I had always to exert myself the more, the more
important were the points which were discussed between us.

Such a splendid opportunity to exercise, if not to enlighten my mind, I
could not allow to pass away in a hurry. I prevailed on my father and
friends to manage my most pressing affairs, and now set off again from
Frankfort in the company of Basedow. But what a difference did I feel
when I recalled the gentle spirit which breathed from Lavater! Pure
himself, he created around him a pure circle. At his side one became
like a maiden, for fear of presenting before him anything repulsive.
Basedow, on the contrary, being altogether absorbed in himself, could
not pay any attention to his external appearance. His ceaseless smoking
of wretched tobacco was of itself extremely disagreeable, especially as
his pipe was no sooner out, than he brought forth a dirtily prepared
kind of tinder, which took fire quickly, but had a most horrid stench,
and every time poisoned the air insufferably with the first whiff. I
called this preparation "The Basedovian Smellfungus," (Stink-schwamm)
and declared that it ought to be introduced into Natural History under
this name. This greatly amused him, and to my disgust he minutely
explained the hated preparation, taking a malicious pleasure in my
aversion from it. It was one of the deeply rooted, disagreeable
peculiarities of this admirably gifted man that he was fond of
teasing, and would sting the most dispassionate persons. He could never
see any one quiet, but he provoked him with mocking irony, in a hoarse
voice, or put him to confusion by an unexpected question, and laughed
bitterly when he had gained his end; yet he was pleased when the object
of his jests was quick enough to collect himself, and gave him a retort.

[Side-note: Basedow.]

How much greater was now my longing for Lavater. He, too, seemed to
be rejoiced when he saw me again, and confided to me much that he
had learned, especially in reference to the various characters of
his fellow-guests, among whom he had already succeeded in making
many friends and disciples. For my part I found here several old
acquaintances, and in those whom I had not seen for many years, I began
to notice what in youth long remains concealed from us, namely, that
men grow old and women change. The company became more numerous every
day. There was no end to the dancing, and, as in the two principal
bath-houses, people came into pretty close contact, the familiarity
led to many a practical joke. Once I disguised myself as a village
clergyman, while an intimate friend took the character of his wife; by
our excessive and troublesome politeness, we were tolerably amusing to
the elegant society, and so put every one into good humor. Of serenades
at evening, midnight and morning, there was no lack, and we juniors
enjoyed but little sleep.

To make up for these dissipations, I always passed a part of the night
with Basedow. He never went to bed, but dictated without cessation.
Occasionally he cast himself on the couch and slumbered, while his
amanuensis sat quietly, pen in hand, ready to continue his work when
the half awakened author should once again give free course to his
thoughts. All this took place in a close confined chamber, filled
with the fumes of tobacco and the odious tinder. As often as I was
disengaged from a dance, I hastened up to Basedow, who was ready at
once to speak and dispute on any question; and when after a time, I
hurried again to the ball-room, before I had closed the door behind me,
he would resume the thread of his essay as composedly as if he hat been
engaged with nothing else.

We also made together many excursions into the neighborhood, visiting
the châteaux, especially those of noble ladies, who were everywhere
more inclined than the men, to receive anything that made a pretence
to intellect and talent. At Nassau, at the house of Frau von Stein, a
most estimable lady, who enjoyed universal respect, we found a large
company. Frau von Laroche was likewise present, and there was no lack
of young ladies and children. Here Lavater was doomed to be put to many
a physiognomical temptation, which consisted mainly in our seeking
to palm upon him the accidents of cultivation as original forms, but
his eye was too sure to be deceived. I, too, was called on as much as
ever to maintain the truth of the Sorrows of Werther, and to name the
residence of Charlotte, a desire which I declined to gratify, not in
the politest manner. On the other hand I collected the children around
me in order to tell them very wonderful stories, all about well known
things, in which I had the great advantage, that no member of my circle
of hearers could ask me with any importunity what part was truth and
what fiction.

[Side-note: Basedow and Lavater.]

Basedow affirmed that the only thing necessary was a better education
of youth, and to promote this end he called upon the higher and wealthy
classes for considerable contributions. But hardly had his reasoning
and his impassioned eloquence excited, not to say, won to his purpose,
the sympathy of his auditors, when the evil anti-trinitarian spirit
came upon him, so that without the least sense of where he was, he
broke forth into the strangest discourses, which in his own opinion
were highly religious, but according to the convictions of those around
him highly blasphemous. All sought a remedy for this evil; Lavater, by
gentle seriousness, I, by jests, leading off from the subject, and the
ladies by amusing walks, but harmony could not be restored. A Christian
conversation, such as had been expected from the presence of Lavater, a
discourse on education, such as had been anticipated from Basedow, and
a sentimental one, for which it was thought I should be ready--all were
at once disturbed and destroyed. On our return home, Lavater reproached
him, but I punished him in a humorous way. The weather was warm, and
the tobacco-smoke had perhaps contributed to the dryness of Basedow's
palate; he was dying for a glass of beer, and seeing a tavern at a
distance on the road, he eagerly ordered the coachman to stop there.
But just as he was driving up to the door, I called out to him loudly
and imperiously, "Go on!" Basedow, taken by surprise, could hardly get
the contrary command out of his husky voice. I urged the coachman more
vehemently, and he obeyed me. Basedow cursed me, and was ready to fall
on me with his fists, but I replied to him with the greatest composure,
"Father, be quiet! You ought to thank me. Luckily you didn't see the
beer-sign! It was two triangles put together across each other. Now you
commonly get mad about one triangle, and if you had set eyes on two, we
should have had to get you a strait jacket." This joke threw him into
a fit of immoderate laughter, in the intervals of which he scolded and
cursed me, while Lavater exercised his patience on both the young fool
and the old one.

When in the middle of July, Lavater was preparing to depart, Basedow
thought it advantageous to join him, while I had become so accustomed
to this rare society that I could not bring myself to give it up. We
had a delightful journey down the Lahn; it was refreshing alike to
heart and senses. At the sight of an old ruined castle, I wrote the
song "_Hoch auf dem alten Thurme steht_" (High on the ancient Turret
stands), in Lips's Album, and as it was well received, I wrote, after
my evil habit, all kinds of doggrel rhymes and comicalities on the
succeeding pages, in order to destroy the impression. I rejoiced
to see the magnificent Rhine once more, and was delighted with the
astonishment of those who had never before enjoyed this splendid
spectacle. We landed at Coblentz; wherever we went, the crowd was
very great, and each of the three excited interest and curiosity.
Basedow and I seemed to strive which could behave most outrageously.
Lavater conducted himself rationally and with judgment, only he could
not conceal his favorite opinions, and thus with the best designs he
appeared very odd to all men of mediocrity.

I have preserved the memory of a strange dinner at a hotel in Coblentz,
in some doggrel rhymes, which will, perhaps, stand with all their
kindred in my New Edition. I sat between Lavater and Basedow; the first
was instructing a country parson on the mysteries of the Revelation
of St. John, and the other was in vain endeavouring to prove to an
obstinate dancing master, that baptism was an obsolete usage not
calculated for our times. As we were going on to Cologne, I wrote in an
Album--

    As though to Emmaus, on their ride
      Storming they might be seen;
    The prophets sat on either side.
      The world-child sat between.

[Side-note: The Brothers Jacobi.]

Luckily this world-child had also a side which was turned towards the
heavenly, and which was now to be moved in a way wholly peculiar.
While in Ems I had rejoiced to hear that in Cologne we should find the
brothers Jacobi, who with other eminent men had set out to meet and
show attention to our two remarkable travellers. On my part, I hoped
for forgiveness from them for sundry little improprieties which had
originated in the great love of mischief that Herder's keen humor had
excited in us. The letters and poems in which Gleim and George Jacobi
publicly rejoiced in each other, had given us opportunity for all
sorts of sport, and we had not reflected that there is just as much
self-conceit in giving pain to others when they are comfortable, as in
showing an excess of kindness to oneself or to one's friends. By this
means, a certain dissension had arisen between the Upper and Lower
Rhine, of so slight importance, however, that mediation was easy. For
this the ladies were particularly adapted. Sophia Laroche had already
given us the best idea of the noble brothers. Mademoiselle Fahlmer,
who had come to Frankfort from Düsseldorf, and who was intimate with
their circle, by the great tenderness of her sympathies, and the
uncommon cultivation of her mind, furnished an evidence of the worth
of the society in which she had grown up. She gradually put us to
shame by her patience with our harsh Upper Saxon manner, and taught us
forbearance by letting us feel that we ourselves stood in need of it.
The true-heartedness of the younger sister of the Jacobis, the gaiety
of the wife of Fritz Jacobi, turned our minds and eyes more and more
to these regions. The latter was qualified to captivate me entirely;
possessed of a correct feeling without a trace of sentimentality, and
with a lively way of speaking, she was a fine Netherlands' woman, who
without any expression of sensuality, by her robust nature called to
mind the women of Rubens. Both these ladies, in longer and shorter
visits at Frankfort, had formed the closest alliance with my sister,
and had expanded and enlivened the severe, stiff, and somewhat loveless
nature of Cornelia. Thus Düsseldorf and Pempelfort had interested our
minds and hearts, even in Frankfort.

Accordingly our first meeting in Cologne was at once frank and
confidential, for the good opinion of the ladies had not been without
its influence at home. I was not now treated, as hitherto on the
journey, as the mere misty tail of the two great comets; all around
paid me particular attention, and showed me abundant kindness, which
they also seemed inclined to receive from me in return. I was weary of
my previous follies and impertinences, behind which, in truth, I only
hid my impatience, to find during the journey so little care taken to
satisfy my heart and soul. Hence, what was within me, burst out like
a torrent, and this is perhaps the reason why I recollect so little
of individual events. The thoughts we have had, the pictures we have
seen, can be again called up before the mind and the imagination; but
the heart is not so complaisant; it will not repeat its agreeable
emotions. And least of all are we able to recall moments of enthusiasm;
they come upon us unprepared, and we yield to them unconsciously. For
this reason, others, who observe us at such moments have a better and
clearer insight into what passes within us, than we ourselves.

Religious conversations I had hitherto gently declined; to plain
questions, I had not unfrequently replied with harshness, because they
seemed to me too narrow in comparison with what I sought. When any one
wished to force upon me his sentiments and opinions of my compositions,
but especially when I was afflicted with the demands of common sense,
and people told me decidedly what I ought to have done or left undone,
I got out of all patience, and the conversation broke off, or crumbled
to pieces, so that no one went away with a particularly good opinion
of me. It would have been much more natural to make myself gentle and
friendly, but my feelings would not be schooled. They needed to be
expanded by free good will and to be moved to a surrender by sincere
sympathy. One feeling which prevailed greatly with me, and could never
find an expression odd enough for itself, was a sense of the past
and present together in one; a phenomenon which brought something
spectral into the present. It is expressed in many of my smaller and
larger works, and always has a beneficial influence in a poem, though,
whenever it began to mix itself up with actual life, it must have
appeared to every one strange, inexplicable, perhaps gloomy.

Cologne was the place where antiquity had such an incalculable effect
upon me. The ruins of the Cathedral (for an unfinished work is like one
destroyed) called up the emotions to which I had been accustomed at
Strasburg. Artistic considerations were out of the question; too much
and too little was given me; and there was no one who could help me out
of the labyrinth of what was performed and what was proposed, of the
fact and the plan, of what was built and what was only designed, as our
industrious, persevering friends nowadays are ready to do. In company
with others I did indeed admire its wonderful chapels and columns, but
when alone I always gloomily lost myself in this world-edifice, thus
checked in its creation while far from complete. Here, too, was a great
idea never realized! It would seem, indeed, as if the architecture
were there only to convince us that by many men, in a series of years,
nothing can be accomplished, and that in art and in deeds only that is
achieved which, like Minerva, springs full-grown and armed from the
head of its inventor.

At these moments which, oppressed more than they cheered my heart, I
little thought that the tenderest and fairest emotion was in store for
me near at hand. I was persuaded to visit Jabach's Dwelling, and here
all that I had been wont to form for myself in my mind came actually
and sensibly before my eyes. This family had probably long ago become
extinct, but on the ground floor which opened upon a garden, we found
everything unchanged. A pavement of brownish red tiles, of a rhomboidal
form regularly laid, carved chairs with embroidered seats and high
backs, flap-tables, metal chandeliers curiously inlaid, on heavy feet,
an immense fire-place with its appropriate utensils, everything in
harmony with those early times, and in the whole room nothing new,
nothing belonging to the present but ourselves. But what more than all
heightened and completed the emotions thus strangely excited, was a
large family picture over the fire-place. There sat the former wealthy
inhabitant of this abode surrounded by his wife and children,--there
were they in all the freshness of life, and as if of yesterday, or
rather of to-day, and yet all of them had passed away. These young,
round-cheeked children had grown old, and but for this clever likeness,
not a trace of them would have remained. How I acted, how I demeaned
myself, when overcome by these impressions I cannot say. The lowest
depths of my human affections and poetic sensibilities were laid bare
in the boundless stirring of my heart; all that was good and loving in
my soul seemed to open and break forth. In that moment without further
probation or debate, I gained for life the affection and confidence of
those eminent men.

As a result of this union of soul and intellect, in which all that
was living in each came forth upon his lips, I offered to recite my
newest and most favorite ballads. "_Der König von Thule_" (The king
of Thule,) and "_Es war ein Bube frech genug_," (There was a rascal
bold enough[2],) had a good effect, and I brought them forth with
more feeling as my poems were still bound to my heart, and as they
seldom passed my lips. For in the presence of persons, who I feared
could not sympathize with my tender sensibility, I felt restrained;
and frequently, in the midst of a recitation, I have become confused
and could not get right again. How often for that reason have I been
accused of wilfulness, and of a strange, whimsical disposition!

Although poetic composition, just then, mainly occupied me and exactly
suited my temperament, I was still no stranger to reflection on all
kinds of subjects, and Jacobi's tendency to the unfathomable, which
was so original, and so much in accordance with his nature, was most
welcome and agreeable to me. Here no controversy arose, neither a
Christian one, as with Lavater, nor a didactic one, as with Basedow.
The thoughts which Jacobi imparted to me flowed immediately from his
heart. How profoundly was I moved when in unlimited confidence, he
revealed to me even the most hidden longings of his soul! From so
amazing a combination of mental wants, passion, and ideas, I could
only gather presentiments of what might, perhaps, afterwards grow more
clear to me. Happily, I had already prepared if not fully cultivated
myself on this side, having in some degree appropriated the thoughts
and mind of an extraordinary man, and though my study of him had
been incomplete and hasty, I was yet already conscious of important
influences derived from this source. This mind, which had worked upon
me thus decisively, and which was destined to affect so deeply my whole
mode of thinking, was SPINOZA. After looking through the world in vain,
to find a means of development for my strange nature, I at last fell
upon the Ethics of this philosopher. Of what I read out of the work,
and of what I read into it, I can give no account. Enough that I found
in it a sedative for my passions, and that a free, wide view over the
sensible and moral world, seemed to open before me. But what especially
riveted me to him, was the utter disinterestedness which shone forth
in his every sentence. That wonderful sentiment, "He who truly loves
God must not desire God to love him in return," together with all the
preliminary propositions on which it rests, and all the consequences
that follow from it, filled my whole mind. To be disinterested in
everything, but the most of all in love and friendship, was my highest
desire, my maxim, my practice, so that that subsequent hasty saying
of mine, "If I love thee what is that to thee?" was spoken right
out of my heart. Moreover, it must not be forgotten here that the
closest unions are those of opposites. The all-composing calmness of
Spinoza was in striking contrast with my all-disturbing activity; his
mathematical method was the direct opposite of my poetic humour and my
way of writing, and that very precision which was thought ill-adapted
to moral subjects, made me his enthusiastic disciple, his most decided
worshipper. Mind and heart, understanding and sense, sought each other
with an eager affinity, binding together the most different natures.

[Side-note: Fritz Jacobi.]

At this time, however, all within was fermenting and seething in the
first action and reaction. Fritz Jacobi, the first whom I suffered
to look into the chaos, and whose nature was also toiling in its own
extreme depths, heartily received my confidence, responded to it, and
endeavored to lead me to his own opinions. He, too, felt an unspeakable
mental want; he, too, did not wish to have it appeased by outward aid,
but aimed at development and illumination from within. I could not
comprehend what he communicated to me of the state of his mind, so much
the less indeed, because I could form no idea as to my own. Still,
as he was far in advance of me in philosophical thought, and even in
the study of Spinoza, he endeavored to guide and enlighten my obscure
efforts. Such a purely intellectual relationship was new to me, and
excited a passionate longing for farther communion. At night, after we
had parted and retired to our chambers, I often sought him again. With
the moonlight trembling over the broad Rhine, we stood at the window,
and revelled in that full interchange of ideas which in such splendid
moments of confidence swells forth so abundantly.

Still, of the unspeakable joy of those moments I can now give no
account. Much more distinct to my mind is an excursion to the
hunting-seat of Bensberg, which, lying on the right shore of the
Rhine, commanded the most splendid prospect. What delighted me beyond
measure was the decorations of the walls by Weenix. They represented
a large open hall surrounded by columns, at the foot of these, as if
forming the plinth, lay all the animals that the chase can furnish
skilfully arranged, and over these again the eye ranged over a wide
landscape. The wonderful artist had expended his whole skill in giving
life to these lifeless creatures. In the delineation of their widely
varying coats, the bristles, hair, or feathers, with the antlers and
claws, he had equalled nature, while, in the effect produced, he had
excelled her. When we had admired these works of art sufficiently, as a
whole, we were led to reflect on the handling by which such pictures,
combining so much spirit and mechanical skill, were produced. We
could not understand how they could be created by the hands of man,
or by any of his instruments. The pencil was not sufficient; peculiar
preparations must be supposed to make such variety possible. Whether
we came close to them, or withdrew to a distance, our astonishment was
equal; the cause was as wonderful as the effect.

Our further journey up the Rhine was happy and fortunate. The widening
of the river invites the mind to expand itself likewise, and to look
into the distance. We arrived at Düsseldorf, and from thence came
to Pempelfort, a most delightful and beautiful resting-place, where
a spacious mansion, opening upon extensive and well-kept gardens,
collected together a thoughtful and refined circle. The members of the
family were numerous, and strangers, who found abundant enjoyment in so
rich and agreeable a neighbourhood were never wanting.

In the Düsseldorf gallery my predilection for the Flemish school
found plentiful nourishment. There were whole halls filled with these
vigorous, sturdy pictures, brilliant with a fulness of nature; and, if
my judgment was not enlarged, my store of knowledge was enriched and my
love for art confirmed.

The beautiful composure, contentment, and firmness, which marked
the leading character of this family circle, quickly manifested
themselves to the observant eye of the thoughtful guest, who could
not fail to perceive that a wide sphere of influences had here its
centre. The activity and opulence of the neighboring cities and
villages contributed not a little to enhance this feeling of inward
satisfaction. We visited Elberfeld, and were delighted with the busy
aspect of so many flourishing manufactories. Here we fell in again
with our friend Jung, commonly known as Stilling, who had gone even
to Coblentz to meet us; and who always had his faith in God and his
truth towards men, as his most precious attendants. Here we saw him in
his own circle, and took pleasure in the confidence reposed in him by
his fellow citizens, who, though occupied with earthly gain, did not
leave the heavenly treasures out of view. The sight of this industrious
region, was satisfactory, because its prosperity was the result of
order and neatness. In the contemplation of these things we passed
happy days.

When I returned to my friend Jacobi, I enjoyed the rapturous feeling
springing from a union of the innermost soul. We were both inspired by
the liveliest hope of an influence in common, and I urgently pressed
him to make an exhibition in some striking form or other of all that
was acting and moving within him. This was the means by which I had
escaped from many perplexities, and I hoped that it would relieve him
also. He did not object, but undertook the task with zeal, and how much
that is good, and beautiful, and consolatory, has he accomplished!
And so, at last, we parted with the happy feeling of eternal union,
and wholly without a presentiment that our labors would assume the
opposite directions, which, in the course of life, they so markedly
took.

Whatever else occurred to me on the return down the Rhine has
altogether vanished from my memory, partly because the second
impressions of natural objects are wont, in my mind, to be mingled with
the first; and partly because, with my thoughts turned inwardly, I was
endeavouring to arrange the varied experience I on myself had gained,
and to work up what had affected me. Of one important result, as it
impelled me to creative efforts, which kept me occupied for a long
time, I will now speak.

[Side-note: Intended Drama of Mahomet.]

With my lawless disposition, with a life and action so aimless and
purposeless, the observation could not long escape me that Lavater and
Basedow employed intellectual and even spiritual means for earthly
ends. It soon struck me, who spent my talents and my days on no object
whatever, that these two men, while endeavoring, to preach their
doctrines, to teach and to convince, had each in his own way, certain
views in the background--the advancement of which was, to them, of
great consequence. Lavater went to work gently and prudently, Basedow
vehemently, rudely, and even awkwardly; but both were so convinced of
the excellence of their favorite schemes and undertakings, and their
mode of prosecuting them, that so far all were compelled to look upon
them as men of sincerity, and to love and to honor them as such. In
praise of Lavater especially, it could be said that he actually had
higher objects, and, if he acted according to the wisdom of this
world, it was in the belief that the end would hallow the means. As I
observed them both, nay, indeed frankly told them my opinions and heard
theirs in return, the thought arose in me that every highly-gifted
man is called upon to diffuse whatever there is of divine within
him. In attempting this, however, he comes in contact with the rough
world, and, in order to act upon it, he must put himself on the same
level. Thus, in a great measure he compromises his high advantages,
and finally forfeits them altogether. The heavenly, the eternal, is
buried in a body of earthly designs, and hurried with it to the fate
of the transient. From this point of view I now regarded the career
of these two men, and they seemed to me, worthy both of honor and of
compassion; for I thought I could foresee that each would be compelled
to sacrifice the higher to the lower. As I pursued this reflection
to the farthest extremity, and looked beyond the limits of my narrow
experience for similar cases in history, the plan occurred to me of
taking the life of Mahomet, whom I had never been able to think an
impostor, for a dramatic exhibition of those courses which in actual
life, I was strongly convinced, invariably lead to ruin much more than
to good. I had shortly before read with great interest, and studied
the life of the Eastern Prophet, and was therefore tolerably prepared
when the thought occurred to me. The sketch approached on the whole
to the regular form to which I was again inclining, although I still
used in moderation the liberty gained for the stage, and arranged time
and place according to my own pleasure. The piece began with Mahomet
alone under the open sky, singing a hymn. In it he adores first of
all the innumerable stars as so many gods; but as the friendly star,
Gad (our Jupiter) rises, he offers to him, as the king of the stars,
exclusive adoration. Not long after the moon ascends the horizon, and
wins the eye and heart of the worshipper, who, presently refreshed and
strengthened by the dawning sun, is called upon for new praises. But
these changing phenomena, however delightful, are still unsatisfactory
and the mind feels that it must rise yet above itself. It mounts,
therefore, to God, the Only, Eternal, Infinite, to whom all these
splendid yet limited creatures owe their existence. I composed this
hymn with great delight; it is now lost, but might easily be restored
for the purpose of a cantata, and would commend itself to the musical
composer by the variety of its expression. It would, however, be
necessary to imagine it sung, according to the original plan, by
the conductor of a caravan with his family and tribe; and thus the
alternation of the voices, and the strength of the chorus, would be
provided for.

[Side-note: Intended Drama of Mahomet.]

After Mahomet has thus converted himself, he imparts these feelings
and sentiments to his friends. His wife and Ali become his disciples
without reserve. In the second act, he zealously attempts, supported
by the still more ardent Ali, to propagate this faith in the tribe.
Assent and opposition fallow the variety of character. The contest
begins, the strife becomes violent, and Mahomet is compelled to flee.
In the third act, he defeats his enemies, and making his religion the
public one, purifies the Kaaba from idols; but, as all this cannot
be done by power, he is obliged to resort to cunning. What in his
character is earthly increases and extends itself; the divine retires
and is obscured. In the fourth act, Mahomet pursues his conquests, his
doctrine becomes a pretence rather than an end; all conceivable means
must be employed, and barbarities become abundant. A woman, whose
husband has been put to death by Mahomet's order, poisons him. In the
fifth act, he feels that he is poisoned. His great calmness, the return
to himself, and to a higher sense, make him worthy of admiration. He
purify his doctrine, establishes his kingdom, and dies.

Such was the sketch of a work which long occupied my mind, for usually
I was obliged to have the materials in my head, before I commenced the
execution. I meant, to represent the power which genius exercises over
men by character and intellect, and what are its gains and losses in
the process. Several of the songs, to be introduced in the drama, were
composed beforehand; all that remains of them, however, is what stands
among my poems under the title "_Mahomet's Gesang_," (Mahomet's Song).
According to the plan, this was to be sung by Ali in honor of his
master, at the highest point of his success, just before the changed
aspect of affairs resulting from the poison. I recollect also the
outlines of several scenes, but the explanation of them here would lead
me too far.


[1] That is to say, a native of one of the Imperial cities.

[2] The title of the poem is "Der untreue Knabe," (The Faithless Boy),
and in the first line of it, as published in Göthe's collected works,
"Knabe" will be found instead of "Bube"--Trans.




FIFTEENTH BOOK.


From these manifold dissipations, which, however, generally gave
occasion for serious, and even religious reflections, I always returned
to my noble friend, Fraülein von Klettenberg, whose presence calmed,
at least for a moment, my stormy and undirected impulses and passions,
and to whom next to my sister, I liked best to communicate designs
like that I have just spoken of. I might, indeed, have perceived that
her health was constantly failing, but I concealed it from myself, and
this I was the better able to do as her cheerfulness increased with her
illness. She used to sit, neatly dressed, in her chair at the window,
and kindly listened to the narratives of my little expeditions as well
as to what I read aloud to her. Often, too, I made sketches, in order
to make her understand the better the description of the places I had
seen. One evening, I had been recalling to my mind many different
images; when in the light of the setting sun she and all around her
appeared before me, as if transfigured, and I could not refrain from
making a drawing of her and of the surrounding objects in the chamber,
as well as my poor skill permitted. In the hands of a skilful artist
like Kersting it would have made a beautiful picture. I sent it to
a fair friend at a distance, and added a song as commentary and
supplement:

    In this magic glass reflected
      See a vision, mild and bless'd;
    By the wing of God protected,
      See our friend, while suffering, rest.

    Mark, how her endeavours bore her
      From life's waves to realms above;
    See thine image stand before her,
      And the God, who died from love.

    Feel what I, amid the floating
      Of that heavenly ether, knew;
    When the first impression noting,
      Hastily this sketch I drew.

Though in these stanzas, as had often happened before, I expressed
myself as "a stranger and foreigner," in short, as a heathen, she
did not take offence at it. On the contrary, she assured me that in
so doing I pleased her much more than when I attempted to employ the
Christian terminology, which somehow I could never apply correctly.
Indeed, it had become a standing custom with me, whenever I read to her
missionary intelligence, which she was always fond of listening to, to
take the part of the Pagans against the missionaries, and to praise
their old condition as preferable to their new one. Still she was ever
gentle and friendly, and seemed not to have the least fear about me or
my salvation.

[Side-note: The Moravians.]

My gradual alienation from her creed arose from the fact that I had
laid hold of it at first with too great zeal, with passionate love.
Ever since I became more intimately acquainted with the Moravians, my
inclination to this Society, which had united under the victorious
banners of Christ, had constantly increased. It is exactly in the
moment of its earliest formation that a positive religion possesses
its greatest attraction. On that account it is delightful to go back
to the time of the Apostles, where all stands forth as fresh and
immediately spiritual. And thus it was that the Moravian doctrine
acquired something of a magical charm by appearing to continue or
rather to perpetuate the condition of those first times. It connected
its origin with them; when it seemed to perish, it still wound its way
through the world, although by unnoticed tendrils; at last one little
germ took root beneath the protection of a pious and eminent man, and
so from an unnoticed and apparently accidental beginning expanded
once more over the wide world. In this Society, the most important
point, was the inseparable combination of the religious and civil
constitution by which the teacher was at the same time the ruler,
and the father the judge. What was still more distinctive of their
fraternity was that the religious head, to whom unlimited faith was
yielded in spiritual things, was also intrusted with the guidance of
temporal affairs, and his counsels, whether for the government of the
whole body, or for the guidance of individuals, if confirmed by the
issue of the lot, were implicitly followed. Its peace and harmony, to
which at least outward appearances testified, was most alluring, while,
on the other hand, the missionary vocation seemed to call forth and
to give employment to all man's active powers. The excellent persons
whose acquaintance I made at Marienborn, which I had visited in the
company of Councillor Moritz, the agent of Count von Isenburg, had
gained my unqualified esteem, and it only depended on themselves to
make me their own. I studied their history, and their doctrine, and
the origin and growth of their society, so as to be able to give an
account of it and to talk about it to all who might feel interested
in it. Nevertheless, the conviction was soon forced upon me that with
the brethren I did not pass for a Christian any more than I did with
Fraülein von Klettenberg. At first this disturbed me, but afterwards my
inclination to them became somewhat cooler. However, I could not for a
long time discover the precise ground of difference, although it was
obvious enough, until at last, it was forced upon me more by accident
than by reflection. What separated me from this brotherhood, as well
as from other good Christian souls, was the very point on which the
Church has more than once fallen into dissension. On the one hand, it
was maintained that by the Fall human nature had been so corrupted to
its innermost core, that not the least good could be found in it, and
that therefore man must renounce all trust in his own powers, and look
to grace and its operations for everything. The other party, while it
admitted the hereditary imperfections of man, nevertheless ascribed to
nature a certain germ of good within, which, animated by divine grace,
was capable of growing up to a joyous tree of spiritual happiness. By
this latter conviction I was unconsciously penetrated to my inmost
soul, even while with tongue and pen I maintained the opposite side.
But I had hitherto gone on with such ill-defined ideas, that I had
never once clearly stated the dilemma to myself. From this dream I was
unexpectedly roused one day, when, in a religious conversation, having
distinctly advanced opinions, to my mind, most innocent, I had in
return to undergo a severe lecture. The very thought of such a thing,
it was maintained, was genuine Pelagianism, a pernicious doctrine
which was again appearing, to the great injury of modern times. I was
astonished and even terrified. I went back to Church history, studied
the doctrine and fate of Pelagius more closely, and now saw clearly how
these two irreconcilable opinions had fluctuated in favour through
whole centuries, and had been embraced and acknowledged by different
men, according as they were of a more active or of a more passive
nature.

The course of past years had constantly led me more and more to the
exercise of my own powers. A restless activity was at work within me,
with the best desire for moral development. The world without demanded
that this activity should be regulated and employed for the advantage
of others, and this great demand I felt called upon in my own case to
meet. On all sides I had been directed to nature, and she had appeared
to me in her whole magnificence; I had been acquainted with many good
and true men who were toiling to do their duty, and for the sake of
duty; to renounce them, nay to renounce myself, seemed impossible. The
gulf which separated me from the doctrine of man's total depravity now
became plain to me. Nothing, therefore, remained to me but to part
from this society; and as my love of the holy Scriptures, as well as
of the founder of Christianity and its early professors, could not be
taken from me, I formed a Christianity for my private use, and sought
to establish and build it up by an attentive study of history and a
careful observation of those who were favourable to my opinion.

[Side-note: The Wandering Jew.]

As everything which I once warmly embraced immediately put on a poetic
form, I now took up the strange idea of treating epically the history
of the Wandering Jew, which popular books had long since impressed upon
my mind. My design was to bring out in the course of the narrative such
prominent points of the history of religion and the Church as I should
find convenient. I will now explain the way in which I treated this
fable, and what meaning I gave to it.

In Jerusalem, according to the legend, there was a shoemaker, of the
name of Ahasuerus. For this character my Dresden shoemaker was to
supply the main features. I had furnished him with the spirit and humor
of a craftsman of the school of Hans Sachs, and ennobled him by an
inclination to Christ. Accordingly as, in his open workshop, he liked
to talk with the passers-by, jested with them, and, after the Socratic
fashion, touched up every one in his own way, the neighbors and others
of the people took pleasure in lingering at his booth; even Pharisees
and Sadducees spoke to him, and the Saviour himself and his disciples
would often stop at his door. The shoemaker, whose thoughts were
directed solely towards the world, I painted as feeling, nevertheless,
a special affection for our Lord, which, for the most part, evinced
itself by a desire to bring this lofty being, whose mind he did not
comprehend, over to his own way of thinking and acting. Accordingly,
in a modest manner, he recommends Christ to abandon his contemplative
life, and to leave off going about the country with such idlers,
and drawing the people away from their labor into the wilderness. A
multitude, he said, was always ready for excitement, and nothing good
could come of it.

On the other hand, the Lord endeavoured, by parables, to instruct him
in his higher views and aims, but these were all thrown away on his
mere matter-of-fact intellect. Thus, as Christ becomes more and more
an important character, and finally a public person, the friendly
workman pronounces his opinion still more sharply and vehemently,
maintaining that nothing but disorder and tumult could follow from such
proceedings, and that Christ would be at last compelled to put himself
at the head of a party, though that could not possibly be his design.
Finally, when things had taken the course which history narrates, and
Christ had been seized and condemned, Ahasuerus gives full vent to
his indignation when Judas who undesignedly had betrayed his Lord,
in his despair enters the workshop, and with lamentations relates
how his plans had been crossed. He had been, he said, as well as the
shrewdest of the other disciples, firmly convinced that Christ would
declare himself regent and head of the nation. His purpose was only,
by this violence, to compel the Lord, whose hesitation had hitherto
been invincible, to hasten the declaration. Accordingly, he had incited
the priesthood to an act which previously they had not courage to do.
The disciples, on their side, were not without arms, and probably all
would have turned out well, if the Lord had not given himself up, and
left them in the most forlorn state. Ahasuerus, whom this narrative in
no ways tends to propitiate, only exasperates the agony of the poor
ex-apostle, who rushes out and goes and hangs himself.

[Side-note: The Wandering Jew.]

As Jesus is led past the workshop of the shoemaker, on his way to
execution, the well-known scene of the legend occurs. The sufferer
faints under the burden of the cross, and Simon of Cyrene is compelled
to carry it. Upon this, Ahasuerus comes forward, and sustains the part
of those harsh common-sense people, who, when they see a man involved
in misfortune through his own fault, feel no pity, but, struck by an
untimely sense of justice, make the matter worse by their reproaches.
As he comes out, he repeats all his former warnings, changing them
into vehement accusations, which his attachment to the sufferer seems
to justify. The Saviour does not answer, but at the instant the loving
Veronica covers his face with the napkin, on which, as she removes
it and raises it aloft, Ahasuerus sees depicted the features of the
Lord, not indeed as those of the sufferer of the moment, but as of
one transfigured and radiant with celestial life. Amazed by this
phenomenon, he turns away his eyes and hears the words: "Over the earth
shalt thou wander till thou shalt once more see me in this form."
Overwhelmed at the sentence, it is not till after some time that the
artisan comes to himself; he then finds that every one has gone to
the place of execution and that the streets of Jerusalem are empty.
Disquiet and curiosity drive him forth, and he begins his wandering.

I shall, perhaps, speak elsewhere of all this, and of the incident
by which the poem was ended indeed, but not finished. The beginning,
some detached passages, and the conclusion, were written. But I never
completed the work. I lacked time for the studies necessary to give
it the finish and bearing that I wished. The few sheets which I did
write were the more willingly left to repose in obscurity, as a new
and necessary epoch was now formed in my mental character by the
publication of Werther.

The common fate of man, which all of us have to bear, must fall most
heavily on those whose intellectual powers expand very early. For a
time we may grow up under the protection of parents and relatives;
we may lean for a while upon our brothers and sisters and friends,
be supported by acquaintances, and made happy by those we love, but
in the end man is always driven back upon himself, and it seems as
if the Divinity had taken a position towards men so as not always
to respond to their reverence, trust, and love, at least not in the
precise moment of need. Early enough, and by many a hard lesson, had I
learned that at the most urgent crises the call to us is, "Physician,
heal thyself;" and how frequently had I been compelled to sigh out in
pain, "I tread the wine-press alone!" So now, while I was looking about
for the means of establishing my independence, I felt that the surest
basis on which to build was my own creative talents. For many years I
had never known it to fail me for a moment. What, waking, I had seen
by day, often shaped itself into regular dreams at night, and when I
opened my eyes there appeared to me either a wonderful new whole, or a
part of one already commenced. Usually, my time for wilting was early
in the morning, but still in the evening, or even late at night, when
wine and social intercourse had raised my spirits, I was ready for any
topic that might be suggested; only let a subject of some character be
offered, and I was at once prepared and ready. While, then, I reflected
upon this natural gift, and found that it belonged to me as my own,
and could neither be favoured nor hindered by any external matters, I
easily in thought built my whole existence upon it. This conception
soon assumed a distinct form; the old mythological image of Prometheus
occurred to me, who, separated from the gods, peopled a world from his
own workshop. I clearly felt that a creation of importance could be
produced only when its author isolated himself. My productions which
had met with so much applause were children of solitude, and since I
had stood in a wider relation to the world, I had not been wanting
in the power or the pleasure of invention, but the execution halted,
because I had, neither in prose nor in verse, a style properly my
own, and, consequently, with every new work, had always to begin at
the beginning and try experiments. As in this I had to decline and
even to exclude the aid of men, so, after the fashion of Prometheus,
I separated myself from the gods also, and the more naturally as with
my character and mode of thinking one tendency always swallowed up and
repelled all others.

[Side-note: Prometheus.]

The fable of Prometheus became living in me. The old Titan web I cut up
according to my own measurements, and without further reflection began
to write a piece in which was painted the difficulty Prometheus was
placed in with respect to Jupiter and the later gods, in consequence
of his making men with his own hand, giving them life by the aid of
Minerva, and founding a third dynasty. And, in fact, the reigning gods
had good cause to feel aggrieved, since they might now appear in
the light of wrongful intruders between the Titans and men. To this
singular composition belongs as a monologue that poem, which has become
remarkable in German literature, by having called forth a declaration
from Lessing against Jacobi on certain weighty matters of thought and
feeling. It thus served as the match to an explosion which revealed
and brought into discussion the most secret relations of men of
worth;--relations of which they perhaps were not themselves conscious,
and which were slumbering in a society otherwise most enlightened. The
schism was so violent, that, with the concurrence of further incidents,
it caused us the loss of one of our most valuable men, namely,
Mendelssohn.

Although philosophical and even religions considerations may be,
and before now have been attached to this subject, still it belongs
peculiarly to poetry. The Titans are the foil of polytheism, as the
devil may be considered the foil of monotheism, though, like the only
God to whom he stands in contrast, he is not a poetic figure. The
Satan of Milton, though boldly enough drawn, still remains in the
disadvantageous light of a subordinate existence attempting to destroy
the splendid creation of a higher being; Prometheus, on the contrary,
has this advantage, that, even in spite of superior beings, he is able
to act and to create. It is also a beautiful thought, and well suited
to poetry, to represent men as created not by the Supreme Ruler of the
world, but by an intermediate agent, who, however, as a descendant of
the most ancient dynasty, is of worth and importance enough for such an
office. Thus, and indeed under every aspect, the Grecian mythology is
an inexhaustible mine of divine and human symbols.

Nevertheless, the Titanic, gigantic, heaven-storming character afforded
no suitable material for my poetic art. It better suited me to
represent that peaceful, plastic, and always patient opposition which
recognising the superior power, still presumes to claim equality. And
yet the bolder members of the race, Tantalus, Ixion, Sisyphus, were
also my saints. Admitted to the society of the gods, they would not
deport themselves submissively enough, but, by their haughty bearing
as guests, provoked the anger of their host and patron, and drew upon
themselves a sorrowful banishment. I pitied them; their condition had
already been set forth by the ancients as truly tragic, and when I
introduced them in the background of my _Iphigenie_, I was indebted to
them for a part of the effect which that piece had the good fortune to
produce.

At this period I usually combined the art of design with poetical
composition. I drew the portraits of my friends in profile on grey
paper, in white and black chalk. Whenever I dictated or listened
to reading, I sketched the positions of the writer and reader,
with the surrounding objects; the resemblance could not be denied,
and the drawings were well received. Dilettanti always have this
advantage because they give their labor for nothing. But feeling the
insufficiency of this copying, I betook myself once more to language
and rhythm which were much more at my command. How briskly, how
joyously and eagerly I went to work with them will appear from the many
poems which, enthusiastically proclaiming the art of nature, and the
nature of art, infused, at the moment of their production, new spirit
into me as well as into my friends.

At this epoch, and in the midst of these occupations, I was sitting one
evening with a struggling light in my chamber, to which at least the
air of an artist's studio was thus imparted, while the walls, stuck
over and covered with half-finished works, gave the impression of great
industry, when there entered a well-formed, slender man, whom, at
first, in the twilight, I took for Fritz Jacobi, but soon, discovering
my mistake, greeted as a stranger. In his free and agreeable bearing a
certain military air was perceptible. He announced himself by the name
of Von Knebel, and from a brief introduction I gathered that he was in
the Prussian service, and that during a long residence at Berlin and
Potsdam he had actively cultivated an acquaintance with the literary
men of those places, and with German literature in general. He had
attached himself particularly to Ramler, and had adopted his mode of
reciting poems. He was also familiar with all that Götz had written,
who, at that time, had not as yet made a name among the Germans.
Through his exertions the _Mädcheninsel_ (Isle of Maidens) of this poet
had been printed at Potsdam, and had fallen into the hands of the king,
who was said to have expressed a favorable opinion of it.

[Side-note: State of Weimar.]

We had scarcely talked over these subjects of general interest in
German literature, before I learned, much to my satisfaction, that he
was at present stationed in Weimar, and was appointed the companion of
Prince Constantin. Of matters there I had already heard much that was
favorable; for several strangers, who had come from Weimar, assured
us that the Duchess Amalia had gathered round her the best men to
assist in the education of the princes her sons; that the Academy of
Jena, through its admirable teachers, had also contributed its part
to this excellent purpose; and that the arts were not only protected
by this princess, but were practised by her with great diligence and
zeal. We also heard that Wieland was in especial favor. The _Deutsche
Merkur_, too, which united the labors of so many scholars in other
places, contributed not a little to the fame of the city in which it
was published. There also was one of the best theatres in Germany,
which was made famous by its actors, as well as by the authors who
wrote for it. These noble institutions and plans seemed, however,
to have received a sudden check, and to be threatened with a long
interruption, in consequence of the terrible conflagration of the
castle, which took place in the May of that year. But the confidence
in the hereditary prince was so great that every one was convinced not
only that the damage would be repaired, but that in spite of it every
other hope would be fully accomplished. As I inquired after these
persons and things, as if I were an old acquaintance, and expressed
a wish to become more intimately acquainted with them, my visitor
replied, in the most friendly manner possible, that nothing was easier,
since the hereditary prince, with his brother, the Prince Constantin,
had just arrived in Frankfort, and desired to see and know me. I at
once expressed the greatest willingness to wait upon them, and my new
friend told me that I must not delay, as their stay would not be long.
In order to equip myself for the visit, I took Von Knebel to my father
and mother, who were surprised at his arrival, and the message he bore,
and conversed with him with great satisfaction. I then proceeded with
him to the young princes, who received me in a very easy and friendly
manner; Count Görtz, also, the tutor of the hereditary prince, appeared
not displeased to see me. Though there was no lack of literary subjects
for our conversation, accident furnished the best possible introduction
to it, and rendered it at once important and profitable.

Möser's _Patriotische Fantasien_ (patriotic Fantasies), that is to
say, the first part of them, were lying on the table, fresh from the
binder, with the leaves uncut. As I was familiar with them, while the
rest were scarcely acquainted with them, I had the advantage of being
able to give a complete account of the work, and had here a favorable
opportunity for speaking with a young prince who was sincerely
desirous, and also firmly determined to make use of his station to do
all the good in his power. Möser's book, both in its contents and its
tone, could not but be highly interesting to every German. While by
other writers division, anarchy, and impotence, had been brought as a
reproach against the German empire, according to Möser this very number
of small states was highly desirable, as affording room for the special
cultivation of each, according to its necessities, which must vary with
the site and peculiarities of such widely different provinces. In the
same way, I remarked, that Möser, starting with the city and bishopric
(_Stift_) of Osnaburg, and thence going over the circle of Westphalia,
set forth its relation to the whole empire, and just as he, in the
further examination of the subject, uniting the past with the present,
deduced the latter from the former, and thus clearly shewed what
alterations were desirable or not; so might every ruler, by proceeding
in the same way, obtain a thorough knowledge of the constitution of
the state he governs, its connexion with its neighbors and with the
whole empire, and thus enable himself to judge both the present and the
future.

In the course of our conversation, many remarks were made with regard
to the difference between the States of Upper and Lower Saxony; not
only their natural productions, it was observed, but also their
manners, laws, and customs had differed from the earliest times,
and, according to the form of religion and government, had variously
modified themselves. We endeavoured to obtain a clear view of the
differences between the two regions, and in this attempt it soon
appeared how useful it would be to have a good model, which, if
regarded, not in its individual peculiarities, but in the general
method on which it had been based, might be applied to the most widely
differing cases, and thereby might be highly serviceable in helping us
to form a correct judgment.

This conversation, which was kept up when we were set down at table,
made a better impression in my favor than I perhaps deserved. For
instead of making such works as belonged to my own sphere of literature
the subjects of discussion; instead of demanding an undivided attention
for the drama and for romance, I appeared while discussing Möser's
book, to prefer those writers whose talents, proceeding from active
life, returned to it with immediate benefit, whereas works properly
poetical, as soaring above mere social and material interests, could
only be indirectly and accidentally profitable. These discussions went
on like the stories of the Arabian Nights; one important matter came
up after another; many themes were only touched upon without our being
able to follow them out, and accordingly, as the stay of the young
princes in Frankfort was necessarily short, they made me promise to
follow them to Mayence and spend a few days with them there. I gave
this promise gladly enough, and hastened home to impart the agreeable
intelligence to my parents.

[Side-note: Prospects of a Court-Life.]

My father, however, could not by any means be brought to approve of
it. In accordance with his sentiments as a citizen of the empire, he
had always kept aloof from the great, and although constantly coming
in contact with the _chargés d'affaires_ of the neighboring princes,
he had nevertheless avoided all personal relations with them. In fact,
courts were among the things about which he was accustomed to joke. He
was not indeed displeased if any one opposed his opinions on this head;
only he was not satisfied unless his opponent maintained his side with
wit and spirit. If we allowed his "_Procul a Jove procul a fulmine_"
to pass, but added that with lightning the question was not so much
whence it came as whither it went; he would bring up the old proverb,
"With great lords it is not good to eat cherries." When to this we
replied that it was yet worse to eat with dainty people out of one
basket, he would not deny the truth of this; only he was sure to have
another proverb ready at hand which was to put us to confusion. For
since proverbs and rhyming apophthegms proceed from the people, who,
while they are forced to obey, like at least to speak their vengeance,
just as their superiors, on the other hand, indemnify themselves by
deeds; and since the poetry of the sixteenth century is almost wholly
of a nervous didactic character, there is in our language no lack of
jests and serious adages, directed from below upwards. We juniors,
however, now began to aim from above downwards, fancying ourselves
something great as we took up the cause of the great. Of these sayings
and counter-sayings I will here insert a few.

                   A.

    Long at court is long in hell,

                   B.

    There many good folks warm them well.

                   A
    Such as I am, I'm still mine own,
    To me shall favors ne'er be shown.

                   B.

    Blush not a favor to receive,
    For you must take, if you would give.

                   A.

    This trouble at the court you catch,
    That where you itch, you must not scratch.

                   B.

    The sage, that would the people teach,
    Must scratch a place that does not itch.

                   A.

    Those who a slavish office choose,
    One half of life are sure to lose,
    And come what will they may be sure,
    Old Nick the other will secure.

                   B.

    Whoe'er with princes is at home,
    Will some day find good fortune come;
    Who courts the rabble,--to his cost
    Will find that all his year is lost.

                   A.

    Though wheat at court seems flourishing,
    Doubt that great harvest it will bring,
    When to your barn you deem it brought.
    You'll find that after all 'tis nought.

                   B.

    The wheat that blooms will ripen too,
    For so of old it used to do;
    And if a crop is spoil'd by hail,
    The next year's harvest will not fail.

                   A.

    He who would serve himself alone,
    Should have a cottage of his own.
      Dwell with his children and his wife,
    Regale himself with light new wine,
    And on the cheapest viands dine;
      Then nothing can disturb his life.

                   B.

    So, from a master you'ld be free?--
    Whither think'st thou then to flee?
    Dream not your freedom you will get,
    You have a wife to rule you yet.
    She by her stupid boy is ruled,
    Thus in your cot you still are schooled.

[Side-note: Prospects of a Court-Life.]

As I was lately looking up these rhymes in some old memorandum books, I
fell in with many such _jeux d'esprit_, in which we had amplified pithy
old German saws, in order to set them off against other proverbs which
are equally verified by experience. A selection from them may perhaps
hereafter, as an epilogue to the "Puppenspiele" (puppet shows), suggest
some pleasant reflections.

But all these rejoinders could not move my father from his opinions.
He was in the habit of saving his most stringent argument for the
close of the discussion. This consisted of a minute description of
Voltaire's adventure with Frederick the Second. He told us how the
unbounded favor, familiarity, mutual obligations, were at once revoked
and forgotten; how he had lived to see the comedy out in the arrest of
that extraordinary poet and writer by the Frankfort civic guard, on the
complaint of the Resident Freytag, and the warrant of the Burgomaster
Fichard, and his confinement for some time in the tavern of the Rose,
on the Zeil. To this we might have answered in many ways,--among
others, that Voltaire was not free from blame himself,--but from
filial respect we always yielded the point. On the present occasion,
when these things and others like them were alluded to, I hardly knew
how to demean myself, for he warned me explicitly, maintaining that
the invitation was given only to entice me into a trap, in order to
take vengeance on me for my mischievous treatment of the favored
Wieland. Fully as I was convinced of the contrary, yet as I saw but too
plainly that a preconceived opinion, excited by hypochondriac fancies,
afflicted my worthy father, I was unwilling to act in direct opposition
to his convictions. Still I could not find any excuse for failing
to keep my promise without appearing ungrateful and uncourteous.
Unfortunately our friend Fraülein Von Klettenberg, to whose advice we
usually resorted in such cases, was confined to her bed. In her and my
mother I had two incomparable companions. I called them Word and Deed;
for when the former cast her serene or rather blissful glance over
earthly things, what was confusion to us children of earth, at once
grew plain before her, and she could almost always point out the right
way, because she looked upon the labyrinth from above, and was not
herself entangled in it. When a decision was once made, the readiness
and energy of my mother could be relied on. While the former had Sight
for her aid the latter had Faith, and as she maintained her serenity in
all cases, she was never without the means of accomplishing what was
proposed or desired. Accordingly she was now despatched to our sick
friend to obtain her opinion, and when this turned out in my favour,
she was entreated to gain the consent of my father, who yielded,
against his belief and will.

[Side-note: Gods, Heroes, and Wieland]

It was in a very cold season of the year that I arrived at the
appointed hour in Mayence. My reception by the young princes and
by their attendants, was no less friendly than the invitation. The
conversation in Frankfort was recalled and resumed at the point
where it had been broken off. When it touched upon the recent German
literature and its audacities, it was perfectly natural that my famous
piece, "_Götter, Helden, und Wieland_" (Gods, Heroes, and Wieland)
should come up, at which I remarked with satisfaction that the thing
was regarded with good humor. Being called on to give the real history
of this _jeu d'esprit_, which had excited so great attention, I could
not avoid confessing, first of all, that as true fellows of the Upper
Rhine, we had no bounds either to our liking or disliking. With us,
reverence for Shakspeare was carried to adoration. But Wieland, with
his decided peculiarity of destroying the interest, both of himself
and of his readers, had, in the notes to his translation, found much
fault with the great author, and that in such a way as to vex us
exceedingly, and to diminish in our eyes, the value of the work. We
saw that Wieland, whom we had so highly revered as a poet, and who,
as a translator, had rendered such great service, was, as a critic,
capricious, one-sided, and unjust. Besides this, he had deliberately
spoken against our idols, the Greeks, and this sharpened our hostility
yet more. It is well known that the Greek gods and heroes are eminent
not for moral but for glorified physical qualities, for which reason
they afford such splendid subjects to artists. Now Wieland, in his
_Alceste_, had presented heroes and demi-gods after the modern fashion.
Against this we had nothing to say, as every one is at liberty to mould
poetic traditions to his own ends and way of thinking. But in the
letters on this opera, which he inserted in the _Merkur_, he appeared
to us unduly to exalt this mode of treating them; in short, to show too
much of the partisan, and to commit an unpardonable sin against the
good ancients and their higher style, by his absolute unwillingness
to recognise the strong, healthy nature which is the basis of their
productions. I told them we had hardly discussed these grievances
with some vehemence in our little society, when my ordinary rage for
dramatizing everything came upon me one Sunday afternoon, and so at one
sitting, over a bottle of good Burgundy, I wrote off the whole piece,
just as it stands. It was no sooner read to those of my colleagues as
were present, and received by them with exclamations of delight, than I
sent the manuscript to Lenz at Strasburg, who appeared enraptured with
it, and maintained that it must be printed without delay. After some
correspondence, I at last consented, and he put it hastily to press at
Strasburg. Some time afterwards, I learned that this was one of the
first steps which Lenz took in his design to injure me, and to bring
me into disgrace with the public; but at that time I neither knew nor
surmised anything of the kind.

In this way I narrated to my new patrons, with perfect candour, the
innocent origin of the piece, as well as I knew it myself, in order
to convince them that it contained no personality, nor any ulterior
motive. I also took care to let them understand with what gaiety and
recklessness we were accustomed to banter and ridicule each other
among ourselves. With this, I saw that they were quite content. They
almost admired the great fear we had lest any one of ourselves should
go to sleep upon his laurels. They compared such a society to those
Buccaneers who, in every moment of repose, are afraid of becoming
effeminate, and whose leaders, when there are no enemies in sight, and
there is no one to plunder, will let off a pistol under the mess-table,
in order that even in peace there may be no want of wounds and horrors.
After considerable discussion pro and con upon this subject, I was
at last induced to write Wieland a friendly letter. I gladly availed
myself of the opportunity, as, in the _Merkur_, he had spoken most
liberally of this piece of youthful folly, and as, in literary feuds,
was almost always his custom, had ended the affair in the most skilful
manner.

[Side-note: Prometheus, Deucalion and his Reviewers.]

The few days of my stay at Mayence passed off very pleasantly; for
when my new patrons were abroad on visits and banquets, I remained
with their attendants, drew the portraits of several, or went skating,
for which the frozen ditches of the fortification afforded excellent
opportunity. I returned home full of the kindness I had met with, and,
as I entered the house, was on the point of emptying my heart by a
minute account of it; but I saw only troubled faces, and the conviction
was soon forced upon me that our friend Fraülein von Klettenberg was no
more. At this I was greatly concerned, because, in my present situation
I needed her more than ever. They told me for my consolation, that
a pious death had crowned her happy life, and that the cheerfulness
of her faith had remained undisturbed to the end. But there was also
another obstacle in the way of a free communication on the subject
of my visit. My father, instead of rejoicing at the fortunate issue
of this little adventure, persisted in his opinion, and maintained,
on the other hand, that it was nothing but dissimulation, and that
perhaps there was a danger of their carrying out in the end something
still worse against me. I was thus driven to my younger friends
with my narrative, and to them I could not tell it circumstantially
enough. But, their attachment and good will, led to a result which
to me was most unpleasant. Shortly afterwards, appeared a pamphlet,
called "Prometheus, Deucalion and his Reviewers," also in a dramatic
form. In this the comical notion was carried out, of putting little
wood-cut figures before the dialogue, instead of proper names, and
representing by all sorts of satirical images those critics who had
expressed an opinion upon my works, or on works akin to them. In one
place the Altona courier, without his head, was blowing his horn, here
a bear was growling, and there a goose was cackling. The _Merkur_, too,
was not forgotten, and many wild and tame animals were represented
in the _atelier_ of the sculptor endeavoring to put him out, while
he, without taking particular notice of them, kept zealously at his
work, and did not refrain from expressing his opinion about the
matter in general. The appearance of this _jeu d'esprit_ surprised
me much, and was as unexpected as it was disagreeable. Its style and
tone evidently showed that it was by one of our society, and indeed
I feared it might be attributed to me. But what was most annoying,
was the circumstance that "Prometheus" brought out some allusions
to my stay at Mayence and to what was said there, which nobody but
myself could have known. To me this was a proof that the author was
one of those who formed my most intimate circle of friends, where he
must have heard me relate these events in detail. Accordingly we all
looked at each other, and each suspected the rest, but the unknown
writer managed very well to keep his own secret. I uttered vehement
reproaches against him, because it was exceedingly vexatious to me,
after so gracious a reception and so important a conversation, and
after the confiding letter I had written to Wieland, to see here an
occasion for fresh distrust and disagreement. However my uncertainty on
this point was not of long duration. As I walked up and down my room
reading the book aloud, I heard clearly in the fancies and the turns of
expression the voice of Wagner--and it was he. When I had rushed down
stairs to impart my discovery to my mother, she confessed to me that
she already knew it. Annoyed at the ill results of what had seemed to
him a good and praiseworthy plan, the author had discovered himself
to her, and besought her intercession with me, not to fulfil in his
person my threat of holding no further intercourse with the writer who
had so abused my confidence. The fact that I had found him out myself
was very much in his favour, and the satisfaction always attending a
discovery of one's own, inclined me to be merciful. The fault which
had given occasion for such a proof of my sagacity, was forgiven.
Nevertheless, it was not easy to convince the public that Wagner was
the author, and that I had had no hand in the game. No one believed
that he possessed such versatility of talent; and no one reflected,
that it was very easy for him, though possessing no remarkable
talents of his own, to notice, seize upon, and bring out in his own
way all that for some time had passed either in jest and earnest in
an intellectual society. And thus on this occasion as on many others
afterwards, I had to suffer not only for my own follies, but also for
the indiscretion and precipitancy of my friends.

As the remembrance of them is here suggested by many circumstances,
I will speak of some distinguished men who, at different times, on
their passage through Frankfort, either lodged at our house or partook
of our friendly hospitality. Once more Klopstock stands justly at
the head. I had already exchanged several letters with him, when he
announced to me that he was invited to go to Carlsruhe and to reside
there; that he would be in Friedberg by a specified day, and wished
that I would come there and fetch him. I did not fail to be there at
the hour. He, however, had been accidently detained upon the road;
and after I had waited in vain for some days, I went home, where he
did not arrive till after some time, and then excused his delay, and
received very kindly my readiness to come to meet him. His person was
small but well-built; his manners without being stiff, were serious
and precise; his conversation was measured and agreeable. On the whole
there was something of the diplomatist in his bearing. Such a man
undertakes the difficult task of supporting, at the same time, his own
dignity, and that of a superior to whom he is responsible; of advancing
his own interest, together with the much more important interest of a
prince, or even of a whole State; and of making himself, beyond all
things, pleasing to other men while in this critical position. In this
way Klopstock appeared to bear himself as a man of worth and as the
representative of other things--of religion, of morality and freedom.
He had also assumed another peculiarity of men of the world--namely,
not readily to speak on subjects upon which he was particularly
expected and desired to discourse. He was seldom heard to mention
poetic and literary subjects. But as he found in me and my friends a
set of passionate skaters, he discoursed to us at length on this noble
art, on which he had thought much, having considered what in it was
to be sought, and what avoided. Still, before we could receive the
instruction he proffered, we had to submit to be put right as to the
word itself, in which we blundered.[1] We spoke in good Upper-Saxon
of _Schlittschuhen_, which he would not allow to pass at all; for the
word, he said, does not come from _Schlitten_ (sledge), as if one went
on little runners, but from _Schreiten_ (to stride), because like the
Homeric gods the skater strides away on these winged shoes over the
sea frozen into a plain. Next we came to the instrument itself. He
would have nothing to do with the high grooved skates, but recommended
the low, broad, smooth-bottomed Friseland steel skates as the most
serviceable for speed. He was no friend to the tricks of art which
are usually performed in this exercise. I procured, according to his
advice, a pair of smooth skates, with long toes, and used them for
several years, though with some discomfort. He understood, too, the
science of horsemanship and horse-breaking, and liked to talk about
it; thus, as if by design, he avoided all conversation upon his own
profession, that he might speak with greater freedom about arts quite
foreign to it, which he pursued only as a pastime. I might say much
more of these and other peculiarities of this extraordinary man, if
those who lived longer with him had not already informed us fully about
them. One observation, however, I will not suppress, which is, that men
whom Nature, after endowing them with uncommon advantages, has placed
in a narrow circle of action, or at least in one disproportioned to
their powers, generally fall into eccentricities; and as they have no
opportunity of making direct use of their gifts, seek to employ them in
an extraordinary or whimsical manner.

[Side-note: Zimmermann.]

Zimmermann was also for a time our guest. He was tall and powerfully
built; of a vehement nature open to every impulse; yet he had his
outward bearing and manners perfectly under control, so that in
society he appeared as a skilful physician and polished man of the
world. It was only in his writings and amongst his most confidential
friends, that he gave free course to his untamed inward character. His
conversation was varied and highly instructive, and for one who could
pardon his keen sensitiveness to whatever grated on his own personal
feelings and merits, no more desirable companion could be found. For
myself, as what is called vanity never disturbed me, and I in return
often presumed to be vain also--that is, did not hesitate to enlarge
upon whatever in myself pleased me, I got on with him capitally. We
mutually tolerated and scolded each other, and, as he showed himself
thoroughly open and communicative, I learned from him a great deal in a
short time.

To judge such a man with the indulgence of gratitude, nay on principle,
I cannot say that he was vain. We Germans misuse the word "vain"
(citel), but too often. In a strict sense, it carries with it the idea
of emptiness, and we properly designate by it only the man who cannot
conceal his joy at his Nothing, his contentment with a hollow phantom.
With Zimmermann it was exactly the reverse; he had great deserts, and
no inward satisfaction. The man who cannot enjoy his own natural gifts
in silence, and find his reward in the exercise of them, but must
wait and hope for their recognition and appreciation by others, will
generally find himself but badly off, because it is but too well known
a fact that men are very niggard of their applause; that they rather
love to mingle alloy with praise, and where it can in any degree be
done, to turn it into blame. Whoever comes before the public without
being prepared for this, will meet with nothing but vexation; since,
even if he does not overestimate his own production, it still has
for him an unlimited value, while the reception it meets with in the
world, is in every case qualified. Besides, a certain susceptibility
is necessary for praise and applause, as for every other pleasure. Let
this be applied to Zimmermann, and it will be acknowledged in his case
too; that no one can obtain what he does not bring with him.

[Side-note: Zimmermann.]

If this apology cannot be allowed, still less shall we be able to
justify another fault of this remarkable man, because it disturbed
and even destroyed the happiness of others. I mean his conduct towards
his children. A daughter, who travelled with him, stayed with us
while he visited the neighbouring scenes. She might be about sixteen
years old, slender and well formed, but without attractiveness; her
regular features would have been agreeable, if there had appeared in
them a trace of animation, but she was always as quiet as a statue;
she spoke seldom, and in the presence of her father never. But she
had scarcely spent a few days alone with my mother, receiving the
cheerful and affectionate attentions of this sympathizing woman,
than she threw herself at her feet with an opened heart, and with a
thousand tears, begged to be allowed to remain with her. With the most
passionate language she declared that she would remain in the house
as a servant, as a slave all her life, rather than go back with her
father, of whose severity and tyranny no one could form an idea. Her
brother had gone mad under his treatment; she had hitherto borne it
though with difficulty, because she had believed that it was the same,
or not much better, in every family, but now that she had experienced
such a loving, mild and considerate treatment, her situation at home
had become to her a perfect hell. My mother was greatly moved as she
related to me this passionate effusion, and indeed, she went so far
in her sympathy, as to give me pretty clearly to understand, that she
would be content to keep the girl in the house, if I would make up my
mind to marry her. If she were an orphan, I replied, I might think
and talk it over; but God keep me from a father-in-law who is such a
father! My mother took great pains with the poor girl, but this made
her only the more unhappy. At last an expedient was found, by putting
her to a boarding-school. Her life, I should observe in passing, was
not a very long one.

I should hardly mention this culpable peculiarity of a man of such
great deserts, if it had not already become a matter of public
notoriety, and especially had not the unfortunate hypochondria, with
which, in his last hours, he tortured himself and others, been commonly
talked of. For that severity towards his children was nothing less
than hypochondria, a partial insanity, a continuous moral murder,
which, after making his children its victims, was at last directed
against himself. We must also remember that though apparently in such
good health, he was a great sufferer even in his best years;--that an
incurable disease troubled the skilful physician who had relieved, and
still gave ease to so many of the afflicted. Yes, this distinguished
man, with all his outward reputation, fame, honour, rank, and wealth,
led the saddest life, and whoever will take the pains to learn more
about it from existing publications, will not condemn but pity him.

If it is now expected that I shall give a more precise account of the
effect which this distinguished man had upon me, I must once more
recall the general features of that period. The epoch in which we
were living might be called an epoch of high requisitions, for every
one demanded of himself and of others what no mortal had hitherto
accomplished. On chosen spirits who could think and feel, a light
had arisen, which enabled them to see that an immediate, original
understanding of nature, and a course of action based upon it, was both
the best thing a man could desire, and also not difficult to attain.
Experience thus once more became the universal watchword, and every
one opened his eyes as wide as he could. Physicians, especially, had a
most pressing call to labour to this end, and the best opportunity for
finding it. Upon them a star shone out of antiquity, which could serve
as an example of all that was to be desired. The writings which had
come down to us under the name of Hippocrates, furnished a model of the
way in which a man should both observe the world and relate what he had
seen, without mixing up himself with it. But no one considered that we
cannot see like the Greeks, and that we shall never become such poets,
sculptors, and physicians as they were. Even granted that we could
learn from them, still the results of experience already gone through,
were almost beyond number, and besides were not always of the clearest
kind; moreover had too often been made to accord with preconceived
opinions. All these were to be mastered, discriminated, and sifted.
This also, was an immense demand. Then again it was required that each
observer, in his personal sphere and labours, should acquaint himself
with the true, healthy nature, as if she were now for the first time
noticed, and attended, and thus only what was genuine and real was to
be learned. But as, in general, learning can never exist without the
accompaniment of a universal smattering and a universal pedantry, nor
the practice of any profession without empiricism and charlatanry, so
there sprung up a violent conflict, the purpose of which was to guard
use from abuse, and place the kernel high above the shell in men's
estimation. In the execution of this design, it was perceived that
the shortest way of getting out of the affair, was to call in the aid
of genius, whose magic gifts could settle the strife, and accomplish
what was required. Meanwhile, however, the understanding meddled
with the matter; all it alleged must be reduced to clear notions,
and exhibited in a logical form, that every prejudice might be put
aside, and all superstition destroyed. And since the achievements of
some extraordinary men, such as Boerhaave and Haller, were actually
incredible, people thought themselves justified in demanding even still
more from their pupils and successors. It was maintained that the path
was opened, forgetting that in earthly things a path can very rarely
be spoken of; for, as the water that is dislodged by a ship, instantly
flows in again behind it, so by the law of its nature, when eminent
spirits have once driven error aside, and made a place for themselves,
it very quickly closes upon them again.

[Side-note: Zimmermann.]

But of this the ardent Zimmermann could form no idea whatever; he would
not admit that absurdity did in fact fill up the world. Impatient, even
to madness, he rushed to attack everything that he saw and believed to
be wrong. It was all the same to him whether he was fighting with a
nurse or with Paracelsus, with a quack, or a chemist. His blows fell
alike heavily in either case, and when he had worked himself out of
breath, he was greatly astonished to see the heads of this hydra, which
he thought he had trodden under foot, springing up all fresh again, and
showing him their teeth from innumerable jaws.

Every one who reads his writings, especially his clever work "On
Experience," will perceive more distinctly than I can express them,
the subjects of discussion between this excellent man and myself.
His influence over me, was the more powerful, as he was twenty years
my senior. Having a high reputation as a physician, he was chiefly
employed among the upper classes, and the corruption of the times,
caused by effeminacy and excess, was a constant theme of conversation
with him. Thus his medical discourses, like those of the philosophers
and my poetical friends, drove me again back to nature. In his vehement
passion for improvement I could not fully participate; on the contrary,
after we separated, I instantly drew back into my own proper calling,
and endeavoured to employ the gifts nature had bestowed upon me, with
moderate exertion, and by good-natured opposition to what I disapproved
of, to gain a standing for myself, in perfect indifference how far my
influence might reach or whither it might lead me.

Von Salis, who was setting up the large boarding school at Marsehlins,
visited us also at that time. He was an earnest and intelligent man,
and must have quietly made many humorous observations on the irregular
though genial mode of life in our little society. The same was probably
the case with Sulzer, who came in contact with us on his journey to the
south of France; at least a passage in his travels where he speaks of
me, seems to favor this opinion.

These visits, which were as agreeable as they were profitable, were
however diversified by others which we would rather have been spared.
Needy and shameless adventurers fixed themselves on the confiding
youth, supporting their urgent demands by real as well as fictitious
relationships and misfortunes. They borrowed my money, and made it
necessary for me to borrow in turn, so that I in consequence fell into
the most unpleasant position with opulent and kind-hearted friends. If
I wished that all these unfortunate folks were food for the crows, my
father found himself in the situation of the _Tyro in Witchcraft_[2]
who was willing enough to see his house washed clean, but is frightened
when the flood rushes in without ceasing, over threshold and stairs.
By an excessive kindness, the quiet and moderate plan of life which my
father had designed for me was step by step interrupted and put off,
and from day to day changed contrary to all expectation. All idea of a
long visit to Ratisborn and Vienna was as good as given up; but still I
was to pass through those cities on my way to Italy, so as at least to
gain a general notion of them. On the other hand, some of my friends,
who did not approve of taking so long a circuit, in order to get into
active life, recommended that I should take advantage of a moment which
seemed in every way favorable, and think on a permanent establishment
in my native city. Although the Council were closed against me, first
by my grandfather and then by my uncle, there were yet many civil
offices to which I could lay claim, where I could remain for a time and
await the future. There were agencies of several kinds which offered
employment enough, and the place of a _chargé d'affaires_ was highly
respectable. I suffered myself to be persuaded, and believed also,
that I might adapt myself to this plan, without having tried whether I
was suited for such a mode of life and business as requires that amid
dissipation, we should most of all act for a certain end. To these
plans and designs there was now added a tender sentiment which seemed
to draw me towards a domestic life and to accelerate my determination.

[Side-note: Plans for Settling in Life.]

The society of young men and women already mentioned, which was
kept together by, if it did not owe its origin to, my sister, still
survived after her marriage and departure, because the members had
grown accustomed to each other, and could not spend one evening in
the week better than in this friendly circle. The eccentric orator
also whose acquaintance we made in the sixth book, had, after many
adventures, returned to us, more clever and more perverse than ever,
and once again played the legislator of the little state. As a sequel
to our former diversions he had devised something of the same kind; he
enacted that every week lots should be drawn, not as before to decide
what pairs should be lovers, but married couples. How lovers should
conduct themselves towards each other, he said, we knew well enough;
but of the proper deportment of husbands and wives in society we were
totally ignorant, and this, with our increasing years, we ought to
learn before all things. He laid down general rules, which, of course,
set forth that we must act as if we did not belong to each other;
that we must not sit or speak often together, much less indulge in
anything like caresses. And at the same time we were not only to avoid
everything which would occasion mutual suspicion and discord, but, on
the contrary, he was to win the greatest praises, who, with his free
and open manners should yet most endear to himself his wife.

The lots were at once drawn; some odd matches that they decided were
laughed at and joked about, and the universal marriage-comedy was begun
in good humour and renewed every week.

Now it fell out strangely enough, that from the first the same lady
fell twice to me. She was a very good creature, just such a woman
as one would like to think of as a wife. Her figure was beautiful
and well-proportioned, her face pleasing, while in her manners there
prevailed a repose which testified to the health of her mind and body.
Every day and hour she was perfectly the same. Her domestic industry
was in high repute. Though she was not talkative, a just understanding
and natural talents could be recognised in her language. To meet the
advances of such a person with friendliness and esteem was natural;
on a general principle I was already accustomed to do it, and now I
acted from a sort of traditional kindness as a social duty. But when
the lot brought us together for the third time, our jocose law-giver
declared in the most solemn manner that Heaven had spoken, and we could
not again be separated. We submitted to his sentence, and both of us
adapted ourselves so well to our public conjugal duties, that we might
really have served as a model. Since all the pairs who were severally
united for the evening, were obliged by the general rules to address
each other for the few hours with _Du_ (thou), we had, after a series
of weeks, grown so accustomed to this confidential pronoun, that even
in the intervals whenever we accidentally came together, the _Du_
would kindly come out.[3] Habit is a strange thing; by degrees both
of us found that nothing was more natural than this relation. I liked
her more and more, while her manner of treating me gave evidence of
a beautiful calm confidence, so that on many an occasion if a priest
had been present we might have been united on the spot without much
hesitation.

[Side-note: The Clavigo.]

As at each of our social gatherings something new was required to
be read aloud, I brought with me one evening a perfect novelty, The
Memoir of Beaumarchais against Clavigo, in the original. It gained
great applause. The thoughts to which it gave occasion were freely
expressed, and after much had been spoken on both sides, my partner
said: "If I were thy liege lady and not thy wife, I would entreat thee
to change this memoir into a play: it seems to me perfectly suited
for it." "That thou mayst see, my love," I replied, "that liege lady
and wife can be united in one person, I promise that, at the end of a
week, the subject-matter of this work, in the form of a piece for the
theatre, shall be read aloud, as has just been done with these pages."
They wondered at so bold a promise, but I did not delay to set about
accomplishing it. What, in such cases, is called invention, was with me
instantaneous. As I was escorting home my titulary wife I was silent.
She asked me what was the matter? "I am thinking out the play," I
answered, "and have got already into the middle of it. I wished to show
thee that I would gladly do anything to please thee." She pressed my
hand, and as I in return snatched a kiss, she said: "Thou must forget
thy character! To be loving, people think, is not proper for married
folks." "Let them think," I rejoined, "we will have it our own way."

Before I got home, and indeed I look a very circuitous route, the
piece was pretty far advanced. Lest this should seem boastful, I will
confess that previously, on the first and second reading, the subject
had appeared to me dramatic and even theatrical, but, without such a
stimulus, this piece, like so many others, would have remained among
the number of the merely possible creations. My mode of treating it is
well enough known. Weary of villains, who, from revenge, hate, or mean
purposes, attack a noble nature and ruin it, I wished, in Carlos, to
show the working of clear good sense, associated with true friendship,
against passion, inclination and outward necessity; in order, for once,
to compose a tragedy in this way. Availing myself of the example of our
patriarch Shakspeare, I did not hesitate for a moment to translate,
word for word, the chief scene, and all that was properly dramatic in
the original. Finally, for the conclusion, I borrowed the end of an
English ballad, and so I was ready before the Friday came. The good
effect which I attained in the reading will easily be believed. My
liege spouse took not a little pleasure in it, and it seemed as if,
by this production, as an intellectual offspring, our union was drawn
closer and dearer.

Mephistopheles Merck here did me, for the first time, a great injury.
When I communicated, the piece to him he answered: "You must write
hereafter no more such trifles; others can do such things." In this he
was wrong. We should not, in all things, transcend the notions which
men have already formed; it is good that much should be in accordance
with the common way of thinking. Had I at that time written a dozen
such pieces, which with a little stimulus would have been easy enough,
three or four of them would perhaps have retained a place on the stage.
Every theatrical manager who knows the value of a repertoire, can say
what an advantage that would have been.

By these, and other intellectual diversions, our whimsical game of
marriage became a family story, if not the talk of the town, which
did not sound disagreeably in the ears of the mothers of our fair
ones. My mother, also, was not at all opposed to such an event; she
had before looked with favor on the lady with whom I had fallen into
so strange a relation, and did not doubt that she would make as good
a daughter-in-law as a wife. The aimless bustle in which I had for
some time lived was not to her mind, and, in fact, she had to bear the
worst of it. It was her part to provide abundant entertainment for the
stream of guests, without any compensation for furnishing quarters to
this literary army, other than the honor they did her son by feasting
upon him. Besides, it was clear to her that so many young persons--all
of them without property--united not only for scientific and poetic
purposes, but also for that of passing the time in the gayest manner,
would soon become a burthen and injury to themselves, and most
certainly to me, whose thoughtless generosity and passion for becoming
security for others she too well knew.

Accordingly, she looked on the long-planned Italian journey, which my
father once more brought forward, as the best means of cutting short
all these connexions at once. But, in order that no new danger might
spring up in the wide world, she intended first of all to bind fast
the union which had already been suggested, so as to make a return
into my native country more desirable, and my final determination more
decided. "Whether I only attribute this scheme to her, or whether she
had actually formed it with her departed friend, I am not quite sure;
enough, that her actions seemed to be based on a well-digested plan.
I had very often to hear from her a regret that since Cornelia's
marriage our family circle was altogether too small; it was felt that
I had lost a sister, my mother an assistant, and my father a pupil;
nor was this all that was said. It happened, as if by accident, that
my parents met the lady on a walk, invited her into the garden, and
conversed with her for a long time. Thereupon there was some pleasantry
at tea-table, and the remark was made with a certain satisfaction that
she had pleased my father, as she possessed all the chief qualities
which he as a connoisseur of women required.

[Side-note: Preparations for my Wedding.]

One thing after another was now arranged in our first story, as if
guests were expected; the linen was reviewed, and some hitherto
neglected furniture was thought of. One day I surprised my mother in a
garret examining the old cradles, among which an immense one of walnut
inlaid with ivory and ebony, in which I had formerly been rocked, was
especially prominent. She did not seem altogether pleased when I said
to her, that such swing-boxes were quite out of fashion, and that now
people put babies, with free limbs, into a neat little basket, and
carried them about for show, by a strap over the shoulder, like other
small wares.

Enough;--such prognostics of a renewal of domestic activity became
frequent, and, as I was in every way submissive, the thought of a state
which would last through life spread a peace over our house and its
inhabitants such as had not been enjoyed for a long time.[4]



[1] There are two words used for "skate." One of them _Schlittschuh_,
means "sledge-shoe;" the other _Schrittschuch_, means "stride-shoe."
Göthe and his friends make use of the former; Klopstock contends for
the latter.

[2] The allusion, is to Göthe's own poem "Der Zauberlehrling."

[3] Members of the same family address each other with the second
person singular, "Du" instead of the more formal third person plural,
"Sie." In the same way the French employ "Tu" instead of "Vous."
_Trans._

[4] The following note is prefixed by the author to the last portion of
this work.

Preface. In treating a life's story, progressing in many different
ways, like this which we have ventured to undertake, it is necessary,
in order to be intelligible and readable, that some parts of it,
connected in time should be separated, whilst others which can only
be understood by a connected treatment must be brought together: and
the whole be so arranged in sections that the reader inspecting it
intelligently may form an opinion on it, and appropriate a good deal
for his own use.

We open the present volume with this reflexion, that it may help to
justify our mode of proceeding: and we add the request that our readers
will note that the narrative here continued does not exactly fit on to
the end of the preceding book, though the intention is to gather up
again the main threads one by one, and to bring on the personages as
well as the thoughts and actions in a virtually complete sequence.




PART THE FOURTH.


NEMO CONTRA DEUM NISI DEUS IPSE.




SIXTEENTH BOOK.


What people commonly say of misfortunes: that they never come alone:
may with almost as much truth be said also of good fortune, and,
indeed, of other circumstances which often cluster around us in a
harmonious way; whether it he by a kind of fatality, or whether it be
that man has the power of attracting to himself all mutually related
things.

At any rate, my present experience shewed me everything conspiring to
produce an outward and an inward peace. The former came to me while I
resolved patiently to await the result of what others were meditating
and designing for me; the latter, however, I had to attain for myself
by renewing former studies.

I had not thought of Spinoza for a long time, and now I was driven
to him by an attack upon him. In our library I found a little
book, the author of which railed violently against that original
thinker; and to go the more effectually to work, had inserted for
a frontispiece a picture of Spinoza himself, with the inscription:
"_Signum reprobationis in vultu gerens_" bearing on his face the stamp
of reprobation. This there was no gainsaying, indeed, so long as one
looked at the picture; for the engraving was wretchedly bad, a perfect
caricature; so that I could not help thinking of those adversaries who,
when they conceive a dislike to any one, first of all misrepresent him,
and then assail the monster of their own creation.

This little book, however, made no impression upon me, since generally
I did not like controversial works, but preferred always to learn
from the author himself how he did think, than to hear from another
how he ought to have thought. Still, curiosity led me to the article
"Spinoza," in Bayle's Dictionary, a work as valuable for its learning
and acuteness as it is ridiculous and pernicious by its gossiping and
scandal.

[Side-note: Spinoza - His Principles.]

The article "Spinoza" excited in me displeasure and mistrust. In the
first place, the philosopher is represented as an atheist, and his
opinions as most abominable; but immediately afterwards it is confessed
that he was a calmly reflecting man, devoted to his studies, a good
citizen, a sympathizing neighbour, and a peaceable individual. The
writer seemed to me to have quite forgotten the words of the gospel:
"By their fruits ye shall know them," for how could a life pleasing in
the sight of God and man spring from corrupt principles?

I well remembered what peace of mind and clearness of ideas came over
me when I first turned over the posthumous works of that remarkable
man. The effect itself was still quite distinct to my mind, though I
could not recall the particulars; I therefore speedily had recourse
again to the work? to which I had owed so much, and again the same calm
air breathed over me. I gave myself up to this reading, and believed,
while I looked into myself, that I had never before so clearly seen
through the world.

As, on this subject, there always has been, and still is even in these
later times, so much controversy, I would not wish to be misunderstood,
and therefore I make here a few remarks upon these so much feared, yea,
abhorred views.

Our physical as well as our social life, manners, customs, worldly
wisdom, philosophy, religion, and many an accidental event, all call
upon us, _to deny ourselves._ Much that is most inwardly peculiar to
us we are not allowed to develope; much that we need from without for
the completion of our character is withheld; while, on the other hand,
so much is forced upon us which is as alien to us as it is burdensome.
We are robbed of all that we have laboriously acquired for ourselves,
or friendly circumstances have bestowed upon us; and before we can
see clearly what we are, we find ourselves compelled to part with
our personality, piece by piece, till at last it is gone altogether.
Indeed, the case is so universal that it seems a law of society to
despise a man who shows himself surly on that account. On the contrary,
the bitterer the cup we have to drink, the more pleasant face must one
make, in order that composed lookers on may not be offended by the
least grimace.

To solve this painful problem, however, nature has endowed man with
ample power, activity, and endurance. But especially is he aided
therein by his volatility (_Leichtsinn_), a boon to man, which nothing
can take away. By its means he is able to renounce the cherished object
of the moment, if only the next presents him something new to reach at;
and thus he goes on unconsciously, remodelling his whole life. We are
continually putting one passion in the place of another; employments,
inclinations, tastes, hobbies--we try them all, only to exclaim at
last, All is vanity. No one is shocked by this false and murmuring
speech; nay, every one thinks, while he says it, that he is uttering
a wise and indisputable maxim. A few men there are, and only a few,
who anticipate this insupportable feeling, and avoid all calls to such
partial resignation by one grand act of total self-renunciation.

Such men convince themselves of the Eternal, the Necessary, and
of Immutable Law, and seek to form to themselves ideas which are
incorruptible, nay which observation of the Perishable does not shake,
but rather confirms. But since in this there is something superhuman,
such persons are commonly esteemed _in_-human, without a God and
without a World. People hardly know what sort of horns and claws to
give them.

My confidence in Spinoza rested on the serene effect he wrought in me,
and it only increased when I found my worthy mystics were accused of
Spinozism, and learned that even Leibnitz himself could not escape the
charge; nay, that Boerhaave, being suspected of similar sentiments, had
to abandon Theology for Medicine.

But let no one think that I would have subscribed to his writings,
and assented to them _verbatim et literatim._ For, that no one really
understands another; that no one attaches the same idea to the same
word which another does; that a dialogue, a book, excites in different
persons different trains of thought:--this I had long seen all too
plainly; and the reader will trust the assertion of the author of Faust
and Werther, that deeply experienced in such misunderstandings, he was
never so presumptuous as to think that he understood perfectly a man,
who, as the scholar of Descartes, raised himself, through mathematical
and rabbinical studies, to the highest reach of thought; and whose name
even at this day seems to mark the limit of all speculative efforts.

How much I appropriated from Spinoza, would be seen distinctly enough,
if the visit of the "Wandering Jew," to Spinoza, which I had devised as
a worthy ingredient for that poem, existed in writing. But it pleased
me so much in the conception, and I found so much delight in meditating
on it in silence, that I never could bring myself to the point of
writing it out. Thus the notion, which would have been well enough as a
passing joke, expanded itself until it lost its charm, and I banished
it from my mind as something troublesome. The chief points, however,
of what I owed to my study of Spinoza, so far as they have remained
indelibly impressed on my mind, and have exercised a great influence
on the subsequent course of my life, I will now unfold as briefly and
succinctly as possible.

[Side-note: Influence of Spinoza.]

Nature works after such eternal, necessary, dime laws, that the Deity
himself could alter nothing in them. In this belief, all men are
unconsciously agreed. Think only how a natural phenomenon, which should
intimate any degree of understanding, reason, or even of caprice, would
instantly astonish and terrify us.

If anything like reason shows itself in brutes, it is long before
we can recover from our amazement; for, although they stand so near
to us, they nevertheless seem to be divided from us by an infinite
gulf, and to belong altogether to the kingdom of necessity. It is
therefore impossible to take it ill if some thinkers have pronounced
the infinitely ingenious, but strictly limited, organisation of those
creatures, to be thoroughly mechanical.

If we turn to plants, our position is still more strikingly confirmed.
How unaccountable is the feeling which seizes an observer upon seeing
the _Mimosa_, as soon as it is touched, fold together in pairs its
downy leaves, and finally clap down its little stalk as if upon a
joint (_Gewerbe_). Still higher rises that feeling, to which I will
give no name, at the sight of the _Hedysarum Gyrans_, which without
any apparent outward occasion moves up and down its little leaves,
and seems to play with itself as with our thoughts. Let us imagine a
_Banana_, suddenly endowed with a similar capacity, so that of itself
it could by turns let down and lift up again its huge leafy canopy;
who would not, upon seeing it the first time, start back in terror? So
rooted within us is the idea of our own superiority, that we absolutely
refuse to concede to the outward world any part or portion in it; nay,
if we could, we would too often withhold such advantages from our
fellows.

On the other hand, a similar horror seizes upon us, when we see a man
unreasonably opposing universally recognised moral laws, or unwisely
acting against the interest of himself and others. To get rid of the
repugnance which we feel on such occasions, we convert it at once into
censure or detestation, and we seek either in reality or in thought to
get free from such a man.

This contrariety between Reason and Necessity, which Spinoza threw out
in so strong a light, I, strangely enough, applied to my own being;
and what has been said is, properly speaking, only for the purpose of
rendering intelligible what follows.

I had come to look upon my indwelling poetic talent altogether as
Nature; the more so, as I had always been impelled to regard outward
Nature as its proper object. The exercise of this poetic gift could
indeed be excited and determined by circumstances; but its most joyful,
its richest action was spontaneous-nay, even involuntary.

    Through field and forest roaming,
    My little songs still humming,
     So went it all day long.

In my nightly vigils the same thing happened; I therefore often wished,
like one of my predecessors, to get me a leathern jerkin made, and to
accustom myself to write in the dark so as to be able to fix down at
once all such unpremeditated effusions. So frequently had it happened
that after composing a little piece in my head I could not recall it,
that I would now hurry to the desk and, at one standing, write off the
poem from beginning to end, and as I could not spare time to adjust
my paper, however obliquely it might lie, the lines often crossed it
diagonally. In such a mood I liked best to get hold of a lead pencil,
because I could write most readily with it; whereas the scratching and
spluttering of the pen would sometimes wake me from my somnambular
poetizing, confuse me, and stifle a little conception in its birth.
For the poems thus created I had a particular reverence; for I felt
towards them somewhat as the hen does towards her chickens, which
she sees hatched and chirping about her. My old whim of making known
these things only by means of private readings, now returned to me: to
exchange them for money seemed to me detestable.

[Side-note: Himburg - The Piratical Bookseller.]

And this suggests to me to mention in the present place a little
incident, which however did not take place till some time after. When
the demand for my works had increased and a collected edition of
them was much called for, these feelings held me back from preparing
it myself; Himburg, however, took advantage of my hesitation, and I
unexpectedly received one day several copies of my collected works in
print. With cool audacity this unauthorized publisher even boasted of
having done me a public service, and offered to send me, if I wished,
some Berlin porcelain by way of compensation. His offer served to
remind me of the law which compelled the Jews of Berlin, when they
married, to purchase a certain quantity of porcelain, in order to keep
up the sale of the Royal manufacture. The contempt which was shewn for
the shameless pirate, led me to suppress the indignation which I could
not but feel at such a robbery. I gave him no reply; and while he was
making himself very comfortable with my property, I revenged myself in
silence with the following verses:--

    Records of the years once dream'd away,
    Long fallen hairs, and flow'rs that shew decay,
    Faded ribbons, veils so lightly wove,
    The mournful pledges of a vanished love;
    Things that to the flames should long have gone,
    --Saucy Sosias snatches every one.
    Just as though he were the heir to claim,
    Lawfully the poets' works and fame.
    And to make the owner full amends
    Paltry tea and coffee-cups he sends!
    Take your china back, your gingerbread!
    For all Himburgs living I am dead.

This very Nature, however, which thus spontaneously brought forth
so many longer and smaller works, was subject to long pauses, and
for considerable periods I was unable, even when I most wished it,
to produce anything, and consequently often suffered from ennui.
The perception of such contrasts within me gave rise to the thought
whether, on the other hand, it would not be my wisest course to employ
for my own and others' profit and advantage, the human, rational, and
intellectual part of my being, and as I already had done, and as I
now felt myself more and more called upon to do, devote the intervals
when Nature ceased to influence me, to worldly occupations, and thus
to leave no one of my faculties unused. This course, which seemed to
be dictated by those general ideas before described, was so much in
harmony with my character and my position in life, that I resolved
to adopt it and by this means to check the wavering and hesitation
to which I had hitherto been subject. Very pleasant was it to me
to reflect, that thus for actual service to my fellow men, I might
demand a substantial reward, while on the other hand I might go on
disinterestedly spending that lovely gift of nature as a sacred thing.
By this consideration I guarded against the bitterness of feeling
which might have arisen when circumstances should force upon the
remark that precisely this talent, so courted and admired in Germany,
was treated as altogether beyond the pale of the law and of justice.
For not only were piracies considered perfectly allowable, and even
comical in Berlin, but the estimable Margrave of Baden, so praised for
his administrative virtues, and the Emperor Joseph who had justified
so many hopes, lent their sanction, one to his Macklot, and the other
to his honorable noble _von Trattner_; and it was declared, that the
rights, as well as the property of genius, should be left at the
absolute mercy of the trade.

One day, when we were complaining of this to a visitor from Baden, he
told us the following story: Her ladyship the Margravine, being a very
active lady, had established a paper-manufactory; but the paper was so
bad, that it was impossible to dispose of it. Thereupon Mr. bookseller
Macklot proposed, if he were permitted to print the German poets and
prose writers, he would use this paper, and thus enhance its value. The
proposition was adopted with avidity.

Of course, we pronounced this malicious piece of scandal to be a
mere fabrication; but found our pleasure in it notwithstanding. The
name of Macklot became a by-word at the time, and was applied by us
to all mean transactions. And, a versatile youth, often reduced to
borrowing himself, while others' meanness was making itself rich upon
his talents, felt himself sufficiently compensated by a couple of good
jokes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Children and youths wander on in a sort of happy intoxication, which
betrays itself especially in the fact, that the good, innocent
creatures are scarcely able to notice, and still less to understand,
the ever changing state of things around them. They regard the world
as raw material which they must shape, as a treasure which they must
take possession of. Everything they seem to think belongs to them,
everything must be subservient to their will; indeed, on this account,
the greater part lose themselves in a wild uncontrollable temper.
With the better part, however, this tendency unfolds itself into a
moral enthusiasm, which, occasionally moves of its own accord after
some actual or seeming good, but still oftener suffers itself to be
prompted, led, and even misled.

Such was the case with the youth of whom we are at present speaking,
and if he appeared rather strange to mankind, still he seemed welcome
to many. At the very first meeting you found in him a freedom from
reserve, a cheerful open-heartedness in conversation, and in action the
unpremeditated suggestions of the moment. Of the latter trait a story
or two.

[Side-note: A Scene at a Fire.]

In the close-built Jews' street (_Judengasse_), a violent conflagration
had broken out. My universal benevolence, which prompted me to lend my
active aid to all, led me to the spot, full dressed as I was. A passage
had been broken through from All Saints' street (_Allerheiligengasse_),
and thither I repaired. I found a great number of men busied with
carrying water, rushing forward with full buckets, and back again with
empty ones. I soon saw that, by forming a lane for passing up and
down the buckets, the help we rendered might be doubled. I seized two
full buckets and remained standing and called others to me; those who
came on were relieved of their load, while those returning arranged
themselves in a row on the other side. The arrangement was applauded,
my address and personal sympathy found favor, and the lane, unbroken
from its commencement to its burning goal, was soon completed.
Scarcely, however, had the cheerfulness which this inspired, called
forth a joyous, I might even say, a merry humor in this living machine,
all of whose party worked well together, when wantonness began to
appear, and was soon succeeded by a love of mischief. The wretched
fugitives, dragging off their miserable substance upon their backs, if
they once got within the lane, must pass on without stopping, and if
they ventured to halt for a moment's rest, were immediately assailed.
Saucy boys would sprinkle them with the water, and even add insult
to misery. However, by means of gentle words and eloquent reproofs,
prompted perhaps by a regard to my best clothes, which were in danger,
I managed to put a stop to their rudeness.

Some of my friends had from curiosity approached, to gaze on the
calamity, and seemed astonished to see their companion, in thin shoes
and silk stockings--for that was then the fashion-engaged in this wet
business. But few of them could I persuade to join us; the others
laughed and shook their heads. We stood our ground, however, a long
while, for, if any were tired and went away, there were plenty ready to
take their places. Many sight-seers, too, came merely for the sake of
the spectacle, and so my innocent daring became universally known, and
the strange disregard of etiquette became the town-talk of the day.

This readiness to do any action that a good-natured whim might prompt,
which proceeded from a happy self-consciousness which men are apt to
blame as vanity, made our friend to be talked of for other oddities.

A very inclement winter had completely covered the Main with ice, and
converted it into a solid floor. The liveliest intercourse, both for
business and pleasure, was kept up on the ice. Boundless skating-paths,
and wide, smooth frozen plains, swarmed with a moving multitude. I
never failed to be there early in the morning, and once, being lightly
clad, felt myself nearly frozen through by the time that my mother
arrived, who usually came at a later hour to visit the scene. She sat
in the carriage, in her purple-velvet and fur-trimmed cloak, which,
held together on her breast by a strong golden cord and tassel, looked
quite fine. "Give me your furs, dear mother!" I cried out on the
instant, without a moment's thought, "I am terribly frozen." She, too,
did not stop to think, and so in a moment I was wrapped in her cloak.
Beaching half-way below my knees with its purple-colour, sable-border,
and gold trimmings, it contrasted not badly with the brown fur cap
I wore. Thus clad, I carelessly went on skating up and down; the
crowd was so great that no especial notice was taken of my strange
appearance; still it was not unobserved, for often afterwards it was
brought up, in jest or in earnest, among my other eccentricities.

       *       *       *       *       *

Leaving these recollections of happy and spontaneous action, we will
now resume the sober thread of our narrative.

A witty Frenchman has said: If a clever man has once attracted the
attention of the public by any meritorious work, every one does his
best to prevent his ever doing a similar thing again.

It is even so: something good and spirited is produced in the quiet
seclusion of youth; applause is won, but independence is lost; the
concentrated talent is pulled about and distracted, because people
think that they may pluck off and appropriate to themselves a portion
of the personality.

It was owing to this that I received a great many invitations, or,
rather, not exactly invitations: a Mend, an acquaintance would propose,
with even more than urgency, to introduce me here or there.

The _quasi_ stranger, now described as a bear on account of his
frequent surly refusals, and then again like Voltaire's Huron, or
Cumberland's West Indian, as a child of nature in spite of many
talents, excited curiosity, and in various families negotiations were
set on foot to see him.

[Side-note: Introduction to Lili.]

Among others, a friend one evening entreated me to go with him to
a little concert to be given in the house of an eminent merchant
of the reformed persuasion. It was already late; but as I loved to
do everything on the spur of the moment, I went with him, decently
dressed, as usual. We entered a chamber on the ground floor,--the
ordinary but spacious sitting-room of the family. The company was
numerous, a piano stood in the middle, at which the only daughter of
the house sat down immediately, and played with considerable facility
and grace. I stood at the lower end of the piano, that I might be near
enough to observe her form and bearing; there was something childlike
in her manner; the movements she was obliged to make in playing were
unconstrained and easy.

After the sonata was finished, she stepped towards the end of the piano
to meet me; we merely saluted, however, without further conversation,
for a quartet had already commenced. At the close of it, I moved
somewhat nearer and uttered some civil compliment; telling her what
pleasure it gave me that my first acquaintance with her should have
also made me acquainted with her talent. She managed to make a very
clever reply, and kept her position as I did mine. I saw that she
observed me closely, and that I was really standing for a show; but I
took it all in good part, since I had something graceful to look at in
my turn. Meanwhile, we gazed on one another, and I will not deny that
I was sensible of feeling an attractive power of the gentlest kind.
The moving about of the company, and her performances, prevented any
further approach that evening. But I must confess that I was anything
but displeased, when, on taking leave, the mother gave me to understand
that they hoped soon to see me again, while the daughter seemed to
join in the request with some friendliness of manner. I did not fail,
at suitable intervals, to repeat my visit, since, on such occasions, I
was sure of a cheerful and intellectual conversation, which seemed to
prophesy no tie of passion.

In the meantime, the hospitality of our house once laid open caused
many an inconvenience to my good parents and myself. At any rate it had
not proved in any way beneficial to my steadfast desire to notice the
Higher, to study it, to further it, and if possible to imitate it. Men,
I saw, so far as they were good, were pious; and, so far as they were
active, were unwise and oftentimes unapt. The former could not help me,
and the latter only confused me. One remarkable case I have carefully
written down.

[Side-note: Jung or Stilling.]

In the beginning of the year 1775, Jung, afterwards called Stilling,
from the Lower Rhine, announced to us that he was coming to Frankfort,
being invited as an oculist, to treat an important case; the news was
welcome to my parents and myself, and we offered him quarters.

Herr von Lersner, a worthy man advanced in years, universally esteemed
for his success in the education and training of princely children,
and for his intelligent manners at court and on his travels, had been
long afflicted with total blindness; his strong hope of obtaining some
relief of his affliction was not entirely extinct. Now, for several
years past, Jung, with much courage and modest boldness, had, in the
Lower Rhine, successfully couched for the cataract, and thus had gained
a wide-spread reputation. The candor of his soul, his truth fulness
of character, and genuine piety, gained him universal confidence; this
extended up the river through the medium of various parties connected
by business. Herr von Lersner and his friends, upon the advice of an
intelligent physician, resolved to send for the successful oculist,
although a Frankfort merchant, in whose case the cure had failed,
earnestly endeavored to dissuade them. But what was a single failure
against so many successful cases! So Jung came, enticed by the hope of
a handsome remuneration, which heretofore he had been accustomed to
renounce; he came, to increase his imputation, full of confidence and
in high spirits, and we congratulated ourselves on the prospect of such
an excellent and lively table-companion.

At last, after a preparatory course of medicine, the cataract upon both
eyes was couched. Expectation was at its height. It was said that the
patient saw the moment after the operation, until the bandage again
shut out the light. But it was remarked that Jung was not cheerful, and
that something weighed on his spirits; indeed, on further inquiry he
confessed to me that he was uneasy as to the result of the operation.
Commonly, for I had witnessed several operations of the kind in
Strasburg, nothing in the world seemed easier than such cases; and
Stilling himself had operated successfully a hundred times. After
piercing the insensible cornea, which gave no pain, the dull lens
would, at the slightest pressure, spring forward of itself; the patient
immediately discerned objects, and only had to wait with bandaged eyes,
until the completed cure should allow him to use the precious organ at
his own will and convenience. How many a poor man, for whom Jung had
procured this happiness, had invoked God's blessing and reward upon
his benefactor, which was now to be realized by means of this wealthy
patient!

Jung confessed to me that this time the operation had not gone off so
easily and so successfully; the lens had not sprung forward, he had
been obliged to draw it out, and indeed, as it had grown to the socket,
to loosen it; and this he was not able to do without violence. He now
reproached himself for having operated also on the other eye. But
Lersner and his friends had firmly resolved to have both couched at the
same time, and when the emergency occurred, they did not immediately
recover presence of mind enough to think what was best. Suffice it to
say, the second lens also did not spontaneously spring forward; but had
to be loosened and drawn out with difficulty.

How much pain our benevolent, good-natured, pious friend felt in
this case, it is impossible to describe or to unfold; some general
observations on his state of mind will not be out of place here.

To labor for his own moral culture, is the simplest and most
practicable thing which man can propose to himself; the impulse is
inborn in him; while in social life both reason and love, prompt or
rather force him to do so.

Stilling could only live in a moral religious atmosphere of love;
without sympathy, without hearty response, he could not exist; he
demanded mutual attachment; where he was not known, he was silent;
where he was only known, not loved, he was sad; accordingly he got on
best with those well-disposed persons, who can set themselves down for
life in their assigned vocation and go to work to perfect themselves in
their narrow but peaceful sphere.

Such persons succeed pretty well in stifling vanity, in renouncing the
pursuit of outward power, in acquiring a circumspect way of speaking,
and in preserving a uniformly friendly manner towards companions and
neighbors.

Frequently we may observe in this class traces of a certain form of
mental character, modified by individual varieties; such persons,
accidentally excited, attach great weight to the course of their
experience; they consider everything a supernatural determination, in
the conviction that God interferes immediately with the course of the
world.

With all this there is associated a certain disposition to abide in
his present state, and yet at the same time to allow themselves to be
pushed or led on; which results from a certain indecision to act of
themselves. The latter is increased by the miscarriage of the wisest
plans, as well as by the accidental success brought about by the
unforeseen concurrence of favorable occurrences.

Now, since a vigilant manly character is much checked by this way of
life, it is well worthy of reflection and inquiry, how men are most
liable to fall into such a state.

The things sympathetic persons of this kind love most to talk of,
are the so-called awakenings and conversions, to which we will not
deny a certain psychological value. They are properly what we call in
scientific and poetic matters, an "_aperçu_;" the perception of a great
maxim, which is always a genius-like operation of the mind; we arrive
at it by pure intuition, that is, by reflection, neither by learning
or tradition. In the cases before us it is the perception of the moral
power, which anchors in faith, and thus feels itself in proud security
in the midst of the waves.

Such an _aperçu_ gives the discoverer the greatest joy, because, in an
original manner, it points to the infinite; it requires no length of
time to work conviction; it leaps forth whole and complete in a moment;
hence the quaint old French rhyme:

    En peu d'heure
    Dieu labeure.

Outward occasions often work violently in bringing about such
conversions, and then people think they see in them signs and wonders.

[Side-note: Stilling.]

Love and confidence bound me most heartily to Stilling; I had moreover
exercised a good and happy influence on his life, and it was quite in
accordance with his disposition, to treasure up in a tender grateful
heart the remembrance of all that had ever been done for him; but in
my existing frame of mind and pursuits his society neither benefited
nor cheered me. I was glad to let every one interpret as he pleased
and work out the riddle of his days, but this way of ascribing to ail
immediate divine influence, all the good that after a rational manner
occurs to us in our chanceful life, seemed to me too presumptuous;
and the habit of regarding the painful consequences of the hasty
acts and omissions of our own thoughtlessness or conceit, as a dime
chastisement, did not at all suit me. I could, therefore, only listen
to my good friend, but could not give him any very encouraging reply;
still I readily suffered him, like so many others, to go his own way,
and defended him since then, as well as before, when others, of too
worldly a mind, did not hesitate to wound his gentle nature. Thus I
never allowed a roguish remark to come to his ears, made by a waggish
man who once very earnestly exclaimed: "No! indeed, if I were as
intimate with God as Jung is, I would never pray to the Most High for
gold, but for wisdom and good counsel, that I might not make so many
blunders which cost money, and draw after them wretched years of debt."

In truth, it was no time for such jests. Between hope and fear several
more days passed away; with him the latter grew, the former waned, and,
at last, vanished altogether; the eyes of the good patient man had
become inflamed, and there remained no doubt that the operation had
failed.

The state of mind to which our friend was reduced hereby, is not to
be described; he was struggling against the deepest and worst kind of
despair. For what was there now that he had not lost! In the first
place, the warm thanks of one restored to sight--the noblest reward
which a physician can enjoy; then the confidence of others similarly
needing help; then his worldly credit, while the interruption of his
peculiar practice would reduce his family to a helpless state. In
short, we played the mournful drama of Job through from beginning to
end, since the faithful Jung took himself the part of the reproving
friends. He chose to regard this calamity as the punishment of his
former faults; it seemed to him that in taking his accidental discovery
of an eye-cure as a divine call to that business, he had acted wickedly
and profanely; he reproached himself for not having thoroughly studied
this highly important department, instead of lightly trusting his cures
to good fortune; what his enemies had said of him recurred again to his
mind; he began to doubt whether perhaps it was not all true? and it
pained him the more deeply when he found that in the course of his life
he had been guilty of that levity which is so dangerous to pious men,
and also of presumption and vanity. In such moments he lost himself,
and in whatever light we might endeavour to set the matter, we, at
last, elicited from him only the rational and necessary conclusion that
the ways of God are unsearchable.

My unceasing efforts to be cheerful, would have been more checked by
Jung's visit, if I had not, according to my usual habit, subjected his
state of mind to an earnest friendly examination, and explained it
after my own fashion. It vexed me not a little to see my good mother
so poorly rewarded for her domestic care and pains-taking, though
she did not herself perceive it, with her usual equanimity and ever
bustling activity. I was most pained for my father. On my account he,
with a good grace, had enlarged what hitherto had been a strictly
close and private circle, and at table especially, where the presence
of strangers attracted familiar friends and even passing visitors, he
liked to indulge in a merry, even paradoxical conversation, in which
I put him in good humor and drew from him many an approving smile, by
all sorts of dialectic pugilism: for I had an ungodly way of disputing
everything, which, however, I pertinaciously kept up in every case so
long only as he, who maintained the right, was not yet made perfectly
ridiculous. During the last few weeks, however, this procedure was not
to be thought of; for many very happy and most cheering incidents,
occasioned by some successful secondary cures on the part of our
friend, who had been made so miserable by the failure of his principal
attempt, did not affect him, much less did they give his gloomy mood
another turn.

[Side-note: Stilling's Jew Patient.]

One incident in particular was most amusing. Among Jung's patients
there was a blind old Jewish beggar, who had come from Isenburg to
Frankfort, where in the extremity of wretchedness, he scarcely found
a shelter, scarcely the meanest food and attendance; nevertheless his
tough oriental nature helped him through and he was in raptures to find
himself healed perfectly and without the least suffering. When asked
if the operation pained him, he said, in his hyperbolical manner, "If
I had a million eyes, I would let them all be operated upon, one after
the other, for half a _Kopfstück._"[1] On his departure he acted quite
as eccentrically in the _Fahrgasse_ (or main thoroughfare); he thanked
God, and in good old testament style, praised the Lord and the wondrous
man whom He had sent. Shouting this he walked, slowly on through the
long busy street towards the bridge. Buyers and sellers ran out of
the shops, surprised by this singular exhibition of pious enthusiasm,
passionately venting itself before all the world, and he excited their
sympathy to such a degree, that, without asking anything, he was amply
furnished with gifts for his travelling expenses.

This lively incident, however, could hardly be mentioned in our
circle; for though the poor wretch, with all his domestic misery, in
his sandy home beyond the Main, could still be counted extremely happy;
the man of wealth and dignity on this side of the river, for whom we
were most interested, had missed the priceless relief so confidently
expected.

It was sickening, therefore, to our good Jung to receive the thousand
guilders, which, being stipulated in any case, were honorably paid by
the high-minded sufferer. This ready money was destined to liquidate,
on his return, a portion of the debts, which added their burden to
other sad and unhappy circumstances.

And so he went off inconsolable, for he could not help thinking of his
meeting with his care-worn wife, the changed manner of her parents,
who, as sureties for so many debts of this too confiding man, might,
however well-wishing, consider they had made a great mistake in the
choice of a partner for their daughter. In this and that house,
from this and that window, he could already see the scornful and
contemptuous looks of those who even when he was prospering, had
wished him no good; while the thought of a practice interrupted by his
absence, and likely to be materially damaged by his failure, troubled
him extremely.

And so we took our leave of him, not without all hope on our parts; for
his strong nature, sustained by faith in supernatural aid, could not
but inspire his friends with a quiet and moderate confidence.


[1] A coin, with the head of the sovereign stamped upon it, generally
worth 4 1/2 good groschen.--_Trans._




SEVENTEENTH BOOK.


In resuming the history of my relation to Lili*, I have to mention the
many very pleasant hours I spent in her society, partly in the presence
of her mother, partly alone with her. On the strength of my writings,
people gave me credit for knowledge of the human heart, as it was then
called, and in this view our conversations were morally interesting in
every way.

But how could we talk of such inward matters without coming to mutual
disclosures? It was not long before, in a quiet hour, Lili told me
the history of her youth. She had grown up in the enjoyment of all
the advantages of society and worldly comforts. She described to me
her brothers, her relations, and all her nearest connexions; only her
mother was kept in a respectful obscurity.

Little weaknesses, too, were thought of; and among them she could
not deny, that she had often remarked in herself a certain gift of
attracting others, with which, at the same time, was united a certain
peculiarity of letting them go again. By prattling on we thus came at
last to the important point, that she had exercised this gift upon me
too, but had been punished for it, since she had been attracted by me
also.

These confessions flowed forth from so pure and childlike a nature,
that by them she made me entirely her own.

We were now necessary to each other, we had grown into the habit of
seeing each other; but how many a day, how many an evening till far
into the night, should I have had to deny myself her company, if I had
not reconciled myself to seeing her in her own circles! This was a
source of manifold pain to me.

My relation to her was that of a character to a character--I looked
upon her as, to a beautiful, amiable, highly accomplished daughter;
it was like my earlier attachments, but was of a still higher kind.
Of outward circumstances, however, of the interchange of social
relations, I had never thought. An irresistible longing reigned in me;
I could not be without her, nor she without me; but from the circle
which surrounded her, and through the interference of its individual
members, how many days were spoiled, how many hours wasted.

The history of pleasure parties which ended in displeasure; a
retarding brother, whom I was to accompany, who would however always
be stopping to do some business or other which perhaps somewhat
maliciously he was in no hurry to finish, and would thereby spoil the
whole well-concerted plan for a meeting, and ever so much more of
accident and disappointment, of impatience and privation,--all these
little troubles, which, circumstantially set forth in a romance, would
certainly find sympathizing readers, I must here omit. However, to
bring this merely contemplative account nearer to a living experience
to a youthful sympathy, I may insert some songs, which are indeed well
known but are perhaps especially impressive in this place.

    Heart, my heart, O, what hath changed thee?
      What doth weigh on thee so sore?
    What hath from myself estranged thee.
      That I scarcely know thee more?
    Gone is all which once seemed dearest,
    Gone the care which once was nearest
      Gone thy toils and tranquil bliss,
    Ah! how couldst thou come to this?

    Does that bloom so fresh and youthful,--
      That divine and lovely form,--
    That sweet look, so good and truthful.
      Bind thee with resistless charm?
    If I swear no more to see her,
    If I man myself, and flee her,
      Soon I find my efforts vain
      Forc'd to seek her once again.

    She with magic thread has bound me,
      That defies my strength or skill,
    She has drawn a circle round me,
      Holds me fast against my will.
    Cruel maid, her charms enslave me,
    I must live as she would have me,
      Ah! how great the change to me!
      Love! when wilt thou set mo free!

    With resistless power why dost thou press me
      Into scenes so bright?
    Had I not--good youth--so much to bless me
      In the lonely night?

    In my little chamber close I found me,
      In the moon's cold beams;
    And their quivering light fell softly round me.
      While I lay in dreams.

    And by hours of pure, unmingled pleasure,
      All my dreams were blest,
    While I felt her image, as a treasure,
      Deep within my breast.

    Is it I, she at the table places,
      'Mid so many lights?
    Yes, to meet intolerable faces,
      She her slave invites.

    Ah! the Spring's fresh fields no longer cheer me,
      Flowers no sweetness bring;
    Angel, where thou art, all sweets are near me,--
      Love, Nature, and Spring.

Whoever reads these songs attentively to himself or better still, sings
them with feeling, will certainly feel a breath of the fulness of those
happy hours stealing over him.

But we will not take leave of that greater, and more brilliant society,
without adding some further remarks, especially to explain the close of
the second poem.

[Side-note: Lili's Soirées.]

She, whom I was only accustomed to see in a simple dress which was
seldom changed, now stood before me on such occasions in all the
splendor of elegant fashion, and still she was the same. Her usual
grace and kindliness of manner remained, only I should say her gift
of attracting shone more conspicuous;--perhaps, because brought into
contact with several persons, she seemed called upon to express herself
with more animation, and to exhibit herself on more sides, as various
characters approached her. At any rate, I could not deny, on the one
hand, that these strangers were annoying to me, while on the other I
would not for a great deal have deprived myself of the pleasure of
witnessing her talents for society, and of seeing that she was made
for a wider and more general sphere.

Though covered with ornaments it was still the same bosom that had
opened to me its inmost secrets, and into which I could look as clearly
as into my own; they were still the same lips that had so lately
described to me the state of things amidst which she had grown up,
and had spent her early years. Every look that we interchanged, every
accompanying smile, bespoke a noble feeling of mutual intelligence,
and I was myself astonished, here in the crowd, at the secret innocent
understanding which existed between us in the most human, the most
natural way.

But with returning spring, the pleasant freedom of the country was to
knit still closer these relations. Offenbach on the Main showed even
then the considerable beginnings of a city, which promised to form
itself in time. Beautiful, and for the times, splendid buildings, were
already erected. Of these Uncle Bernard, (to call him by his familiar
title) inhabited the largest; extensive factories were adjoining;
D'Orville, a lively young man of amiable qualities, lived opposite.
Contiguous gardens and terraces, reaching down to the Main, and
affording a free egress in every direction into the lovely surrounding
scenery, put both visitors and residents in excellent humor. The lover
could not find a more desirable spot for indulging his feelings.

[Side-note: André-Ewald--Bürger's Leonore.]

I lived, at the house of John André, and since I am here forced to
mention this man, who afterwards made himself well enough known, I must
indulge in a short digression, in order to give some idea of the state
of the Opera at that time.

In Frankfort, Marchand was director of the theatre, and exerted himself
in his own person to do all that was possible. In his best years he
had been a fine, large well-made man, the easy and gentle qualities
appeared to predominate in his character; his presence on the stage,
therefore, was agreeable enough. He had perhaps as much voice as was
required for the execution of any of the musical works of that day;
accordingly he endeavoured to adapt to our stage the large and smaller
French operas.

The part of the father in Gretry's opera of "Beauty and the Beast,"
particularly suited him and his acting was quite expressive in the
scene of the Vision which was contrived at the back of the stage.

This opera, successful in its way, approached, however the lofty
style, and was calculated to excite the tenderest feelings. On the
other hand a Demon of Realism had got possession of the opera-house;
operas founded upon different crafts and classes were brought out. _The
Huntsmen, the Coopers_, and I know not what else, were produced; André
chose the _Potter._ He had written the words himself, and upon that
part of the text which belonged to him, had lavished his whole musical
talent.

I was lodging with him, and will only say so much as occasion demands
of this ever ready poet and composer.

He was a man of an innate lively talent and was settled at Offenbach,
where he properly carried on a mechanical business and manufacture; he
floated between the chapel-master (or Precentor) and the dilettante. In
the hope of meriting the former title, he toiled very earnestly to gain
a thorough knowledge of the science of music; in the latter character
he was inclined to repeat his own compositions without end.

Among the persons who at this time were most active in filling and
enlivening our circle, the pastor Ewald must be first named. In
society an intellectual agreeable companion, he still carried on in
private quietly and diligently the studies of his profession, and in
fact afterwards honourably distinguished himself in the province of
theology. Ewald in short was an indispensable member of our circle,
being quick alike of comprehension and reply.

Lili's pianoforte-playing completely fettered our good André to our
society; what with instructing, conducting, and executing, there were
few hours of the day or night in which he was not either in the family
circle or at our social parties.

Bürger's "Leonore," then but just published, and received with
enthusiasm by the Germans, had been set to music by by him; this piece
he was always forward to execute however often it might be encored.

I too, who was in the habit of repeating pieces of poetry with
animation, was always ready to recite it. Our friends at this time
did not get weary of the constant repetition of the same thing. When
the company had their choice which of us they would rather hear, the
decision was often in my favour.

All this (however it might be) served to prolong the intercourse of the
lovers. They knew no bounds, and between them both they easily managed
to keep the good John André continually in motion, that by repetitions
he might make his music last till midnight. The two lovers thus secured
for themselves, a precious and indispensable opportunity.

If we walked out early in the morning, we found ourselves in the
freshest air, but not precisely in the country. Imposing buildings,
which at that time would have done honor to a city; gardens, spreading
before us and easily overlooked, with their smooth flower and
ornamental beds; a clear prospect commanding the opposite banks of
the river, over whose surface even at an early hour might be seen
floating a busy line of rafts or nimble market-skiffs and boats--these
together formed a gently gliding, living world, in harmony with love's
tender feelings. Even the lonely rippling of the waves and rustling
of the reeds in a softly flowing stream was highly refreshing, and
never failed to throw a decidedly tranquillising spell over those who
approached the spot. A clear sky of the finest season of the year
overarched the whole, and most pleasant was it to renew morning after
morning her dear society, in the midst of such scenes!

Should such a mode of life seem too irregular, too trivial to
the earnest reader, let him consider that between what is here
brought closely together for the sake of a convenient order, there
intervened whole days and weeks of renunciation, other engagements and
occupations, and indeed an insupportable tedium.

Men and women were busily engaged in their spheres of duty. I, too,
out of regard for the present and the future, delayed not to attend to
all my obligations; and I found time enough to finish that to which my
talent and my passion irresistibly impelled me.

The earliest hours of the morning I devoted to poetry; the middle
of the day was assigned to worldly business, which was handled in
a manner quite peculiar. My father, a thorough and indeed finished
jurist, managed himself such business as arose from the care of his
own property, and a connexion with highly valued friends; for although
his character as Imperial Councillor did not allow him to practise,
he was at hand as legal adviser to many a friend, while the papers
he had prepared were signed by a regular advocate, who received a
consideration for every such signature.

This activity of his had now become more lively since my return,
and I could easily remark, that he prized my talent higher than my
practice, and on that account did what he could to leave me time for
my poetical studies and productions. Sound and thoroughly apt, but
slow of conception and execution, he studied the papers as private
_Referendarius_, and when we came together, he would state the case,
and left me to work it out, in which I shewed so much readiness,
that he felt a father's purest joy, and once could not refrain from
declaring, "that, if I were not of his own blood, he should envy me."

[Side-note: My Worldly Affairs.]

To lighten our work we had engaged a scribe whose character and
individuality, well worked out, would have helped to adorn a romance.
After his school-years, which had been profitably spent, and in which
he had become fully master of Latin, and acquired some other useful
branches of knowledge, a dissipated academic life had brought trouble
on the remainder of his days. He dragged on a wretched existence for a
time in sickness and in poverty, till at last he contrived to improve
his circumstances by the aid of a fine hand-writing and a readiness at
accounts. Employed by some advocates, he gradually acquired an accurate
knowledge of the formalities of legal business, and by his faithfulness
and punctuality made every one he served his patron. He had been
frequently employed by our family, and was always at hand in matters of
law and account.

He also was an useful assistant in our continually increasing business,
which consisted not only of law matters, but also of various sorts of
commissions, orders and transit agencies. In the council-house he knew
all the passages and windings; in his way, he was in tolerable favor at
both burgomasters' audiences; and since, from his first entrance into
office, and even during the times of his equivocal behaviour, he had
been well acquainted with many of the new senators, some of whom had
quickly risen to the dignity of _Schöffen_, he had acquired a certain
confidence, which might be called a sort of influence. All this he
knew how to turn to the advantage of his patrons, and since the state
of his health forced him to limit his application to writing, he was
always found ready to execute every commission or order with care.

His presence was not disagreeable; he was slender in person and
of regular features; his manner was unobtrusive, though a certain
expression betrayed his conviction that he knew all what was necessary
to be done; moreover, he was cheerful and dexterous in clearing away
difficulties. He must have been full forty, and (to say the same
thing over again), I regret that I have never introduced him as the
mainspring in the machinery of some novel.

Hoping that my more serious readers are now somewhat satisfied by what
I have just related, I will venture to turn again to that bright point
of time, when love and friendship shone in their fairest light.

It was in the nature of such social circles that all birth-days should
be carefully celebrated, with every variety of rejoicing; it was in
honor of the birth-day of the pastor Ewald, that the following song was
written:--

    When met in glad communion,
      When warm'd by love and wine,
    To sing this song in union,
      Our voices we'll combine,
    Through God, who first united,
      Together we remain:
    The flame which once He lighted,
      He now revives again.

Since this song has been preserved until this day, and there is
scarcely a merry party at which it is not joyfully revived, we commend
it also to all that shall come after us, and to all who sing it or
recite it we wish the same delight and inward satisfaction which we
then had, when we had no thought of any wider world, but felt ourselves
a world to ourselves in that narrow circle.

It will, of course, be expected that Lili's birth-day, which, on
the 23rd June, 1775, returned for the seventeenth time, was to
be celebrated with peculiar honours. She had promised to come to
Offenbach at noon; and I must observe that our friends, with a happy
unanimity, had laid aside all customary compliments at this festival,
and had prepared for her reception and entertainment nothing but such
heartfelt tokens, as were worthy of her.

[Side-note: Plot of "She Comes Not."]

Busied with such pleasant duties, I saw the sun go down, announcing a
bright day to follow, and promising its glad beaming presence at our
feast, when Lili's brother, George, who knew not how to dissemble, came
somewhat rudely into the chamber, and, without sparing our feelings,
gave us to understand that to-morrow's intended festival was put off;
he himself could not tell how, or why, but his sister had bid him say
that it would be wholly impossible for her to come to Offenbach at noon
that day, and take part in the intended festival; she had no hope of
arriving before evening. She knew and felt most sensibly how vexatious
and disagreeable it must be to me and all her friends, but she begged
me very earnestly to invent some expedient which might soften and
perhaps do away the unpleasant effects of this news, which she left it
to me to announce. If I could, she would give me her warmest thanks.

I was silent for a moment, but I quickly recovered myself, and, as
if by heavenly inspiration, saw what was to be done. "Make haste,
George!" I cried; "tell her to make herself easy, and do her best to
come towards evening; I promise that this very disappointment shall be
turned into a cause of rejoicing!" The boy was curious, and wanted to
know how? I refused to gratify his curiosity, notwithstanding that he
called to his aid all the arts and all the influence which a brother of
our beloved can presume to exercise.

No sooner had he gone, than I walked up and down in my chamber with a
singular self-satisfaction; and, with the glad, free feeling that here
was a brilliant opportunity of proving myself her devoted servant,
I stitched together several sheets of paper with beautiful silk, as
suited alone such an occasional poem, and hastened to write down the
title:

"SHE COMES NOT!"

    "A Mournful Family Piece, which, by the sore visitation of
    Divine Providence, will be represented in the most natural
    manner on the 23rd of June, 1775, at Offenbach-on-the-Maine.
    The action lasts from morning until evening."

I have not by me either the original or a copy of this _jeu d'esprit_;
I have often inquired after one, but have never been able to get a
trace of it; I must therefore compose it anew, a thing which, in the
general way, is not difficult.

The scene is at D'Orville's house and garden in Offenbach; the action
opens with the domestics, of whom each one plays his special part,
and evident preparations for a festival are being made. The children,
drawn to the life, run in and out among them; the master appears and
the mistress, actively discharging her appropriate functions; then,
in the midst of the hurry and bustle of active preparation comes in
neighbour Hans André, the indefatigable composer; he seats himself at
the piano, and calls them all together to hear him try his new song,
which he has just finished for the festival. He gathers round him the
whole house, but all soon disperse again to attend to pressing duties;
one is called away by another, this person wants the help of that; at
last, the arrival of the gardener draws attention to the preparations
in the grounds and on the water; wreaths, banners with ornamental
inscriptions, in short, nothing is forgotten.

While they are all assembled around the most attractive objects, in
steps a messenger, who, as a sort of humorous go-between, was also
entitled to play his part, and who although he has had plenty of
drink-money, could still pretty shrewdly guess what was the state of
the case. He sets a high value on his packet, demands a glass of wine
and a wheaten roll, and after some roguish hesitation hands over his
despatches. The master of the house lets his arms drop, the papers fall
to the floor, he calls out: "Let me go to the table! let me go to the
bureau that I may _brush._"

The spirited intercourse of vivacious persons is chiefly distinguished
by a certain symbolical style of speech and gesture. A sort of
conventional idiom arises, which, while it makes the initiated very
happy, is unobserved by the stranger, or, if observed, is disagreeable.

[Side-note: Plot of "She Comes Not."]

Among Lili's most pleasing particularities was the one which is here
expressed by the word brushing, and which manifested itself whenever
anything disagreeable was said or told, especially when she sat at
table, or was near any flat surface.

It had its origin in a most fascinating but odd expedient, which she
once had recourse to when a stranger, sitting near her at table,
uttered something unseemly. Without altering her mild countenance, she
brushed with her right hand, most prettily, across the table-cloth,
and deliberately pushed off on to the floor everything she reached
with this gentle motion. I know not what did not fall:--knives, forks,
bread, salt-cellar, and also something belonging to her neighbour;
every one was startled; the servants ran up, and no one knew what it
all meant, except the observing ones, who were delighted that she had
rebuked and checked an impropriety in so pretty a manner.

Here now was a symbol found to express the repulsion of anything
disagreeable, which still is frequently made use of in clever, hearty,
estimable, well-meaning, and not thoroughly polished society. We all
adopted the motion of the right hand as a sign of reprobation; the
actual brushing away of objects was a thing which afterwards she
herself indulged in only moderately and with good taste.

When, therefore, the poet gives to the master of the house, as a piece
of dumb shew, this desire for brushing, (a habit which had become
with us a second nature,) the meaning and effect of the action and
its tendency, are at once apparent; for while he threatens to sweep
everything from all flat surfaces, everybody tries to hinder him, and
to pacify him, till finally he throws himself exhausted on a seat.

"What has happened?" all exclaim. "Is she sick? Is any one dead?"
"Read! read!" cries D'Orville, "there it lies on the ground." The
despatch is picked up; they read it, and exclaim: _She comes not!_

The great terror had prepared them for a greater;--but she was
well-nothing had happened to her! no one of the family was hurt; hope
pointed still to the evening.

André, who in the meanwhile had kept on with his music, came running
up at last, consoling and seeking consolation. Pastor Ewald and his
wife likewise came in quite characteristically, disappointed and yet
reasonable, sorry for the disappointment and yet quietly accepting all
for the best. Everything now is at sixes and sevens, until the calm and
exemplary uncle Bernard finally approaches, expecting a good breakfast
and a comfortable dinner; and he is the only one who sees the matter
from the right point of view. He, by reasonable speeches, sets all to
rights, just as in the Greek tragedy a god manages with a few words to
clear up the perplexities of the greatest heroes.

Dashed off "currente calamo," it was yet late at night before I had
finished it and given it to a messenger with instructions to deliver it
the next morning in Offenbach, precisely at ten o'clock.

Next day when I awoke, it was one of the brightest mornings possible,
and, I set off just in time to arrive at Offenbach, as I purposed,
precisely at noon.

I was received with the strangest charivari of salutations; the
interrupted feast was scarcely mentioned; they scolded and rated me,
because I had taken them off so well. The domestics were contented
with being introduced on the same stage with their superiors; only the
children, those most decided and indomitable realists, obstinately
insisted that they had not talked so and so, that everything in fact
went quite differently from the way in which it there stood written. I
appeased them by some foretastes of the supper-table, and they loved
me as much as ever. A cheerful dinner-party, with some though not all
of our intended festivities, put us in the mood of receiving Lili with
less splendor, but perhaps the more affectionately. She came, and
was welcomed by cheerful, nay, merry faces, surprised to find that
her staying away had not marred all our cheerfulness. They told her
everything, they laid the whole thing before her, and she, in her dear
sweet way, thanked me as only she could thank.

It required no remarkable acuteness to perceive, that her absence from
the festival in her honor was not accidental, but had been caused by
gossiping about the intimacy between us. However, this had not the
slightest influence either on our sentiments or our behavior.

[Side-note: Intimacy with Lili.]

At this season of the year there never failed to be a varied throng
of visitors from the city. Frequently I did not join the company
until late in the evening, when I found her apparently sympathizing;
and since I commonly appeared only for a few hours, I was glad of
an opportunity to be useful to her in any way, by attending to or
undertaking some commission, whether trifling or not, in her behalf.
And indeed this service is the most delightful which a man can enter
upon, as the old romances of chivalry contrive how to intimate in their
obscure, but powerful manner. That she ruled over me, was not to be
concealed, and this pride she might well allow herself; for in this
contest the victor and the vanquished both triumph, and enjoy an equal
glory.

This my repeated, though often brief co-operation, was always so much
the more effective. John André had always store of music; I contributed
new pieces either by others or myself; so that poetical and musical
blossoms showered down upon us. It was altogether a brilliant time; a
certain excitement reigned in the company, and there were no insipid
moments. Without further question it seemed to be communicated to all
the rest. For where inclination and passion come out in their own bold
nature, they encourage timid souls, who cannot comprehend why they
should suppress their equally valid rights. Hence relations, which
hitherto were more or less concealed, were now seen to intertwine
themselves without reserve; while others, which did not confess
themselves so openly, still glided on agreeably in the shade.

If, because of my multifarious avocations, I could not pass whole days
out of doors with her, yet the clear evenings gave us opportunity for
prolonged meetings in the open air. Loving souls will be pleased to
read the following event.

Ours was a condition of which it stands written: "I sleep, but my heart
wakes;" the bright and the dark hours were alike; the light of the day
could not outshine the light of love, and the night was made as the
brightest day by the radiance of passion.

One clear starlight evening we had been walking about in the open
country till it was quite late; and after I had seen her and her
friends home to their several doors, and finally had taken leave of
her, I felt so little inclined to sleep that I did not hesitate to set
off on another ramble. I took the highroad to Frankfort, giving myself
up to my thoughts and hopes; here I seated myself on a bench, in the
purest stillness of night, under the gleaming starry heavens, that I
might belong only to myself and her.

My attention was attracted by a sound quite near me, which I could not
explain; it was not a rattling, nor a rustling noise, and on closer
observation I discovered that it was under the ground, and caused
by the working of some little animal. It might be a hedge-hog, or a
weasel, or whatever creature labors in that way at such hours.

Having set off again towards the city and got near to the Röderberg, I
recognised, by their chalk-white gleam, the steps which lead up to the
vineyards. I ascended them, sat down, and fell asleep.

When I awoke, the twilight had already dawned, and I found myself
opposite the high wall, which in earlier times had been erected to
defend the heights on this side. Saxenhausen lay before me, light mists
marked out the course of the river; it was cool, and to me most welcome.

There I waited till the sun, rising gradually behind me, lighted up
the opposite landscape. It was the spot where I was again to see my
beloved, and I returned slowly back to the paradise which surrounded
her yet sleeping.

On account of my increasing circle of business, which, from love to
her, I was anxious to extend and to establish, my visits to Offenbach
became more rare, and hence arose a somewhat painful predicament; so
that it might well be remarked, that, for the sake of the future, one
postpones and loses the present.

As my prospects were now gradually improving, I took them to be more
promising than they really were, and I thought the more about coming
to a speedy explanation, since go public an intimacy could not go on
much longer without misconstruction. And, as is usual in such cases,
we did not expressly say it to one another; but the feeling of being
mutually pleased in every way, the full conviction that a separation
was impossible, the confidence reposed in one another,--all this
produced such a seriousness, that I, who had firmly resolved never
again to get involved in any troublesome connexion of the kind, and who
found myself, nevertheless, entangled in this, without the certainty of
a favorable result, was actually beset with a heaviness of mind, to get
rid of which I plunged more and more in indifferent worldly affairs,
from which apart from my beloved I had no care to derive either profit
or pleasure.

[Side-note: A Betrothal.]

In this strange situation, the like of which many, no doubt, have
with pain experienced, there came to our aid a female friend of the
family, who saw through characters and situations very clearly. She
was called Mademoiselle Delf; she presided with her elder sister over
a little business in Heidelberg, and on several occasions had received
many favors from the greater Frankfort commission-house. She had
known and loved Lili from her youth; she was quite a peculiar person,
of an earnest, masculine look, and with an even, firm hasty step. She
had had peculiar reason to adapt herself to the world, and hence she
understood it, in a certain sense at least. She could not be called
intriguing; she was accustomed to consider distant contingencies,
and to carry out her plans in silence: but then she had the gift of
seeing an opportunity, and if she found people wavering betwixt doubt
and resolution, at the moment when everything depended upon decision,
she skilfully contrived to infuse into their minds such a force of
character, that she seldom failed to accomplish, her purpose. Properly
speaking she had no selfish ends; to have done anything, to have
completed anything, especially to have brought about a marriage, was
reward enough for her. She had long since seen through our position,
and, in repeated visits, had carefully observed the state of affairs,
so that she had finally convinced herself that the attachment must
be favored; that our plans, honestly but not very skilfully taken in
hand and prosecuted, must be promoted, and that this little romance be
brought to a close as speedily as possible.

For many years she had enjoyed the confidence of Lili's mother.
Introduced by me to my parents, she had managed to make herself
agreeable to them; for her rough sort of manner is seldom offensive in
an imperial city, and backed by cleverness and tact, is even welcome.
She knew very well our wishes and our hopes; her love of meddling made
her see in all this a call upon her good offices; in short she had a
conversation with our parents. How she commenced it, how she put aside
the difficulties which must have stood in her way, I know not; but she
came to us one evening and brought the consent. "Take each other by
the hand!" cried she, in her pathetic yet commanding manner. I stood
opposite to Lili and offered her my hand; she, not indeed hesitatingly,
but still slowly, placed hers in it. After a long and deep breath we
fell with lively emotion into each other's arms.

It was a strange degree of the overruling Providence, that in the
course of my singular history, I should also have experienced the
feelings of one who is betrothed.

I may venture to assert, that for a truly moral man it is the
pleasantest of all recollections. It is delightful to recall those
feelings, which are with difficulty expressed and are hardly explained.
For him the state of things is all at once changed; the sharpest
oppositions are removed, the most inveterate differences are adjusted;
prompting nature, ever warning reason, the tyrannizing impulses, and
the sober law, which before kept up a perpetual strife within us,
all are now reconciled in friendly unity, and at the festival, so
universally celebrated with solemn rites, that which was forbidden is
commanded, and that which was penal is raised to an inviolable duty.

The reader will learn with moral approval that from this time forward
a certain change took place in me. If my beloved had hitherto been
looked upon as beautiful, graceful, and attractive, now she appeared
to me a being of superior worth and excellence. She was as it were a
double person: her grace and loveliness belonged to me,--that I felt
as formerly; but the dignity of her character, her self-reliance, her
confidence in all persons remained her own. I beheld it, I looked
through it, I was delighted with it as with a capital of which I should
enjoy the interest as long as I lived.

There is depth and significance in the old remark: on the summit
of fortune one abides not long. The consent of the parties on both
sides, so gained in such a peculiar manner by Demoiselle Delf, was now
ratified silently and without further formality. But as soon as we
believe the matter to be all settled--as soon as the ideal, as we may
well call it, of a betrothal is over, and it begins to pass into the
actual and to enter soberly into facts, then too often comes a crisis.
The outward world is utterly unmerciful, and it has reason, for it
must maintain its authority at all costs; the confidence of passion is
very great, and we see it too often wrecked upon the rocks of opposing
realities. A young married couple who enter upon life, unprovided with
sufficient means, can promise themselves no honey-moon, especially
in these latter times; the world immediately presses upon them with
incompatible demands, which, if not satisfied, make the young couple
appear ridiculous.

Of the insufficiency of the means which for the attainment of my end,
I had anxiously scraped together, I could not before be aware, because
they had held out up to a certain point; but now the end was drawing
nearer, I saw that matters were not quite what they ought to be.

The fallacy, which passion finds so convenient, was now exposed in
all its inconsistency. My house, my domestic circumstances, had
to be considered in all their details, with some soberness. The
consciousness, that his house would one day contain a daughter-in-law,
lay indeed at the bottom of my father's design; but then what sort of a
lady did he contemplate?

[Side-note: The Realities of Life.]

At the end of our third part, the reader made the acquaintance of the
gentle, dear, intelligent, beautiful, and talented maiden, so always
like herself, so affectionate, and yet so free from passion; she was a
fitting key-stone to the arch already built and curved. But here, upon
calm unbiassed consideration, it could not be denied that, in order to
establish the newly acquired treasure in such a function, a new arch
would have to be built!

However this had not yet become clear to me, and still less was it so
to her mind. But now when I tried to fancy myself bringing her to my
home, she did not seem somehow to suit it exactly. It appeared to me
something like what I had myself experienced, when I first joined her
social circle: in order to give no offence to the fashionable people
I met there, I found it necessary to make a great change in my style
of dress. But this could not be so easily done with the domestic
arrangement of a stately burgher's house, which, rebuilt in the olden
style, had with its antique ornaments, given an old-fashioned character
to the habits of its inmates.

Moreover, even after our parents' consent had been gained, it had
not been possible to establish friendly relations or intercourse
between our respective families. Different religious opinions produced
different manners; and if the amiable girl had wished to continue
in any way her former mode of life, it would have found neither
opportunity nor place in our moderate-sized house.

If I had never thought of all this until now, it was because I had been
quieted by the opening of fine prospects from without, and the hope
of getting some valuable appointment. An active spirit gets a footing
everywhere: capacities, talents create confidence; every one thinks
that a change of management is all that is needed. The earnestness of
youth finds favour, genius is trusted for, everything, though its
power is only of a certain kind.

The intellectual and literary domain of Germany was at that time
regarded as but newly broken ground. Among the business-people there
were prudent men, who desired skilful cultivators and prudent managers
for the fields about to be turned up. Even the respectable and well
established Free-Mason's lodge, with the most distinguished members of
which I had become acquainted through my intimacy with Lili, contrived
in a suitable manner to get me introduced to them; but I, from a
feeling of independence, which afterwards appeared to me madness,
declined all closer connection with them, not perceiving that these
men, though already bound together in a higher sense, would yet do much
to further my own ends, so nearly related to theirs.

I return to more personal matters.

In such cities as Frankfort, men often hold several situations
together, such as residentships, and agencies, the number of which
may by diligence be indefinitely increased. Something of this sort
now occurred to me, and at first sight it seemed both advantageous
and honorable. It was assumed that I should suit the place; and it
would, under the conditions, certainly have succeeded, if it could have
commanded the co-operation of the Chancery triad already described.
We thus suppress our doubts; we dwell only on what is favorable, by
powerful activity we overcome all wavering; whence there results a
something untrue in our position, without the force of passion being in
the least subdued.

       *       *       *       *       *

In times of peace there is no more interesting reading for the
multitude than the public papers, which furnish early information of
the latest doings in the world. The quiet opulent citizen exercises
thus in an innocent way a party spirit, which in our finite nature
we neither can nor should get rid of. Every comfortable person thus
gets up a factitious interest, like that which is often felt in a
bet, experiences an unreal gain or loss, and as in the theatre, feels
a very lively, though imaginary sympathy in the good or evil fortune
of others. This sympathy seems often arbitrary, but it rests on moral
grounds. For now we give to praiseworthy designs the applause they
deserve; and now again, carried away by brilliant successes, we turn
to those whose plans we should otherwise have blamed. For all this
there was abundant material in those times.

Frederick the Second, resting on his victories, seemed to hold in his
hand the fate of Europe and the world; Catherine, a great woman, who
had proved herself every way worthy of a throne, afforded ample sphere
of action to able and highly gifted men, in extending the dominion of
their Empress; and as this was done at the expense of the Turks, whom
we are in the habit of richly repaying for the contempt with which
they look down upon us, it seemed as if it was no sacrifice of human
life, when these infidels were slain by thousands. The burning of the
fleet in the harbor of Tschesme, caused a universal jubilee throughout
the civilized world, and every one shared the exultation of a victory,
when, in order to preserve a faithful picture of that great event, a
ship of war was actually blown up on the roads of Leghorn, before the
studio of an artist. Not long after this, a young northern king, to
establish his own authority, seized the reins of government, out of
the hands of an oligarchy. The aristocrats whom he overthrew were not
lamented, for aristocracy finds no favor with the public, since it is
in its nature to work in silence, and it is the more secure the less
talk it creates about itself; and in this case the people thought all
the better of the young king, since in order to balance the enmity of
the higher ranks, he was obliged to favor the lower, and to conciliate
their good will.

[Side-note: American Revolution.]

The lively interest of the world was still more, excited when a whole
people prepared to effect their independence. Already had it witnessed
a welcome spectacle of the same effort on a small scale: Corsica had
long been the point to to which all eyes were directed; Paoli, when
despairing of ever being able to carry out his patriotic designs, he
passed through Germany to England, attracted and won all hearts; he was
a fine man, slender, fair, full of grace and friendliness. I saw him
in the house of Bethmann, where he stopped a short time, and received
with cheerful cordiality the curious visitors who thronged to see
him. But now similar events were to be repeated in a remote quarter
of the globe; we wished the Americans all success, and the names of
Franklin and Washington began to shine and sparkle in the firmament of
politics and war. Much had been accomplished to improve the condition
of humanity, and now, when in France, a new and benevolent sovereign
evinced the best intentions of devoting himself to the removal of
so many abuses and to the noblest ends,--of introducing a regular
and efficient system of political economy,--of dispensing with all
arbitrary power and of ruling alone by law and justice; the brightest
hopes spread over the world, and confident youth promised itself and to
all mankind a bright and noble future.

In all these events, however, I only took part so far as they
interested society in general; I myself and my immediate circle did not
meddle with the news of the day; our affair was to study men; men in
general we allowed to have their way.

The quiet position of the German Fatherland, to which also my native
city had now conformed for upwards of a hundred years, had been fully
preserved in spite of many wars and convulsions. A highly varied
gradation of ranks, which, instead of holding the several classes
apart, seemed to bind them the more closely together, had promoted
the interest of all, from the highest to the lowest--from the Emperor
to the Jew. If the sovereign princes stood in a subordinate relation
to the Emperor, still their electoral rights and immunities thereby
acquired and maintained, were a full compensation. Moreover, the
highest nobility belonged exclusively to the Agnates of the royal
houses, so that in the enjoyment of their distinguished privileges,
they could look upon themselves as equal with the highest and even
superior to them in some sense, since, as spiritual electors, they
might take precedence of all others, and, as branches of the sacred
hierarchy, hold an honorable and uncontested rank.

If now we think of the extraordinary privileges which these ancient
houses enjoyed, not only in their old patrimonial estates, but also
in the ecclesiastical endowments, the knightly orders, the official
administration of the Empire, and the old brotherhoods and alliances
for mutual defence and protection, we can vainly conceive that this
great body of influential men feeling themselves at once subordinated
to and co-ordinate with the highest, and occupying their days with
a regular round of employments, might well be contented with their
situation, and would without further anxiety seek only to secure and
transmit to their successors the same comforts and prerogatives. Nor
was this class deficient in intellectual culture. Already for more than
a century the decided proofs of high training in military and political
science had been discernible in our noble soldiers and diplomatists.
But at the same time there were many minds who, through literary and
philosophical studies, had arrived at views not over favorable to the
existing state of things.

[Side-note: State of Germany.]

In Germany scarcely any one had as yet learned to look with envy on
that monstrous privileged class, or to grudge its fortunate advantages.
The middle class had devoted themselves undisturbed to commerce and
the sciences, and by these pursuits, as well as by the practice of the
mechanic arts, so closely related to them, had raised themselves to a
position of importance which fully balanced its political inferiority;
the free or half-free cities favoured this activity, while individuals
felt a certain quiet satisfaction in it. The man who increased his
wealth, or enhanced his intellectual influence, especially in matters
of law or state, could always be sure of enjoying both respect and
authority. In the Supreme Courts of the empire, and indeed in all
others, a learned bench stood parallel with the noble; the uncontrolled
oversight of the one managed to keep in harmony with the deepest
insight of the other; and experience could never detect a trace of
rivalry between them; the noble felt secure in his exclusive and
time-hallowed privileges, and the burgher felt it beneath his dignity
to strive for a semblance of them by a little prefix to his name.[1]
The merchant, the manufacturer, had enough to do to keep pace with
those of other nations in progress and improvement. Leaving out of the
account the usual temporary fluctuations, we may certainly say that
it was on the whole a time of pure advance, such as had not appeared
before, and such as, on account of another and greater progress both of
mind and things, could not long continue.

My position with regard to the higher classes at this time was very
favorable. In _Werther_, to be sure, the disagreeable circumstances
which arise just at the boundary between two distinct positions,
were descanted upon with some impatience; but this was overlooked in
consideration of the generally passionate character of the book, since
every one felt that it had no reference to any immediate effect.

But _Götz von Berlichingen_ had set me quite right with the upper
classes; whatever improprieties might be charged upon my earlier
literary productions, in this work I had with considerable learning and
cleverness depicted the old German constitution, with its inviolable
emperor at the head, with its many degrees of nobility, and a knight
who, in a time of general lawlessness, had determined as a private man
to act uprightly, if not lawfully, and thus fell into a very sorry
predicament. This complicated story, however, was not snatched from the
air, but founded on fact; it was cheerfully lively, and consequently
here and there a little modern, but it was, nevertheless, on the whole,
in the same spirit as the brave and capable man had with some degree of
skill set it forth in his own narrative.

The family still flourished; its relation to the Frankish knighthood
had remained in all its integrity, although that relation, like many
others at that time, might have grown somewhat faint and nominal.

Now all at once the little stream of Jaxt, and the castle of
Jaxthausen, acquired a poetical importance; they, as well as the
council-house at Heilbronn, were visited by travellers.

It was known that I had the mind to write of other points of that
historical period; and many a family, which could readily deduce its
origin from that time, hoped to see its ancestors brought to the light
in the same way.

A strange satisfaction is generally felt, when a writer felicitously
recalls a nation's history to its recollection; men rejoice in the
virtues of their ancestors, and smile at the failings, which they
believe they themselves have long since got rid of. Such a delineation
never fails to meet with sympathy and applause, and in this respect I
enjoyed an envied influence.

Yet it may be worth while to remark, that among the numerous advances,
and in the multitude of young persons who attached themselves to me,
there was found no nobleman; on the other hand, many who had already
arrived at the age of thirty sought me and visited me, and of these
the willing and striving were pervaded by a joyful hope of earnestly
developing themselves in a national and even more universally humane
sense.

[Side-note: Ulrich Von Hutten.]

At this time a general curiosity about the epoch between the fifteenth
and sixteenth century had commenced, and was very lively. The works
of ULRICH VON HUTTEN had fallen into my hands, and I was not a little
struck to see something so similar to what had taken place in his time,
again manifesting itself in our later days.

The following letter of Ulrich von Hutten to Billibald Pyrkheymer, may
therefore suitably find place here:--

"What fortune gives us, it generally takes away again; and not only
that--everything else which accrues to man from without, is, we see,
liable to accident and change. And yet, notwithstanding, I am now
striving for honor, which I should wish to obtain, if possible, without
envy, but still at any cost; for a fiery thirst for glory possesses
me, so that I wish to be ennobled as highly as possible. I should make
but a poor figure in my own eyes, dear Billibald, if, born in the
rank, in the family I am, and of such ancestors, I could be content
to hold myself to be noble, though I never ennobled myself by my own
exertions. So great a work have I in my mind! my thoughts are higher!
it is not that I would see myself promoted to a more distinguished and
more brilliant rank; but I would fain seek a fountain elsewhere, out of
which I might draw a peculiar nobility of my own, and not be counted
among the factitious nobility, contented with what I have received
from my ancestors. On the contrary, I would add to those advantages
something of my own, which may, from me, pass over to my posterity.

"Therefore, in my studies and my efforts, I proceed in opposition
to the opinion of those who consider that what actually exists is
enough; for to me nothing of that sort is enough, according to what
I have already confessed to you of my ambition in this respect. And
I here avow that I do not envy those who, starting from the lowest
stations, have climbed higher than myself; for on this point I by
no means agree with those of my own rank, who are wont to sneer at
persons who, of a lower origin, have, by their own talents, raised
themselves to eminence. For those with perfect right are to be
preferred to us, who have seized for themselves and taken possession
of the material of glory, which we ourselves neglected; they may be
the sons of fullers or of tanners, but they have contrived to attain
their ends, by struggling with greater difficulties than we ever had
against us. The ignorant man, who envies him who by his knowledge has
distinguished himself, is not only to be called a fool, but is to be
reckoned among the miserable--indeed among the most miserable; and with
this disease are our nobles especially affected, that they look with
an evil eye upon such accomplishments. For what, in God's name! is it
to envy one who possesses that which we have despised? Why have we not
applied ourselves to the law? why have we not ourselves this excellent
learning, the best arts? And now fullers, shoemakers, and wheelwrights,
go before us. Why have we forsaken our post, why left the most liberal
studies to hired servants and (shamefully for us!) to the very lowest
of the people? Most justly has that inheritance of nobility which we
have thrown away been taken possession of by every clever and diligent
plebeian who makes it profitable by its own industry. Wretched beings
that we are, who neglect that which suffices to raise the very humblest
above us; let us cease to envy, and strive also to obtain what others,
to our deep disgrace, have claimed for themselves.

"Every longing for glory is honorable; all striving for the excellent
is praiseworthy. To every rank may its own honor remain, may its own
ornaments be secured to it! Those statues of my ancestors I do not
despise any more than the richly endowed pedigree; but whatever their
worth may be, it is not ours, unless by our own merits we make it ours;
nor can it endure, if the nobility do not adopt the habits which become
them. In vain will yonder fat and corpulent head of a noble house point
to the images of his ancestors, whilst he himself, inactive, resembles
a clod rather than those whose virtues throw a halo upon his name from
bygone days.

"So much have I wished most fully and most frankly to confide to you
respecting my ambition and my nature."

Although, perhaps, not exactly in the same train of ideas, yet the
same excellent and strong sentiments had I to hear from my more
distinguished friends and acquaintances, of which the results appeared
in an honest activity. It had become a creed, that every one must earn
for himself a personal nobility, and if any rivalry appeared in those
fine days, it was from above downwards.

We others, on the contrary, had what we wished; the free and approved
exercise of the talents lent to us by nature, as far as could consist
with all our civil relations.

[Side-note: Frankfort and Its Constitution.]

For my native city had in this a very peculiar position, and one
which has not been enough considered. While of the free imperial
cities the northern could boast of an extended commerce, but the
southern, declining in commercial importance, cultivated the arts and
manufactures with more success; Frankfort on the Main exhibited a
somewhat mixed character, combining the results of trade, wealth, and
capital, with the passion for learning, and its collection of works of
art.

The Lutheran Confession controlled its government; the ancient lordship
of the _Gan_, now bearing the name of the house of Limburg; the house
of Frauenstein, originally only a club, but during the troubles
occasioned by the lower classes, faithful to the side of intelligence;
the jurist, and others well to do and well disposed--none was excluded
from the magistracy; even those mechanics who had upheld the cause
of order at a critical time, were eligible to the council, though
they were only stationary in their place. The other constitutional
counterpoises, formal institutions, and whatever else belongs to such
a constitution, afforded employment to the activity of many persons;
while trade and manufacture, in so favorable a situation, found no
obstacle to their growth and prosperity.

The higher nobility kept to itself, unenvied and almost unnoticed; a
second class pressing close upon it was forced to be more active; and
resting upon old wealthy family foundations, sought to distinguish
itself by political and legal learning.

The members of the so-called Reformed persuasion (Calvinists) composed,
like the refugees in other places, a distinguished class, and when they
rode out in fine equipages on Sundays to their service in Bockenheim,
seemed almost to celebrate a sort of triumph over the citizen's party,
who had the privilege of going to church on foot in good weather and in
bad.

The Roman Catholics were scarcely noticed; but they also were aware
of the advantages which the other two confessions had appropriated to
themselves.


[1] The "von" which in Germany those who are ennobled prefix to their
surnames.




EIGHTEENTH BOOK.


Returning to literary matters, I must bring forward a circumstance
which had great influence on the German poetry of this period, and
which is especially worthy of remark, because this very influence has
lasted through the history of our poetic art to the present day, and
will not be lost even in the future.

From the earlier times, the Germans were accustomed to rhyme; it had
this advantage in its favour, that one could proceed in a very naïve
manner, scarcely doing more than count the syllables. If with the
progress of improvement attention began more or less instinctively to
be paid also to the sense and signification of the syllables, this
was highly praiseworthy, and a merit which many poets contrived to
make their own. The rhyme was made to mark the close of the poetical
proposition; the smaller divisions were indicated by shorter lines, and
a naturally refined ear began to make provision for variety and grace.
But now all at once rhyme was rejected before it was considered that
the value of the syllables had net as yet been decided, indeed that it
was a difficult thing to decide. Klopstock took the lead. How earnestly
he toiled and what he has accomplished is well known. Every one felt
the uncertainty of the matter, many did not like to run a risk, and
stimulated by this natural tendency, they snatched at a poetic prose.
Gessner's extremely charming Idylls opened an endless path. Klopstock
wrote the dialogue of _Hermann's Schlucht_ (_Hermann's Battle_) in
prose, as well as _Der Tod Adams_ (_The Death of Adam_). Through the
domestic tragedies as well as the more classic dramas, a style more
lofty and more impassioned gained possession of the theatre; while,
on the other hand, the Iambic verse of five feet, which the example
of the English had spread among us, was reducing poesy to prose. But
in general the demand for rhythm and for rhyme could not be silenced.
Ramler, though proceeding on vague principles (as he was always severe
with respect to his own productions). Could not help exercising the
same severity upon those of others. He transformed prose into verse,
altered and improved the works of others, by which means he earned
little thanks and only confused the matter still more. Those succeeded
best who still conformed to the old custom of rhyme with a certain
observance of syllabic quantity, and who, guided by a natural taste,
observed laws though unexpressed and undetermined; as, for example,
Wieland, who, although inimitable, for a long time served as a model to
more moderate talents.

But still in any case the practice remained uncertain, and there was
no one, even among the best, who might not for the moment have gone
astray. Hence the misfortune, that this epoch of our poetic history, so
peculiarly rich in genius, produced little which, in its kind, could
be pronounced correct; for here also the time was stirring, advancing,
active, and calling for improvement, but not reflective and satisfying
its own requirements.

In order, however, to find a firm soil on which poetic genius might
find a footing,--to discover an element in which they could breathe
freely, they had gone back some centuries, where earnest talents were
brilliantly prominent amid a chaotic state of things, and thus they
made friends with the poetic art of those times. The Minnesingers
lay too far from us; it would have been necessary first to study the
language, and that was not our object, we wanted to five and not to
learn.

[Side-note: Hans Sachs.]

Hans Sachs, the really masterly poet, was one whom we could more
readily sympathise with. A man of true talent, not indeed like the
Minnesinging knights and courtiers, but a plain citizen, such as we
also boasted ourselves to be. A didactic realism suited us, and on many
occasions we made use of the easy rhythm, of the readily occurring
rhyme. His manner seemed so suitable to mere poems of the day, and to
such occasional pieces as we were called upon to write at every hour.

       *       *       *       *       *

If important works, which required the attention and labor of a year or
a whole life, were built, more or less, upon such hazardous grounds on
trivial occasions, it may be imagined how wantonly all other ephemeral
productions took their rise and shape; for example, the poetical
epistles, parables, and invectives of all forms, with which we went on
making war within ourselves, and seeks squabbling abroad.

Of this kind, besides what has already been printed, something, though
very little, survives; it may be laid up somewhere. Brief allusions
will suffice to reveal to thinking men their origin and purposes.
Persons of more than ordinary penetration, to whose sight these may
hereafter be brought, will be ready to observe that an honest purpose
lay at the bottom of all such eccentricities. An upright will revolts
against presumption, nature against conventionalities, talent against
forms, genius with itself, energy against indecision, undeveloped
capacity against developed mediocrity; so that the whole proceeding may
be regarded as a skirmish which follows a declaration of war, and gives
promise of a violent contest. For, strictly considered, the contest is
not yet fought out, in these fifty years; it is still going on, only in
a higher region.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Side-note: The "Hanswurst's Hochzeit."]

I had, in imitation of an old German puppet play, invented a wild
extravaganza, which was to bear the title of _Hanswurst's Hochzeit_
(_Jack Pudding's Wedding_).[1] The scheme was as follows:--Hanswurst,
a rich young farmer and an orphan, has just come of age, and wishes
to marry a rich maiden, named Ursel Blandine. His guardian, Kilian
Brustflech (_Leather apron_), and her mother Ursel, are highly pleased
with the purpose. Their long-cherished plans, their dearest wishes,
are at last fulfilled and gratified. There is not the slightest
obstacle, and properly the whole interest turns only upon this, that
the young people's ardour for their union is delayed by the necessary
arrangements and formalities of the occasion. As prologue, enters the
inviter to the wedding festivities, who proclaims the banns after the
traditional fashion, and ends with the rhymes:

    The wedding feast is at the house
    Of mine host of the Golden Louse.

To obviate the charge of violating the unity of place, the aforesaid
tavern, with its glittering insignia, was placed in the background of
the theatre; but so that all its four sides could be presented to
view, by being turned upon a peg; and as it was moved round, the front
scenes of the stage had to undergo corresponding changes.

In the first act the front of the house facing the street was turned to
the audience, with its golden sign magnified as it were by the solar
microscope; in the second act, the side towards the garden. The third
was towards a little wood; the fourth towards a neighboring lake; which
gave rise to a prediction that in aftertimes the decorator would have
little difficulty in carrying a wave over the whole stage up to the
prompter's box.

But all this does not as yet reveal the peculiar interest of the piece.
The principal joke which was carried out, even to an absurd length,
arose from the fact that the whole _dramatis personæ_ consisted of mere
traditional German nicknames, which at once brought out the characters
of the individuals, and determined their relations to one another.

As we would fain hope that the present book will be read aloud in good
society, and even in decent family circles, we cannot venture, after
the custom of every play-bill, to name our persons here in order,
nor to cite the passages in which they most clearly and prominently
showed themselves in their true colours; although, in the simplest way
possible, lively, roguish, broad allusions, and witty jokes, could
not but arise. We add one leaf as a specimen, leaving our editors the
liberty of deciding upon its admissibility.

Cousin Schuft (_scamp_), through his relationship to the family, was
entitled to an invitation to the feast; no one had anything to say
against it; for though he was a thoroughly good-for-nothing fellow, yet
there he was, and since he was there, they could not with propriety
leave him out; on such a feast-day, too, they were not to remember that
they had occasionally been dissatisfied with him.

With Master Schurke (_knave_), it was a still more serious case;
he had, indeed, been useful to the family, when it was to his own
profit; on the other hand, again, he had injured it, perhaps, in this
case, also with an eye to his own interests; perhaps, too, because he
found an opportunity. Those who were any ways prudent voted for his
admission; the few who would have excluded him, were out-voted.

But there was a third person, about whom it was still more difficult
to decide; an orderly man in society, no less than others, obliging,
agreeable, useful in many ways; he had the single failing, that he
could not bear his name to be mentioned, and as soon as he heard it,
was instantaneously transported into a heroic fury, like that which the
Northmen call _Berserker-rage_, attempted to kill all right and left,
and in his frenzy hurt others and received hurt himself; indeed the
second act of the piece was brought, through him, to a very perplexed
termination.

Here was an opportunity which 1 could not allow to pass, for chastising
the piratical publisher Macklot. He is introduced going about hawking
his Macklot wares, and when he hears of the preparation for the
wedding, he cannot resist the impulse to go spunging for a dinner,
and to stuff his ravening maw at other people's expense. He announces
himself; Kilian Brustflech inquires into his claims, but is obliged
to refuse him, since it was an understanding that all the guests
should be well known public characters, to which recommendation the
applicant can make no claim. Macklot does his best to show that he is
as renowned as any of them. But when Kilian Brustflech, as a strict
master of ceremonies, shows himself immoveable, the nameless person,
who has recovered from his Berserker-rage at the end of the second act,
espouses the cause of his near relative, the book-pirate, so urgently,
that the latter is finally admitted among the guests.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Side-note: The Stolbergs.]

About this time the COUNTS STOLBERG arrived at Frankfort; they were on
a journey to Switzerland, and wished to make us a visit. The earliest
productions of my dawning talent, which appeared in the Göttingen
_Musenalmanach_, had led to my forming a friendly relation with them,
and with all those other young men whose characters and labors are
now well known. At that time rather strange ideas were entertained of
friendship and love. They applied themselves to nothing more, properly
speaking, than a certain vivacity of youth, which led to a mutual
association and to an interchange of minds, full indeed of talent but
nevertheless uncultivated. Such a mutual relation, which looked indeed
like confidence, was mistaken for love, for genuine inclination; I
deceived myself in this as well as others, and have, in more than one
way, suffered from it many years. There is still in existence a letter
of Bürger's belonging to that time, from which it may be seen that,
among these companions, there was no question about the moral æsthetic.
Every one felt himself excited, and thought that he might act and
poetize accordingly.

The brothers arrived, bringing Count Haugwitz with them. They were
received by me with open heart, with kindly propriety. They lodged
at the hotel, but were generally with us at dinner. The first joyous
meeting proved highly gratifying; but troublesome eccentricities soon
manifested themselves.

A singular position arose for my mother. In her ready frank way, she
could carry herself back to the middle age at once, and take the part
of Aja with some Lombard or Byzantine princess. They called her nothing
else but Frau Aja, and she was pleased with the joke; entering the more
heartily into the fantasies of youth, as she believed she saw her own
portrait in the lady of Götz von Berlichingen.

But this could not last long. We had dined together but a few times,
when once, after enjoying glass after glass, our poetic hatred for
tyrants showed itself, and we avowed a thirst for the blood of such
villains. My father smiled and shook his head; my mother had scarcely
heard of a tyrant in her life, however she recollected having seen
the copperplate engraving of such a monster in Gottfried's Chronicle,
viz., King Cambyses, whom he describes as having shot with an arrow
the little son of an enemy through the heart, and boasting of his
deed to the father's face; this still stood in her memory. To give a
cheerful turn to the conversation which continually grew more violent,
she betook herself to her cellar, where her oldest wines lay carefully
preserved in large casks. There she had in store no less treasure than
the vintages of 1706, '19, '26, and '48, all under her own especial
watch and ward, which were seldom broached except on solemn festive
occasions.

As she set before us the rich-colored wine in the polished decanter,
she exclaimed: "Here is the true tyrant's blood! Glut yourselves with
this, but let all murderous thoughts go out of my house!"

"Yes, tyrants' blood indeed!" I cried; "there is no greater tyrant than
the one whose heart's blood is here set before you. Regale yourselves
with it; but use moderation! for beware lest he subdue you by his
spirit and agreeable taste. The vine is the universal tyrant who ought
to be rooted up; let us therefore choose and reverence as our patron
Saint the holy Lycurgus, the Thracian; he set about the pious work in
earnest, and though at last blinded and corrupted by the infatuating
demon Bacchus, he yet deserves to stand high in the army of martyrs
above.

"This vine-stock is the very vilest tyrant, at once an oppressor, a
flatterer, and a hypocrite. The first draughts of his blood are sweetly
relishing, but one drop incessantly entices another after it; they
succeed each other like a necklace of pearls, which one fears to pull
apart."

If any should suspect me here of substituting, as the best historians
have done, a fictitious speech for the actual address, I can only
express my regret that no short-hand writer had taken down this
peroration at once and handed it down to us. The thoughts would be
found the same, but the flow of the language perhaps more graceful and
attractive. Above all, however, in the present sketch, as a whole,
there is a want of that diffuse eloquence and fulness of youth, which
feels itself, and knows not whither its strength and faculty will carry
it.

[Side-note: The Stolbergs.]

In a city like Frankfort, one is placed in a strange position;
strangers continually crossing each other, point to every region of
the globe, and awaken a passion for travelling. On many an occasion
before now I had shown an inclination to be moving, and now at the
very moment when the great point was to make an experiment whether I
could renounce Lili--when a certain painful disquiet unfitted me for
all regular business, the proposition of the Stolbergs, that I should
accompany them to Switzerland, was welcome. Stimulated, moreover, by
the exhortations of my father, who looked with pleasure on the idea
of my travelling in that direction, and who advised me not to omit to
pass over into Italy, if a suitable occasion should offer itself, I at
once decided to go, and soon had everything packed for the journey.
With some intimation, but without leave-taking, I separated myself
from Lili; she had so grown into my heart, that I did not believe it
possible to part myself from her.

In a few hours I found myself with my merry fellow-travellers in
Darmstadt. Even at court we should not always act with perfect
propriety; here Count Haugwitz took the lead. He was the youngest of
us all, well formed, of a delicate, but noble appearance, with soft
friendly features, of an equable disposition, sympathizing enough, but
with so much moderation, that, contrasted with us, he appeared quite
impassible. Consequently, he had to put up with all sorts of jibes and
nicknames from them. This was all very well, so long as they believed
that they might act like children of nature; but as soon as occasion
called for propriety, and when one was again obliged, not unwillingly,
to put on the reserve of a Count, then he knew how to introduce and
to smoothe over everything, so that we always came off with tolerable
credit, if not with _éclat_.

I spent my time, meanwhile, with Merck, who in his Mephistophelist
manner looked upon my intended journey with an evil eye, and described
my companions, who had also paid him a visit, with a discrimination
that listened not to any suggestions of mercy. In his way he knew me
thoroughly; the naïve and indomitable good nature of my character was
painful to him; the everlasting purpose to take things as they are,
the live and let live was his detestation. "It is a foolish trick," he
said, "your going with these Burschen;" and then he would describe them
aptly, but not altogether justly. Throughout there was a want of good
feeling, and here I could believe that I could see further than he did,
although I did not in fact do this, but only knew how to appreciate
those ideas of their character, which lay beyond the circle of his
vision.

"You will not stay long with them!" was the close of all his remarks.
On this occasion I remember a remarkable saying of his, which he
repeated to me at a later time, which I had often repeated to myself,
and frequently found confirmed in life. "Thy striving," said he, "thy
unswerving effort is to give a poetic form to the real; others seek
to give reality to the so-called poetic, to the imaginative, and of
that nothing will ever come but stupid stuff." Whoever apprehends the
immense difference between these two modes of action, whoever insists
and acts upon this conviction, has reached the solution of a thousand
other things.

Unhappily, before our party left Darmstadt, an incident happened which
tended to verify beyond dispute the opinion of Merck.

Among the extravaganzas which grew out of the notion that we should
try to transport ourselves into a state of nature, was that of bathing
in public waters, in the open air; and our friends, after violating
every other law of propriety, could not forego this additional
unseemliness. Darmstadt, situated on a sandy plain, without running
water, had, it appeared, a pond in the neighbourhood, of which I
only heard on this occasion. My friends, who were hot by nature, and
moreover kept continually heating themselves, sought refreshment in
this pond. The sight of naked youths in the clear sunshine, might well
seem something strange in this region; at all events scandal arose.
Merck sharpened his conclusions, and I do not deny that I was glad to
hasten our departure.

On the way to Mannheim, in spite of all good and noble feelings which
we entertained in common, a certain difference in sentiment and conduct
already exhibited itself. Leopold Stolberg told us with much of feeling
and passion, that he had been forced to renounce a sincere attachment
to a beautiful English lady, and on that account had undertaken so
long a journey. When he received in return the sympathising confession
that we too were not strangers to such experiences, then he gave vent
without respect to the feelings of youth, declaring that nothing in the
world could be compared with his passion, his sufferings, or with the
beauty and amiability of his beloved. If by moderate observations we
tried, as is proper among good companions, to bring him duly to qualify
his assertion, it only made matters worse; and Count Haugwitz, as well
as I, were inclined at last to let the matter drop. When we had reached
Mannheim, we occupied pleasant chambers in a respectable hotel, and
after our first dinner there during the dessert, at which the wine was
not spared, Leopold challenged us to drink to the health of his fair
one, which was done noisily enough. After the glasses were drained, he
cried out: But now, out of goblets thus consecrated, no more drinking
must be permitted; a second health would be a profanation; therefore,
let us annihilate these vessels! and with these words he dashed the
wine-glass against the wall behind him. The rest of us followed his
example; and I imagined at the moment, that Merck pulled me by the
collar.

But youth still retains this trait of childhood, that it harbors no
malice against good companions; that its unsophisticated good nature
may be brushed somewhat roughly indeed, to be sure, but cannot be
permanently injured.

[Side-note: Klopstock.]

The glasses thus proclaimed angelical had considerably swelled our
reckoning, comforting ourselves, however, and determined to be merry,
we hastened for Carlsruhe, there to enter a new circle, with all
the confidence of youth and its freedom from care. There we found
Klopstock, who still maintained, with dignity, his ancient authority
over disciples who held him in reverence. I also gladly did homage
to him, so that when bidden to his court with the others, I probably
conducted myself tolerably well for a novice. One felt, too, in a
certain manner called upon to be natural and sensible at the same time.

The reigning Margrave, highly honored among the German Sovereigns as
one of their princely seniors, but more especially on account of the
excellent aims of his government, was glad to converse about matters
of political economy. The Margravine, active and well versed in the
arts and various useful branches of knowledge, was also pleased by some
graceful speeches to manifest a certain sympathy for us; for which
we were duly grateful, though when at home we could not refrain from
venting some severe remarks upon her miserable paper-manufactory, and
the favor she showed to the piratical bookseller Macklot.

The circumstance, however, of importance for me, was, that the
young duke of Saxe-Weimar had arrived here to enter into a formal
matrimonial engagement with his noble bride, the princess Louisa
of Hesse-Darmstadt; President von Moser had already arrived on the
same business, in order to settle this important contract with the
court-tutor Count Görtz, and fully to ratify it. My conversations
with both the high personages were most friendly, and at the farewell
audience, they both made me repeated assurances that it would be
pleasant to them to see me at Weimar.

Some private conversations with Klopstock, won me by the friendliness
they showed, and led me to use openness and candour with him. I
communicated to him the latest scenes of Faust, which he seemed to
approve of. Indeed, as I afterwards learned, he had spoken of them
to others with marked commendation, a thing not usual with him, and
expressed a wish to see the conclusion of the piece.

[Side-note: My Sister.]

Our former rudeness, though sometimes as we called it, our genius-like
demeanour, was kept, in something like a chaste restraint in
Carlsruhe, which is decent and almost holy ground. I parted from
my companions, as I had resolved to take a wide round and go to
Emmendingen, where my brother-in-law was high bailiff. I looked upon
this visit to my sister as a real trial. I knew that she had not a
happy existence, while there was no cause to find fault with her, with
her husband, or with circumstances. She was of a peculiar nature, of
which it is difficult to speak; we will endeavour, however, to set down
here whatever admits of being described.

A fine form was in her favor; but not so her features, which, although
expressing clearly enough, goodness, intelligence, and sensibility,
were nevertheless wanting in regularity and grace.

Add to this, that a high and strongly arched forehead, exposed still
more by the abominable fashion of dressing the hair back on the head,
contributed to leave a certain unpleasant impression, although it
bore the best testimony to her moral and intellectual qualities. I
can fancy, that if after the modern fashion, she had surrounded the
upper part of her face with curls, and clothed her temples and cheeks
with ringlets, she would have found herself more agreeable before the
mirror, without fear of displeasing others as well as herself. Then
there was the grave fault, that her skin was seldom clean, an evil
which from her youth up, by some demoniacal fatality, was most sure to
show itself on all festal occasions, and at concerts, balls, and other
parties.

In spite of these drawbacks she gradually made her way, however, as her
better and nobler qualities showed themselves more distinctly.

A firm character not easily controlled, a soul that sympathised and
needed sympathy, a highly cultivated mind, fine acquirements and
talents; some knowledge of languages and a ready pen--all these she
possessed--so that if she had been more richly favored with outward
charms, she would have been among the women most sought after in her
day.

Besides all this there is one strange thing to be mentioned: there was
not the slightest touch of sensual passion in her nature. She had grown
up with me, and had no other wish than to continue and pass her life
in this fraternal union. Since my return from the University we had
been inseparable; with the most unreserved confidence we shared all
our thoughts, feelings, and humors, and even the most incidental and
passing impressions of every accidental circumstance. When I went to
Wetzlar, the loneliness of the house without me seemed insupportable;
my friend Schlosser, neither unknown nor repugnant to the good girl,
stepped into my place. In him, unfortunately, the brotherly affection
changed into a decided, and to judge from his strictly conscientious
character, probably a first passion. Here there was found what people
call as good a match as could be wished, and my sister, after having
stedfastly rejected several good offers, but from insignificant men,
whom she always had an aversion to, allowed herself to be, I may well
say, talked into accepting him.

I must frankly confess that I have frequently indulged in fancies about
my sister's destiny, I did not like to think of her as the mistress of
a family, but rather as an Abbess, as the Lady Superior of some noble
community. She possessed every requisite for such a high position,
while she was wanting in all that the world deems indispensable in
its members. Over feminine souls she always exercised an irresistible
influence; young minds were gently attracted towards her, and she ruled
them by the spirit of her inward superiority. As she had in common
with me an universal tolerance for the good, the human, with all its
eccentricities, provided they did not amount to perversity, there was
mo need for seeking to conceal from her any idiosyncrasy which might
mark any remarkable natural talents, or for its owner feeling any
constraint in her presence; hence our parties, as we have seen before,
were always varied, free, ingenuous, and sometimes perhaps bordering
on boldness. My habit of forming intimacies with young ladies of a
respectful and obliging nature, without allowing any closer engagement
or relations to grow out of them, was mainly owing to my sister's
influence over me. And now the sagacious reader, who is capable of
reading into these lines what does not stand written in them, but is
nevertheless implied, will be able to form some conception of the
serious feelings with which I then set foot in Emmendingen.

But at my departure, after a short visit, a heavier load lay on my
heart, for my sister had earnestly recommended not to say enjoined
me, to break off my connection with Lili. She herself had suffered
much from along-protracted engagement; Schlosser, with his spirit
of rectitude, did not betroth himself to her, until he was sure of
his appointment under the Grand Duke of Baden; indeed, if one would
take it so, until he was actually appointed. The answer to his
application, however, was delayed in an incredible manner. If I may
express my conjecture on the matter, the brave Schlosser, able man
of business as he was, was nevertheless on account of his downright
integrity, desirable neither to the prince as a servant, immediately
in contact with himself, nor to the minister, who still less liked to
have so honest a coadjutor near to him. His expected and earnestly
desired appointment at Carlsruhe was never filled up. But the delay
was explained to me, when the place of Upper Bailiff in Emmendingen
became vacant, and he was instantly selected for it. Thus an office
of much dignity and profit was now intrusted to him, for which he had
shown himself fully competent. It seemed entirely suited to his taste,
his mode of action, to stand here alone to act according to his own
conviction, and to be held responsible for everything, whether for
praise or blame.

As no objections could be raised to his accepting this place, my sister
had to follow him, not indeed to a Court-residence, as she had hoped,
but to a place which must have seemed to her a solitude, a desert; to a
dwelling, spacious to be sure, with an official dignity, and stately,
but destitute of all chance of society. Some young ladies, with whom
she had cultivated an early friendship, followed her there, and as the
Gerock family was blessed with many daughters, these contrived to stay
with her in turn, so that, in the midst of such privation, she always
enjoyed the presence of at least one long-trusted friend.

These circumstances, these experiences, made her feel justified in
recommending to me, most earnestly, a separation from Lili. She thought
it hard to take such a young lady (of whom she had formed the highest
opinion) out of the midst of a lively, if not splendid circle, and to
shut her up in our old house, which, although very passable in its way,
was not suited for the reception of distinguished society, sticking
her, as it were, between a well-disposed, but unsociable, precise, and
formal father, and a mother extremely active in her domestic matters,
who, after the household business of the day was over would not like to
be disturbed over some notable bit of work by a friendly conversation
with forward and refined young girls. On the other hand, she in a
lively manner set Lili's position before me; for, partly in my letters,
partly in a confidential but impassioned conversation, I had told her
everything to a hair.

Unfortunately her conception was only a circumstantial and well-meant
completion of what a gossiping friend, in whom, by degrees, all
confidence ceased to be placed, had contrived by mentioning a few
characteristic traits to insinuate into her mind.

I could promise her nothing, although I was obliged to confess that she
had convinced me. I went on with that enigmatic feeling in my heart,
with which passion always nourishes itself; for the Child Cupid clings
obstinately to the garment of Hope, even when she is preparing with
long steps to flee away.

[Side-note: Schaffhausen--Zurich--Lavater.]

The only thing between this place and Zurich which I now clearly
remember, is the falls of the Rhine at Schaffhausen. A mighty cascade
here gives the indication of the mountainous region which we designed
to enter; where, each step becoming steeper and more difficult, we
should have laboriously to clamber up the heights.

The view of the lake of Zurich, which we enjoyed from the gate of the
"_Sword_," is still before me; I say from the gate of the tavern,
for, without stopping to enter it, I hastened to Lavater. He gave me
a cheerful and hearty reception, and was, I must confess, extremely
gracious; confiding, considerate, kind, and elevating was his bearing,
indeed, it would be impossible to expect anything else of him. His
wife, with somewhat singular, but serene tenderly pious expression of
countenance, fully harmonized, like everything else about him, with his
way of thinking and living.

Our first, and perhaps only theme of conversation, was his system of
Physiognomy. The first part of this remarkable work, was, if I mistake
not, already printed, or, at least, near its completion. It might be
said to be at once stamped with genius and yet empirical: methodical,
but still in its instances incomplete and partial. I was strangly
connected with it, Lavater wanted all the world for co-operators
and sympathizers. During his travels up the Rhine, he had portraits
taken of a great many distinguished men, in order to excite their
personal interest in a work in which they were to appear. He proceeded
in the same way with artists; he called upon every one to send him
drawings for illustrations. The latter came, and many were not exactly
suited for his purpose. So, too, he had copperplates engraved in all
parts, which seldom tinned out characteristic copies. Much labor had
been bestowed on his part; with money and exertions of all kinds an
important work was now ready, and full honor was done to Physiognomy.
But when in a great volume, illustrated by examples, Physiognomy,
founded on doctrine, was to set up its claims to the dignity of
science, it was found that not a single picture said what it ought to
say; all the plates had to be censured or to be taken with exceptions,
none to be praised, but only tolerated; many, indeed, were quite
altered by the explanations. For me, who in all my studies sought a
firm footing before I went further, I had now to perform one of the
most painful tasks which industry could be set to. Let the reader
judge. The manuscript, with impressions of the plates inserted was sent
to me at Frankfort. I was authorized to strike out whatever displeased
me, to change and put in what I liked. However I made a very moderate
use of this liberty. In one instance he had introduced a long and
violent piece of controversy against an unjust orator, which I left
out, and substituted a cheerful poem about nature; for this he scolded
me, but afterwards, when he had cooled down, approved of what I had
done.

Whoever turns over the four volumes of Physiognomy, and (what he will
not repent of) reads them, may conceive the interest there was in our
interviews, during which, as most of the plates contained in it were
already drawn and part of them had been engraved, we examined, and
decided on those fit to be inserted in the work, and considered the
ingenious means by which those, which did not exactly tally with its
principles, might be made instructive and suitable.

Whenever at present I look through the work of Lavater, a strange
comic, merry feeling comes over me; it seems as if I saw before me the
shadows of men formerly known to me, over whom I once fretted, and in
whom I find little satisfaction now.

The possibility, however, of retaining in some sort, much that
otherwise would have been unsuitable, was owing to the fine and
decided talent of the sketcher and engraver, Lips. He was, in fact,
born for the free prosaic representation of the actual, which was
precisely the thing wanted in this case. He worked under a singularly
exacting physiognomist, and therefore was obliged to look sharp to
approximate to the demands of his master; the clever peasant-boy felt
the whole responsibility of working for a clerical gentleman from a
city so highly privileged, and gave his best care to the business.

Living in a separate house from my companions, I became every day more
of a stranger to them, without the least unpleasant feeling having
arisen; our rural excursions were no longer made together, although in
the city we still kept up some intercourse. With all the arrogance of
young counts they had honored Lavater with a visit and appeared to the
skilful physiognomist somewhat different from what they did to the rest
of the world. He spoke to me about them, and I remember quite well,
that, speaking of Leopold Stolberg, he exclaimed: "I know not what you
all mean; he is a noble, excellent youth, and full of talent; but you
have described him to me as a hero, as a Hercules, and I have never in
my life seen a softer and more sensitive young man; nor, if need be,
one more easily influenced. I am still far from having formed a clear
physiognomical judgment of him, but as for you and all the rest, you
are in a fog altogether."

Since Lavater's journey on the Lower Rhine, the public interest in him
and his physiognomical studies had greatly increased; visitors of all
sorts crowded upon him, so that he felt in some sort embarrassed at
being looked upon as the first of spiritual and intellectual men, and
the chief point of attraction for strangers. Hence, to avoid envy and
all unpleasant feelings, he managed to remind and warn his visitors
that they must treat other distinguished men with friendship and
respect.

[Side-note: Visit to Bodmer.]

In this especial regard was had to the aged BODMER, and, accordingly,
we were compelled to visit him and pay our youthful respects to him. He
lived on a hill, above the large or old town, which lay on the right
bank, where the lake contracts its waters into the Limmat. We crossed
the old town, and, by a path that became steeper and steeper, at last
ascended the height behind the walls, where, between the fortifications
and the old wall, a pleasant suburb had sprang up, partly in
continuous and partly in detached houses, with a half country look. The
house where Bodmer had passed his whole life, stood in the midst of an
open and cheerful neighbourhood, which, the day being beautiful and
clear, we often paused on our road to survey with the greatest pleasure.

We were conducted up a flight of steps into a wainscoted chamber, where
a brisk old man, of middle stature, came to meet us. He received us
with his usual greeting to young visitors; telling us that we must
consider it an act of courtesy on his part to have delayed so long his
departure from this world in order that he might receive us kindly,
form our acquaintance, refresh himself with our talents, and wish us
joy in our future career.

We, on the other hand, congratulated him that, as a poet belonging to
the patriarchal world, he had yet in the neighbourhood of the most
highly cultivated city, possessed during his whole life a truly idyllic
dwelling, and, in the high free air, had enjoyed for so many long years
such a wide and beautiful prospect to feed his eyes with unfading
delight.

It seemed anything but displeasing to the old man when we asked
permission to take a view from his window of the neighbouring scenery;
and truly the prospect in the cheerful sunshine, and in the best season
of the year, appeared quite incomparable. The prospect commanded much
of the slope, from the great town down to the water's edge, as well
as the smaller town across the Limmat, and the whole of the fertile
Sihl-feld, towards the west. Behind us, on the left, was a part of
the lake of Zurich, with its bright rippled surface, and its shores
endlessly varying with alternating hill and valley and height after
height in greater variety than the eye could take in, which, dazzled
by this splendour, delighted to rest on the blue range of the loftier
mountains in the distance, whose snowy summits man has been so far
intimate with as to give names to.

The rapture of us young men at sight of the marvellous beauty which,
for so many years, had daily been before him, appeared to please the
old poet; he became, so to speak, ironically sympathizing, and we
parted the best of friends, but rot before a yearning for those blue
mountain heights had taken possession of our souls.

Now I am on the point of leaving our worthy patriarch, I remark,
for the first time, that I have as yet said nothing of his form and
countenance, of his movements, and his carriage and bearing.

In general, I do not think it quite right for travellers to describe
every distinguished man, whom they visit, as if they wanted to furnish
materials for advertising a runaway. No one sufficiently considers that
he has only looked at the great man during the moment of introduction,
and then only in his own way; and that according to the circumstances
of the moment the host may or not be what he seemed, proud or meek,
silent and talkative, cheerful or morose. In this particular case,
however, I may excuse myself from the attempt, by saying that no verbal
description of Bodmer's venerable person would convey an adequate
impression. Fortunately there exists a picture of him by Graff, of
Bause, which perfectly represents the man as he appeared to us, and,
indeed, exactly preserves his peculiar penetrating and reflective look.

[Side-note: Passavant--Lavater.]

A great, not indeed unexpected, but still highly coveted gratification
awaited me in Zurich, where I met my young friend, Passavant. Of a
respectable family of the reformed persuasion, and born in my native
city, he lived in Switzerland, at the fountain-head of the doctrine
which he was afterwards to proclaim as a preacher. With a frame not
large, but active, his face and his whole manner promised a quick and
agreeable resoluteness of character. His hair and beard were black, his
eyes lively. On the whole, you saw in him a man of some sensitiveness,
but of moderate energy.

Scarcely had we embraced one another and exchanged the first greeting,
when he immediately proposed to me to visit the smaller cantons. Having
himself already walked through them with great delight, he wished, with
the sight of them, to awaken my rapture and enthusiasm.

While I was talking over, with Lavater, the most interesting and
important points of our common business, until we had nearly exhausted
them, my lively fellow-travellers had already sallied forth in various
directions, and, in their own fashion, had examined the country.
Passavant, receiving and welcoming me with hearty friendship, believed
that he had gained thereby a right to the exclusive possession of my
society, and, therefore, in the absence of my companions, contrived
to entice me to the mountains, the more easily, since I was decidedly
inclined to accomplish the long desired ramble in quiet and at liberty
to follow my own whims. Without further deliberation, therefore, we
stepped into a boat and sailed up the glorious lake, on a fine clear
morning.

A poem inserted here may give the reader some intimation of those happy
moments:

    New draughts of strength and youthful blood,
      From this free world I've press'd;
    Here nature is so mild, so good--
      Who clasps me to her breast.
    The billows rock our little boat,
      The oars in measure beat,
    The hills, while clouds around them float,
      Approach our barque to meet.

    Eye, mine eye, why sink'st thou mourning?
    Golden dreams, are ye returning?
    Though thou'rt gold, thou dream, farewell;
    Here, too, life and love can dwell.

    Countless stars are blinking,
      In the waters here,
    On the mountains drinking
      Clouds of mist appear;
    Round the cool bay flying,
      Morning breezes wake,
    Ripen'd fruits are lying
      Mirror'd in the lake.

We landed in Richterswyl, where we had an introduction from Lavater to
Doctor HOTZE. As a physician, and a highly intelligent and benevolent
man, he enjoyed great esteem in his immediate neighbourhood and in the
whole country, and we can do no better honor to his memory than by
referring to a passage in Lavater's Physiognomy, which describes him.

After a very hospitable entertainment, which he relieved with a
highly agreeable and instructive conversation, describing to us the
next halting-places in our journey, we ascended the mountains which
lay before us. When we were about to descend again into the vale of
Schindellegi, we turned round to take in once more the charming
prospect over the lake of Zurich.

Of my feelings at that moment some idea may be gathered from the
following lines, which, just as I wrote them down, are still preserved
in a little memorandum book:

    Dearest Lili, if I did not love thee,
      I should revel in a scene like this!
    Yet, sweet Lili, if I did not love thee,
      What were any bliss?

This little impromptu seems to me more expressive in its present
context, than as it stands by itself in the printed collection of my
poems.

[Side-note: St. Mary's Hermitage.]

The rough roads, which led to St. Mary's hermitage, did not wear out
our good spirits. A number of pilgrims, whom we had remarked below
upon the lake, now overtook us and asked the aid of our prayers in
behalf of their pious object. We saluted them and let them pass,
and as they moved regularly with their hymns and prayers, they lent
a characteristic graceful animation to the dreary heights. We saw
livingly marked out the serpentine path which we too had to travel,
and seemed to be joyously following. The customs of the Romish church
are altogether significant and imposing to the Protestant, inasmuch
as he only recognises the inmost principle, by which they were first
called forth, the human element by which they are propagated from race
to race; thus penetrating at once to the kernel, without troubling
himself, just at the moment with the shell, the rind, or even with the
tree itself, its twigs, leaves, bark, and roots.

We now saw rising a dreary, treeless vale, the splendid church, the
cloister, of broad and stately compass, in the midst of a neat place of
sojourn for a large and varied assembly of guests.

The little church within the church, the former hermitage of the saint,
incrusted with marble, and transformed as far as possible into a
regular chapel, was something new to me; something that I had not seen,
this little vessel, surrounded and built over with pillars and vaults.
It could not but excite sober thoughts to reflect how a single spark of
goodness, and of the fear of God, had here kindled a bright and burning
flame, so that troops of believers, never ceased to make painful
pilgrimages in order to light their little tapers at this holy fire.
However the fact is to be explained, it plainly points at least to an
unbounded craving in man, for equal light, for equal warmth, with that
which this old hermit cherished and enjoyed in the deepest feeling and
the most secure conviction. We were shewn into the treasure chamber,
which was rich and imposing enough, and offered to the astonished eye
busts of the size of life, not to say colossal, of the saints and
founders of different orders.

A very different sort of feeling was awakened at the sight of a closet
opening upon this. It was filled with antique valuables here dedicated
and honored. My attention was fixed by various golden crowns of
remarkable workmanship, out of which I contemplated one exclusively. It
was a pointed crown, in the style of former days, such as one may have
seen in pictures on the heads of ancient queens, but of a most tasteful
design and of highly elaborate execution. The colored stones with which
it was studded were distributed over it or set opposite to each other,
with great effect and judgment; it was, in short, a work of that kind
which one would pronounce perfect at the first glance, without waiting
to bring out this impression by an appeal to the laws of art.

In such cases, where the art is not recognised, but felt, heart and
soul are turned towards the object, one would like to possess the
jewel, that one might impart pleasure to others with such a gift. I
begged permission to handle the little crown, and as I held it up
respectfully in my hand, I could not help thinking that I should like
to press it upon the bright, glittering locks of Lili, lead her before
the mirror, and witness her own joy in it, and the happiness which she
spread around her. I have often thought since, that this scene, if
realized by a skilful painter, would be highly touching and full of
meaning. It were worth one's while to be the young king to receive a
bride and a new kingdom in this way.

In order to show us all the treasures of the cloister, they led us into
a cabinet of natural and artificial curiosities. I had then but little
idea of the value of such things; at that time geognosy, which is so
commendable in itself, but which fritters away the impression produced
by the earth's beautiful surface on the mind's eye, had not begun to
entice me, still less had a fantastic geology entangled me in its
labyrinths. Nevertheless, the monk who acted as our guide, compelled
me to bestow some attention on a fossil, much prized as he said by
connoisseurs, a small wild boar's head well preserved in a lump of blue
fuller's clay, which, black as it was, has dwelt in my imagination ever
since. They had found it in the country of Rapperswyl, a district which
ever since the memory of man was so full of morasses, that it could
well receive and keep such mummies for posterity.

Far different attractions was presented to me by a copperplate
engraving of Martin Schön, which was kept under a glass frame, and
represented the Assumption of the Virgin. True, only a perfect specimen
could give an idea of the art of such a master; but then we are so
affected by it, as with the perfect in every branch of art, that we
cannot get rid of the wish to possess something in some way like it,
to be able constantly to repeat the sight of it, however long a time
may intervene. Why should I not anticipate and confess here, that
afterwards I could not rest until I had succeeded in obtaining an
excellent copy of this plate.

[Side-note: The Schwyzer-Haken.]

On the 16th of July, 1775 (for here I find a date first set down),
we entered upon a toilsome journey; wild stony heights were to be
surmounted, and that, too, in a perfect solitude and wilderness.
At a quarter before eight in the evening, we stood before the
Schwyzer-Haken, two mountain peaks which jut out boldly, side by side,
into the sky. For the first time we found snow upon our path, where
on the lagged rocks it had been hanging since the winter. A primeval
forest, with its solemn awe, filled the immense valleys, into which
we were about to descend. Refreshed, after a short rest, we sprang,
with bold and light step, from cliff to cliff, from ledge to ledge,
down the precipitous foot-path, and arrived by ten o'clock at Schwyz.
We had become at once weary yet cheerful, exhausted yet excited; we
eagerly quenched our violent thirst, and felt ourselves still more
inspired. Imagine the young man who but two years before had written
_Werther_, and his still younger friend who still earlier had read that
remarkable work in manuscript, and had been strangely excited by it,
had transported in some respect without their knowing it or wishing it,
into a state of nature, end there in the consciousness of rich powers,
vividly recalling past passions, clinging to those of the present,
shaping fruitless plans, rioting through the realm of fancy, and you
will be able to form some conception of our situation then, which I
should not know how to describe, if it did not stand written in my
journal: "Laughing and shouting lasted until midnight."

On the morning of the 17th, we saw the Schwyzer-Haken from our windows.
Around these vast and irregular natural pyramids, clouds rose upon
clouds. At one in the afternoon we left Schwyz, on our way to the Rigi;
at two we were on the Lawerzer lake, the sun shining brilliantly on it
and on us all the while. For sheer delight we saw nothing. Two stout
maidens guided the boat; that looked pretty, and we made no objection.
We arrived upon the island, on which they say once lived the former
lord of the castle; be this as it may, the hut of the anchorite has now
planted itself amidst the ruins.

We climbed the Rigi; at half-past seven we stood at the foot of the
"Mother of God" covered in snow; then passed the chapel and the
nunnery, and rested at the hotel of the Ox.

On the 18th, Sunday morning early, we took a sketch of the chapel
from the Ox. At twelve we went to Kaltenbad, or the fountain of the
Three Sisters. By a quarter after two we had reached the summit; we
found ourselves in the clouds, this time doubly disagreeable to us,
since they both hindered the prospect and drenched us with mist. But
when, here and there, they opened and showed us, framed as it were by
their ever-varying outline, a clear, majestic sun-lit world, with the
changing scenes of a diorama, we no longer lamented these accidents;
for it was a sight we had never seen before and should never behold
again, and we lingered long in this somewhat inconvenient position, to
catch, through the chinks and crevices of the ever-shifting masses of
cloud, some little point of sunny earth, some little strip of shore, or
pretty nook of the lake.

By eight in the evening we were back again at the door of the inn, and
refreshed ourselves with baked fish and eggs, and plenty of wine.

As the twilight and the night gradually came on, our ears were filled
with mysteriously harmonizing sounds; the twinkling of the chapel
bells, the splashing of the fountain, the rustling of changeful
breezes, with the horns of the foresters in the distance;--these were
blest, soothing, tranquillising moments.

[Side-note: William Tell.]

At half-past six, on the morning of the 19th, first ascending then
going down by the Waldstätter Lake we came to Fitznau; from thence, by
water, to Gersau. At noon, we were in the hotel on the lake. About two
o'clock we were opposite to Grütli, where the three Tells conspired;
then upon the flat rock where the hero sprang from his boat, and where
the legend of his life and deeds is recorded and immortalized by a
painting. At three we were at Flüelen, where he embarked; and at four
in Altorf, where he shot the apple.

Aided by this poetic thread one winds conveniently through the
labyrinth of these rocky walls which, descending perpendicularly to
the water, stand silently before us. They, the immovable, stand there
as quietly as the side-scenes of a theatre; success or failure, joy
or sorrow, merely pertain to the persons who for the day successively
strut upon the stage.

Such reflections, however, were wholly out of the circle of the vision
of the youths who then looked upon them; what had recently passed
had been dismissed from their thoughts, and the future lay before
them as strangely inscrutable, as the mountain region which they were
laboriously penetrating.

On the 20th, we breakfasted at Amstäg, where they cooked us a savoury
dinner of baked fish. Here now, on this mountain ledge, where the
Reuss, which was at all times wild enough, was rushing from rugged
clefts, and dashing the cool snow-water over the rocky channels, I
could not help enjoying the longed-for opportunity and refreshing
myself in the foaming waves.

At three o'clock we proceeded onwards; a row of sumpter-horses went
before us, we marched with them over a broad mass of snow, and did not
learn till afterwards, that it was hollow underneath. The snows of
winter, that had deposited themselves here in a mountain gorge, which
at other seasons it was necessary to skirt circuitously, now furnished
us with a shorter and more direct road. But the waters which forced
their way beneath had gradually undermined the snowy mass, and the mild
summer had melted more and more of the lower side of the vault, so
that now, like a broad arched bridge, it formed a natural connection
between the opposite sides. We convinced ourselves of this strange
freak of nature by venturing more than half way down into the broader
part of the gorge. As we kept ascending, we left pine forests in the
chasm, through which the Reuss from time to time appeared, foaming and
dashing over rocky precipices.

At half-past seven we arrived at Wasen, where, to render palatable the
red, heavy, sour Lombardy wine, we were forced to have recourse to
water, and to supply, by a great deal of sugar, the ingredient which
nature had refused to elaborate in the grape. The landlord showed us
some beautiful crystals; but I had, at that time, so little interest in
the study of nature and such specimens, that I did not care to burden
myself with these mountain products, however cheaply they might be
bought.

On the 21st, at half-past six, we were still ascending; the rocks grew
more and more stupendous and awful; the path to the _Teufelstein_
(Devil's Stone), from which we were to gain a view of the Devil's
Bridge, was still more difficult. My companion being disposed for a
rest, proposed me to sketch the most important views. My outlines were,
perhaps, tolerably successful, but nothing seemed to stand out, nothing
to retire into the distance; for such objects I had no language. We
toiled on further; the horrors of the wilderness seemed continually
to deepen, planes became hills, and hollows chasms. And so my guide
conducted me to the cave of Ursern, through which I walked in somewhat
of an ill humor; what we had seen thus far was, at any rate, sublime,
this darkness took everything away.

But the roguish guide anticipated the joyful astonishment which would
overwhelm me on my egress. There the moderately foaming stream wound
mildly through a level vale surrounded by mountains, but wide enough
to invite habitation. Above the clean little village of Ursern and its
church, which stood opposite to us on a level plot, rose a pine-grove
which was held sacred, because it protected the inhabitants at its
foot from the rolling of the avalanches. Here we enjoyed the sight of
long-missed vegetation. The meadows of the valley, just beginning to
look green, were adorned along the river side with short willows The
tranquillity was great; upon the level paths we felt our powers revive
again, and my fellow-traveller was not a little proud of the surprise
which he had so skilfully contrived.

The meadows produce the celebrated Ursern cheese, and the youthful
travellers, high in spirits, pronounced very tolerable wine not to be
surpassed in order to heighten their enjoyment, and to give a more
fantastic impulse to their projects.

On the 22nd, at half-past three, we left our quarters, that from the
smooth Ursern valley we might enter upon the stony valley of Liviner.
Here, too, we at once missed all vegetation; nothing was to be seen or
heard but naked or mossy rocks covered with snow, fitful gusts blowing
the clouds backwards and forwards, the rustling of waterfalls, the
tinkling of sumpter-horses in the depth of solitude, where we saw none
coming and none departing. It did not cost the imagination much to
see dragons' nests in the clefts. But, nevertheless, we felt inspired
and elevated by one of the most beautiful and picturesque waterfalls,
sublimely various in all its rocky steps, which, being at this time of
the year enriched by melted snows, and now half hidden by the clouds,
now half revealed, chained us for some time to the spot.

[Side-note: The Hospice.]

Finally, we came to little mist-lakes, as I might call them, since
they were scarcely to be distinguished from the atmospheric streaks.
Before long, a building loomed towards us out of the vapour: it was the
Hospice, and we felt great satisfaction at the thoughts of sheltering
ourselves under its hospitable roof.


[1] Hanswurst is the old German buffoon, whose name answers to the
English "Jack Pudding."--Tr.




NINETEENTH BOOK.


Announced by the low barking of a little dog which ran out to meet us,
we were cordially received at the door by an elderly but active female.
She apologised for the absence of the Pater, who had gone to Milan,
but was expected home that evening; and immediately, without any more
words, set to work to provide for our comfort and wants. We were shown
into a warm and spacious room, where bread, cheese, and some passable
wine were set before us, with the promise of a more substantial meal
for our supper. The surprise of the day was now talked over, and my
friend was not a little proud that all had gone off so well, and that
we had passed a day the impressions of which neither poetry nor prose
could ever reproduce.

At length with the twilight, which did not here come on till late, the
venerable father entered the room, greeted his guests with dignity
but in a friendly and cordial manner, and in a few words ordered the
cook to pay all possible attention to our wishes. When we expressed
the wonder we could not repress, that he could like to pass his life
up here, in the midst of such a perfect wilderness, out of the reach
of all society, he assured us that society was never wanting, as our
own welcome visit might testify. A lively trade, he told us, was kept
up between Italy and Germany. This continual traffic brought him into
relation with the first mercantile houses. He often went down to Milan,
and also to Lucerne, though not so frequently, from which place,
however, the houses which had charge of the posting on the main route,
frequently sent young people to him, who, here at the point of passage
between the two countries, required to be made acquainted with all the
circumstances and events connected with such affairs.

Amid such varied conversation the evening passed away, and we slept a
quiet night on somewhat short sleeping-places, fastened to the wall,
and more like shelves than bedsteads.

[Side-note: Distant View of Italy.]

Rising early, I soon found myself under the open sky, but in a narrow
space surrounded by tall mountain-tops. I sat down upon the foot-path
which led to Italy, and attempted, after the manner of dilettanti,
to draw what could not be drawn, still less make a picture, namely,
the nearest mountain-tops, whose sides, with their white furrows and
black ridges, were gradually made visible by the melting of the snow.
Nevertheless, that fruitless effort has impressed the image indelibly
on my memory.

My companion stepped briskly up to me, and began: "What say you of the
story of our spiritual host, last evening? Have not you as well as
myself, felt a desire to descend from this dragon's height into those
charming regions below? A ramble through these gorges must be glorious
and not very toilsome; and when it ends with Bellinzona, what a
pleasure that must be! The words of the good father have again brought
a living image before my soul of the isles of the Lago Maggiore. We
have heard and seen so much of them since Keyssler's travels, that I
cannot resist the temptation."

"Is it not so with you too?" he resumed; "you are sitting on exactly
the right spot; I stood there once, but had not the courage to jump
down. You can go on without ceremony, wait for me at Airolo, I will
follow with the courier when I have taken leave of the good father and
settled everything."

"Such an enterprise," I replied, "so suddenly undertaken, does not suit
me." "What's the use of deliberating so much?" cried he; "we have money
enough to get to Milan, where we shall find credit; through our fair, I
know more than one mercantile friend there." He grew still more urgent.
"Go!" said I, "and make all ready for the departure, then we will
decide."

In such moments it seems to me as if a man feels no resolution in
himself, but is rather governed and determined by earlier impressions.
Lombardy and Italy lay before me, altogether foreign land; while
Germany, as a well-known dear home, full of friendly, domestic scenes,
and where, let me confess it,--was that which had so long entirely
enchained me, and on which my existence was centred, remained even
now the most indispensable element, beyond the limits of which I felt
afraid to step. A little golden heart, which in my happiest hours, I
had received from her, still hung love-warmed about my neck, suspended
by the same ribbon to which she had tied it. Snatching it from my
bosom, I loaded it with kisses. This incident gave rise to a poem,
which I here insert:--

    Round my neck, suspended, as a token
    Of those joys, that swiftly pass'd away,
    Art thou here that thou may'st lengthen love's short day,
    Still binding, when the bond of souls is broken?

    Lili, from thee I fly; yet I am doom'd to feel
    Thy fetters still,
    Though to strange vales and mountains I depart,
    Yes, Lili's heart must yet remain
    Attached to _my_ fond heart.

    Thus the bird, snapping his string in twain,
    Seeks his wood,--his own,
    Still a mark of bondage bearing,
    Of that string a fragment wearing.
    The old--the free-born bird--he cannot be again,
    When once a master he has known.

Seeing my Mend with the guide, who carried our knapsack, come storming
up the heights, I rose hastily and removed from the precipice, where
I had been watching his return, lest he should drag me down into the
abyss with him. I also saluted the pious father, and turned, without
saying a word, to the path by which we had come. My friend followed
me, somewhat hesitating, and in spite of his love and attachment to
me, kept for a long time at a distance behind, till at last a glorious
waterfall brought us again together for the rest of our journey, and
what had been once decided, was from henceforth looked upon as the
wisest and the best.

Of our descent I will only remark that we now found the snow-bridge,
over which we had securely travelled with a heavy-laden train a
few days before, all fallen in, and that now, as we had to make a
circuit round the opened thicket, we were filled with astonishment
and admiration by the colossal fragments of that piece of natural
architecture.

My friend could not quite get over his disappointment at not returning
into Italy; very likely he had thought of the plan some time before,
and with amiable cunning had hoped to surprise me on the spot. On this
account our return did not proceed so merrily as our advance; but I was
occupied all the more constantly on my silent route, with trying to
fix, at least in its more comprehensible and characteristic details,
that sense of the sublime and vast, which, as time advances, usually
grows contracted in our minds.

[Side-note: Küssnacht--Tell.]

Not without many both new and renewed emotions and reflections did we
pass over the remarkable heights about the Vierwaldstätter Lake, on
our way to Küssnacht, where having landed and pursued our ramble, we
had to greet Tell's chapel, which lay on our route, and to reflect
upon that assassination which, in the eyes of the whole world, is so
heroical, patriotic, and glorious. So, too, we sailed over the Zuger
Lake, which we had seen in the distance as we looked down from Rigi.
In Zug, I only remember some painted glass, inserted into the casement
of a chamber of the inn, not large to be sure, but excellent in its
way. Our route then led over the Albis into the Sihl valley, where, by
visiting a young Hanoverian, Von Lindau, who delighted to live there
in solitude, we sought to mitigate the vexation which he had felt some
time before in Zurich, at our declining the offer of his company not
in the most friendly or polite manner. The jealous friendship of the
worthy Passavant was really the reason of my rejecting the truly dear,
but inconvenient presence of another.

But before we descend again from these glorious heights, to the lake
and to the pleasantly situated city, I must make one more remark
upon my attempts to carry away some idea, of the country by drawing
and sketching. A habit from youth upward of viewing a landscape as
a picture, led me, whenever I observed any picturesque spot in the
natural scenery, to try and fix it, and so to preserve a sure memorial
of such moments. But having hitherto only exercised myself on confined
scenes, I soon felt the incompetency of my art for such a world.

The haste I was in at once compelled me to have recourse to a singular
expedient: scarcely had I noticed an interesting object, and with
light and very sketchy strokes drawn the outlines on the paper, than
I noted down, in words, the particular objects which I had no time to
catch and fill up with the pencil, and, by this means, made the scenes
so thoroughly present to my mind, that every locality, whenever I
afterwards wanted it for a poem or a story, floated at once before me
and was entirely at my command.

On returning to Zurich, I found the Stolbergs were gone; their stay in
this city had been cut short in a singular manner.

It must be confessed that travellers upon removing to a distance from
the restraints of home, are only too apt to think they are stepping
not only into an unknown, but into a perfectly free world; a delusion
which it was the more easy to indulge in at this time, as there was
not as yet any passports to be examined by the police, or any tolls
and suchlike checks and hindrances on the liberty of travellers, to
remind men that abroad they are subject to still worse and more painful
restraints than at home.

If the reader will only bear in mind this decided tendency to realize
the freedom of nature, he will be able to pardon the young spirits who
regarded Switzerland as the very place in which to "Idyllize" the fresh
independence of youth. The tender poems of Gessner, as well as his
charming sketches, seemed decidedly to justify this expectation.

In fact, bathing in wide waters, seems to be one of the best
qualifications for expressing such poetic talents. Upon our journey
thus far, such natural exercises had not seemed exactly suitable to
modern customs, and we had, in some degree, abstained from them. But,
in Switzerland, the sight of the cool stream,--flowing, running,
rushing, then gathering on the plain, and gradually spreading out to a
lake,--presented a temptation that was not to be resisted. I can not
deny that I joined my companions in bathing in the clear lake, but we
chose a spot far enough, as we supposed, from all human eyes. But naked
bodies shine a good way, and whoever chanced to see us doubtless took
offence.

[Side-note: Anecdote of the Stolbergs.]

The good innocent youths who thought it nowise shocking to see
themselves half naked, like poetic shepherds, or entirely naked, like
heathen deities, were admonished by their friends to leave off all
such practices. They were given to understand that they were living
not in primeval nature, but in a land where it was esteemed good and
salutary to adhere to the old institutions and customs which had
been handed down from the middle ages. They were not disinclined to
acknowledge the propriety of all this, especially as the appeal was
made to the middle ages, which, to them, seemed venerable as a second
nature. Accordingly, they left the more public lake shores, but when
in their walks through the mountains, they fell in with the clear,
rustling, refreshing streams, it seemed to them impossible, in the
middle of July, to abstain from the refreshing exercise. Thus, on
their wide sweeping walks, they came also to the shady vale, where the
Sihl, streaming behind the Albis, shoots down to empty itself into
the Limmat below Zurich. Far from every habitation, and even from all
trodden foot-paths, they thought there could be no objection here to
their throwing off their clothes and boldly meeting the foaming waves.
This was not indeed done without a shriek, without a wild shout of joy,
excited partly by the chill and partly by the satisfaction, by which
they thought to consecrate these gloomy, wooded rocks into an Idyllic
scene.

But, whether persons previously ill-disposed had crept after them,
or whether this poetic tumult called forth adversaries even in the
solitude, cannot be determined. Suffice it to say, stone after stone
was thrown at them from the motionless bushes above, whether by one or
more, whether accidentally or purposely, they could not tell; however,
they thought it wisest to renounce the quickening element and look
after their clothes.

No one got hit; they sustained no injury but the moral one of surprise
and chagrin, and full of young life as they were, they easily shook off
the recollection of this awkward affair.

But the most disagreeable consequences fell upon Lavater, who was
blamed for having given so friendly a welcome to such saucy youths, as
even to have arranged walks with them, and otherwise to shew attention
to persons whose wild, unbridled, unchristian, and even heathenish
habits, had caused so much scandal to a moral and well-regulated
neighbourhood.

Our clever friend, however, who well knew how to smooth over such
unpleasant occurrences, contrived to hush up this one also, and after
the departure of these meteoric travellers, we found, on our return,
peace and quiet restored.

In the fragment of Werther's travels, which has lately been reprinted
in the sixteenth volume of my works, I have attempted to describe this
contrast of the commendable order and legal restraint of Switzerland,
with that life of nature which youth in its delusions so loudly
demands. But, as people generally are apt to take all that the poet
advances without reserve for his decided opinions, or even didactic
censure, so the Swiss were very much offended at the comparison, and
I, therefore, dropped the intended continuation, which was to have
represented, more or less in detail, Werther's progress up to the
epoch of his sorrows, and which, therefore, would certainly have been
interesting to those who wish to study mankind.

Arrived at Zurich, I devoted my time almost exclusively to Lavater,
whose hospitality I again made use of. The Physiognomy, with all its
portraits and monstrous caricatures, weighed heavily and with an
ever-increasing load on the shoulders of the worthy man. We arranged
all as well as we could under the circumstances, and I promised him, on
my return home, to continue my assistance.

I was led to give this promise by a certain youthful unlimited
confidence in my own quickness of comprehension, and still more by a
feeling of my readiness of adaptation to any subject; for, in truth,
the way in which Lavater dissected physiognomies was not at all in my
vein. The impression which at our first meeting, he had made upon me,
determined, in some degree, my relation to him; although a general wish
to oblige which was always strong, joined to the light-heartedness of
youth, had a great share in all my actions by causing me to see things
in a certain twilight atmosphere.

Lavater's mind was altogether an imposing one; in his society it
was impossible to resist his decided influence, and I had no choice
but to submit to it at once and set to work observing foreheads and
noses, eyes and mouths, in detail, and weighing their relations and
proportions. My fellow observer did this from necessity, as he had to
give a perfect account of what he himself had discerned so clearly; but
to me it always seemed like a trick, a piece of espionage, to attempt
to analyse a man into his elements before his face, and so to get upon
the track of his hidden moral peculiarities. I had more pleasure in
listening to his conversation, in which he unveiled himself at will.
And yet, I must confess, I always felt a degree of constraint in
Lavater's presence; for, while by his art of physiognomy, he possessed
himself of our peculiarities, he also made himself, by conversation,
master of our thoughts, which, with a little sagacity, he would easily
guess from our variety of phrases.

He who feels a pregnant synthesis in himself, has peculiarly a right to
analyse, since by the outward particulars he tests and legitimizes his
inward whole. How Lavater managed in such cases, a single example will
suffice to show.

[Side-note: Lavater--His Character and Works.]

On Sundays, after the sermon, it was his duty, as an ecclesiastic,
to hold the short-handled, velvet, alms-bag before each one who went
out, and to bless as he received the pious gift. Now, on a certain
Sunday he proposed to himself, without looking at the several persons
as they dropped in their offerings, to observe only their hands, and
by them, silently, to judge of the forms of their owner. Not only the
shape of the finger, but its peculiar action in dropping the gift,
was attentively noted by him, and he had much to communicate to me on
the conclusions he had formed. How instructive and exciting must such
conversations have been to one, who also was seeking to qualify himself
for a painter of men!

Often in my after life had I occasion to think of Lavater, who was
one of the best and worthiest men that I ever formed so intimate
a relation with. These notices of him that I have introduced in
this work were accordingly written at various times. Following our
divergent tendencies, we gradually became strangers to each other,
and yet I never could bring myself to part with the favorable idea
which his worth had left upon my mind. In thought I often brought him
before me, and thus arose these leaves, which, as they were written
without reference to and independently of each other, may contain some
repetitions, but, it is hoped, no contradictions.

       *       *       *       *       *

By his cast of mind, Lavater was a decided realist, and knew of nothing
ideal except in a moral form; by keeping this remark steadily in mind,
you will most readily understand this rare and singular man.

His _Prospects of Eternity_ look merely for a continuance of the
present state of existence, under easier conditions than those which we
have now to endure. His _Physiognomy_ rests on the conviction that the
sensible corresponds throughout with the spiritual, and is not only an
evidence of it, but indeed its representative.

The ideals of art found little favor with him, because with his sharp
look he saw too clearly the impossibility of such conceptions ever
being embodied in a living organization, and he therefore banished them
into the realm of fable, and even of monstrosity.

His incessant demand for a realization of the ideal gained him the
reputation of a visionary, although he maintained and felt convinced
that no man insisted more strongly on the actual than he did;
accordingly, he never could detect the error in his mode of thinking
and acting.

Seldom has there been a man who strove more passionately than he did
for public recognition, and thus he was particularly fitted for a
teacher; but if all his labors tended to the intellectual and moral
improvement of others, this was by no means their ultimate aim.

To realize the character of Christ was what he had most at heart;
hence that almost insane zeal of his to have pictures of Christ drawn,
copied, moulded, one after another; none of which, however, as to be
expected, ever satisfied him.

His writings are hard to understand, even now, for it is far from easy
to penetrate into his precise meaning. No one ever wrote so much of
the times, and for the times, as Lavater; his writings are veritable
journals, which in an especial manner require to be explained by the
history of the day; they, moreover, are written in the language of a
coterie, which one must first acquaint oneself with, before we can
hold communion with them, otherwise many things will appear stupid and
absurd even to the most intelligent reader. Indeed, objections enough
of the kind have been made against this author, both in his lifetime
and since.

Thus, for example, with our rage for dramatizing and representing under
this form all that struck us, and caring for no other, we once so
warmed his brain with a dramatic ardour, that, in his _Pontius Pilate_,
he labored very hard to show that there is no more dramatic work than
the Bible; and, especially, that the history of Christ's Passion must
be regarded as the drama of all dramas.

In this chapter, and indeed throughout the work, Lavater appears
greatly to resemble Father Abraham of Santa Clara; for into this manner
every richly gifted mind necessarily falls who wishes to work upon his
contemporaries. He must acquaint himself with existing tendencies and
passions, with the speech and terminology of the day, and adapt them
to his ends, in order to approach the mass whom he seeks to influence.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Side-note: Lavater--His Character and Works.]

Since Lavater took Christ literally,--as described by the Scriptures,
and by most commentators,--he let this representation serve so far
for the supplement of his own being, that he ideally incorporated the
God-man into his own individual humanity, until he finally was able to
imagine himself melted into one and united with him, and, indeed, to
have become the same person.

This decidedly literal faith had also worked in him a perfect
conviction that miracles can be wrought to-day as well as heretofore.
Accordingly, since in some important and trying emergencies of his
earlier days, he had by means of earnest and indeed violent prayer,
succeeded in procuring an instantaneous and favorable turn of the
impending calamity, no mere cold objections of the reasoning intellect
would make him for a moment waver in this faith. Penetrated, moreover,
by the idea of the greatness and excellence of Humanity as restored by
Christ, and through Him destined to a blissful immortality, but, at
the same time, fully sensible of the manifold requisitions of man's
heart and mind, and of his insatiable yearnings after knowledge, and,
moreover, feeling in himself that desire of expanding himself into the
infinite to which the starry heavens seem so sensibly to invite us, he
wrote under these feelings Iris "_Prospects of Eternity_," which must
have appeared a very strange book indeed to the greater part of his
contemporaries.

All this striving, however, all wishes, all undertakings, were
overborne by the genius for physiognomy, which nature had bestowed upon
him. For, as the touchstone, by its blackness and peculiar roughness of
surface, is eminently fitted to distinguish between the metals which
are applied to it; so that pure idea of humanity, which Lavater carried
within himself, and that sharp yet delicate gift of observation, which
at first he exercised from natural impulse occasionally only and
accidentally, but afterwards with deliberate reflection and regularly,
qualified him in the highest degree to note the peculiarities of
individual men, and to understand, distinguish, and express them.

Every talent which rests on a decided natural gift, seems from our
inability to subordinate either it or its operations to any idea to
have something of magic about it. And, in truth, Lavater's insight into
the characters of individuals surpassed all conception; one was utterly
amazed at his remarks, when in confidence we were talking of this or
that person; nay, it was frightful to live near a man who clearly
discerned the nicest limits by which nature had been pleased to modify
and distinguish our various personalities.

Every one is apt to believe that what he possesses himself may be
communicated to others; and so Lavater was not content to make use of
this great gift for himself alone, but insisted that it might be found
and called forth in others, nay that it might even be imparted to the
great mass. The many dull and malicious misinterpretations, the stupid
jests in abundance, and detracting railleries, this striking doctrine
gave rise to, may still be remembered by some men; however, it must be
owned that the worthy man himself was not altogether without blame in
the matter. For though a high moral sense preserved the unity of his
inner being, yet, with his manifold labors, he was unable to attain
to outward unity, since he did not possess the slightest capacity for
philosophical method, nor for artistic talent.

He was neither Thinker nor Poet; indeed, not even an orator, in the
proper sense of the term. Utterly unable to take a comprehensive
and methodical view, he nevertheless formed an unerring judgment of
individual cases and these he noted down boldly side by side. His great
work on Physiognomy is a striking proof and illustration of this. In
himself, the idea of the moral or of the sensual man might form a
whole; but out of himself he could not represent this idea, except
practically by individual cases, in the same way as he himself had
apprehended them in life.

That very work sadly shows us how in the commonest matter of experience
so sharp-sighted a man, may go groping about him. For after spending
an immense sum and employing every artist and botcher living, he
procured at last drawings and engravings, which were so far without
character, that he is obliged in his work to say after each one that
it is more or less a failure, unmeaning and worthless. True, by this
means, he sharpened his own judgment, and the judgment of others; but
it also proves that his mental bias led him rather to heap up cases of
experience, than to draw from them any clear and sober principle. For
this reason he never could come to results, though I often pressed him
for them. What in later life he confided as such to his friends, were
none to me; for they consisted of nothing more than a collection of
certain lines and features, nay, warts and freckles, with which he had
seen certain moral, and frequently immoral, peculiarities associated.
There were certainly some remarks among them that surprised and
riveted your attention; but they formed no series, one thing followed
another accidentally, there was no gradual advance towards any general
deductions and no reference to any principles previously established.
And indeed there was just as little of literary method or artistic
feeling to be found in his other writings, which invariably contained
passionate and earnest expositions of his thoughts and objects, and
supplied by the most affecting and appropriate instances, what they
could not accomplish by the general conception.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Side-note: Abuse of the Term--Genius.]

The following reflections, as they refer to those circumstances, may be
aptly introduced here.

No one willingly concedes superiority to another, so long as he can
in any way deny it. Natural gifts of every kind can the least be
denied, and yet by the common mode of speaking in those times, genius
was ascribed to the poet alone. But another world seemed all at once
to rise up; genius was looked for in the physician, in the general,
in the statesman, and before long, in all men, who thought to make
themselves eminent either in theory or practice. Zimmerman, especially,
had advanced these claims. Lavater, by his views of Physiognomy, was
compelled to assume a more general distribution of mental gifts by
nature; the word genius became a universal symbol, and because men
heard it uttered so often, they thought that what was meant by it, was
habitually at hand. But then, since every one felt himself justified
in demanding genius of others, he finally believed that he also must
possess it himself. The time was yet far distant when it could be
affirmed, that genius is that power of man which by its deeds and
actions gives laws and rules. At this time it was thought to manifest
itself only, by overstepping existing laws, breaking established
rules, and declaring itself above all restraint. It was, therefore,
an easy thing to be a genius, and nothing was more natural than that
extravagance both of word and deed should provoke all orderly men to
oppose themselves to such a monster.

When anybody rushed into the world on foot, without exactly knowing why
or whither, it was called a pass of genius; and when any one undertook
an aimless and useless absurdity, it was a stroke of genius. Young
men, of vivacious and true talents, too often lost themselves in the
limitless; and then older men of understanding, wanting perhaps in
talent and in soul, found a most malicious gratification in exposing to
the public gaze, their manifold and ludicrous miscarriages.

For my part, in the development and the expression of my own ideas,
I perhaps experienced far more hindrance and checks from the false
co-operation and interference of the like-minded, than by the
opposition of those whose turn of mind was directly contrary to my own.

With a strange rapidity, words, epithets, and phrases, which have once
been cleverly employed to disparage the highest intellectual gifts,
spread by a sort of mechanical repetition among the multitude, and in
a short time they are to be heard everywhere, even in common life, and
in the mouths of the most uneducated; indeed before long they even
creep into dictionaries. In this way the word genius had suffered so
much from misrepresentation, that it was almost desired to banish it
entirely from the German language.

And so the Germans, with whom the common voice is more apt to prevail
than with other nations, would perhaps have sacrificed the fairest
flower of speech, the word which, though apparently foreign, really
belongs to every people, had not the sense for what is highest and best
in man, been happily restored and solidly established by a profounder
philosophy.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the preceding pages mention has been frequently made of the youthful
times of two men, whose memory will never hide from the history of
German literature and morals. At this period, however, we came to
know them as it were only by the errors into which they were misled
by a false maxim which prevailed among their youthful contemporaries.
Nothing, therefore, can be more proper than with due appreciation and
respect to paint their natural form, their peculiar individuality, just
as it appeared at that time, and as their immediate presence exhibited
itself to the penetrating eye of Lavater. Consequently, since the heavy
and expensive volumes of the great work on Physiognomy are probably
accessible to a few only of our readers, I have no scruple in inserting
here the remarkable passages of that work, which refer to both the
Stolbergs, in the second part and its thirtieth fragment, page 224:

[Side-note: Lavater's Sketch of the Stolbergs.]

"The young men, whose portraits and profiles we have here before us,
are the first men who ever sat and stood to me for physiognomical
description, as another would sit to a painter for his portrait.

"I knew them before, the noble ones--and I made the first attempt, in
accordance with nature and with all my previous knowledge, to observe
and to describe their character.

"Here is the description of the whole man.--

FIRST, OF THE YOUNGER.

"See the blooming youth of 25! the lightly-floating, buoyant, elastic
creature! it does not lie; it does not stand; it does not lean; it does
not fly; it floats or swims. Too full of life, to rest; too supple to
stand firm; too heavy and too weak, to fly.

"A floating thing, then, which does not touch the earth! In its whole
contour not a single slack line; but on the other hand no straight one,
no tense one, none firmly arched or stiffly curved; no sharp entering
angles, no rock-like projection of the brow; no hardness; no stiffness;
no defiant roughness; no threatening insolence; no iron will--all
is elastic, winning, but nothing iron; no stedfast and searching
profundity; no slow reflection, or prudent thoughtfulness; nowhere the
reasoner with the scales held firmly in the one hand, and the sword in
the other; and yet not the least formality in look or judgment! but
still the most perfect straight-forwardness of intellect, or rather
the most immaculate sentiment of truth! Always the inward feeler,
never the deep thinker; never the discoverer, the testing unfolder of
truth so quickly seen, so quickly known, so quickly loved, and quickly
grasped.... Perpetual soarer, a seer; idealizer; beautifier;--that
gives a shape and form, to all his ideas! Ever the half-intoxicated
poet, seeing only what he will see;--not the sorrowfully languishing;
not the sternly crushing; but the lofty, noble, powerful! who with
'thirst for the sun' (_Sonnendurst_), hovers to and fro in the regions
of air, strives aloft, and again--_sinks_ not to earth! but throws
himself headlong to earth, bather in the floods of the 'Rock-stream'
(_Felsenstrom_), and cradles himself 'in the thunder of the echoing
rocks around' (_Im Donner der hallenden Felsen umher_). His glance--not
the fire-glance of the eagle! His brow and nose--not the courage of the
lion! his breast--not the stedfastness of the steed that neighs for
battle! In the whole, however, there is much of the tearing activity of
the elephant....

"The projecting upper lip slightly drawn up towards the over-hanging
nose, which is neither sharply cut, nor angular, evinces, with such a
closing of the mouth, much taste and sensibility; while the lower part
of the face bespeaks much sensuality, indolence, and thoughtlessness.
The whole outline of the profile shows openness, honesty, humanity,
but at the same tune a liability to be led astray, and a high degree
of that good-hearted indiscretion, which injures no one but himself.
The middle line of the mouth bespeaks in its repose, a downright,
planless, weak, good-natured disposition; when in motion, a tender,
finely-feeling, exceedingly susceptible, benevolent, noble man. In the
arch of the eyelids, and in the glance of the eyes, there sits not
Homer, but the deepest, most thorough, and most quick feeling, and
comprehension of Homer; not the epic, but the lyric poet; genius, which
fuses, moulds, creates, glorifies, hovers, transforms all into a heroic
form--which deifies all. The half-closed eyelids, from such an arch,
indicate the keenly sensitive poet, rather than the slowly laboring
artist, who creates after a plan; the whimsical rather than the severe.
The full face of the youth is much more taking and attractive, than
the somewhat too loose, too protracted half-face; the fore-part of the
face in its slightest motion, tells of a highly sensitive, thoughtful,
inventive, untaught, inward goodness, of a softly tremulous,
wrong-abhorring love of liberty--an eager vivacity. It cannot conceal
from the commonest observer the slightest impression which it receives
for the moment, or adopts for ever. Every object, which nearly concerns
or interests him, drives the blood into the cheeks and nose; where
honor is concerned, the most maidenly blush of shame spreads like
lightning over the delicately sensitive skin.

[Side-note: Lavater's Sketch of the Stolbergs.]

"The complexion is not the pale one of all-creating, all-consuming
genius; not the wildly glowing one of the contemptuous destroyer;
not the milk-white one of the blond; not the olive one of the strong
and hardy; not the brownish one of the slowly plodding peasant; but
the white, the red, and the violet, running one into another, and so
expressively, and so happily, blended together like the strength and
weakness of the whole character. The soul of the whole and of each
single feature is freedom, and elastic activity, which springs forth
easily and is as easily repulsed. The whole fore-face and the way
the head is carried, promise magnanimity and upright cheerfulness.
Incorruptible sensibility, delicacy of taste, purity of mind, goodness
and nobleness of soul, active power, a feeling of strength and of
weakness, shine out so transparently through the whole face, that what
were otherwise a lively self-complacency dissolves itself into a noble
modesty, and most artlessly and unconstrainedly the natural pride and
vanity of youth melt with the loveliness of twilight into the easy
majesty of the whole man. The whitish hair, the length and awkwardness
of form, the softness and lightness of step, the hesitating gait, the
flatness of the breast, the fair unfurrowed brow, and various other
features spread over the whole man a certain feminine air, by which
the inward quickness of action is moderated, and every intentional
offence and every meanness made for ever impossible to the heart; but
at the same time clearly evincing that the spirited and fiery poet,
with all his unaffected thirst for freedom and for emancipation, is
neither destined to be a man of business, thoroughly persistent, who
steadily and resolutely carries out his plans, or to become immortal
in the bloody strife. And now, in conclusion, I remark, for the first
time, that I have as yet said nothing of the most striking trait--the
noble simplicity, free from all affectation! Nothing of his childlike
openness of heart! Nothing of the entire unconsciousness of his outward
nobility! Nothing of the inexpressible _bonhommie_ with which he
accepts and bears reproaches or warnings, nay, even accusations and
wrongful charges.

"But who can find an end, who will undertake to tell all that he sees
or feels in a good man, in whom there is so much pure humanity?"

DESCRIPTION OF THE ELDER STOLBERG.

"What I have said of the younger brother--how much of it may be
said also of the elder! The principal thing I have to remark is the
following:--

"This figure and this character are more compact and less diffuse
than the former. There all was longer or flatter; here all is
shorter, broader, more arched, and rounded; there all was vague; here
everything is more precise and sharply defined. So the brow; so the
nose; so the breast: more compressed, more active, less diffuse, more
of concentrated life and power! For the rest, the same amiableness
and _bonhommie!_ Not that striking openness, rather more of reserve,
but in principle, or rather in deed, the same honorable tone. The
same invincible abhorrence of injustice and baseness; the same
irreconcilable hatred of all that is called cunning and trickery; the
same unyielding opposition to tyranny and despotism; the same pure,
incorruptible sensibility to all that is noble, and great, and good;
the same need of friendship and of freedom, the same sensitiveness
and noble thirst for glory; the same catholicity of heart for all
good, wise, sincere, and energetic men, renowned or unrenowned, known
or misunderstood,--and the same light-hearted inconsiderateness. No!
not exactly the same. The face is sharper, more contracted, firmer;
has more inward, self-developing capacity for business and practical
counsels; more of enterprising spirit--which is shown especially by
the strongly prominent and fully rounded bones of the eye-sockets.
Not the all-blending, rich, pure, lofty poet's feeling--not the ease
and rapidity of the productive, power which marks the other--but yet
he is, and that in profounder depths, vivacious, upright, ardent.
Not the airy genius of light floating away in the morning red of
heaven, and fashioning huge shapes therein--but more of inward power,
though perhaps less of expression! more powerful and terrible--less
of elegance and finish; though his pencil nevertheless wants neither
coloring nor enchantment. More wit and riotous humor; droll satire;
brow, nose, look--all so downward, so over-hanging--decidedly what
it should be for original and all-enlivening wit, which does not
gather from without, but brings forth from within. Above all in this
character every trait more prominent, more angular, more aggressive,
more storming! No passive dullness, no relaxation, except in the sunken
eyes, where, as well as in the brow and nose, pleasure evidently
sits. In all besides--and even in this very brow, this concentration
of all--in this look indeed--there is an unmistakable expression of
natural, unacquired greatness; strength, impetuosity of manliness;
constancy, simplicity, precision!"

       *       *       *       *       *

After having in Darmstadt conceded to Merck the justice of his
opinions and allowed him to triumph, in his having predicted my
speedy separation from these gay companions, I found myself again in
Frankfort, well received by every one, including my father, although
the latter could not conceal his disappointment that I had not
descended by the pass to Airolo, and announced to him from Milan my
arrival in Italy. All this was expressed by his silence rather than his
words; but above all he did not show the slightest sympathy with those
wild rocks, those lakes of mist, and dragons' nests.

At last, however, by an incidental remark, by no means intended for
a reproach, he gave me to understand how little all such sights were
worth: he who has not seen Naples, he observed, has lived to no end.

[Side-note: My Meeting again with Lili.]

On my return I did not, I could not, avoid seeing Lili; the position
we maintained towards each other was tender and considerate. I was
informed that they had fully convinced her in my absence, that she must
break off her intimacy with me, and that this was the more necessary
and indeed more practicable, since by my journey and voluntary absence,
I had given a sufficiently clear intimation of my own intentions.
Nevertheless, the same localities in town and country, the same
friends, confidentially acquainted with all the past, could scarcely
be seen without emotion by either of us--still and for ever lovers,
although drawn apart in a mysterious way. It was an accursed state,
which in a certain sense resembled Hades, or the meeting of the happy
with the unhappy dead.

There were moments when departed days seemed to revive, but instantly
vanished again, like ghosts.

Some kind people had told me in confidence, that Lili, when all the
obstacles to, our union were laid before her, had declared that for my
love she was ready to renounce all present ties and advantages, and to
go with me to America. America was then perhaps, still more than now,
the Eldorado of all who found themselves crossed in the wishes of the
moment.

But the very thing which should have animated my hopes, only depressed
them the more. My handsome paternal house, only a few hundred steps
from hers, offered certainly a more tolerable and more attractive
habitation than an uncertain and remote locality beyond the ocean;
still I do not deny, that in her presence all hopes, all wishes sprang
to life again, and irresolution was stirring within me.

True, the injunctions of my sister were very peremptory and precise;
not only had she, with all the shrewd penetration of which she was
mistress, explained the situation of things to me, but she had also,
with painfully cogent letters, harped upon the same text still more
powerfully. "It were very well," said she, "if you could not help it,
then you would have to put up with it; such things one must _suffer_
but not _choose._" Some months passed away in this most miserable of
all conditions; every circumstance had conspired against the union; in
her alone I felt, I knew, lay the power which could have overcome every
difficulty.

Both the lovers, conscious of their position, avoided all solitary
interviews; but, in company, they could not help meeting in the usual
formal way. It was now that the strongest trial was to be gone through,
as every noble and feeling soul will acknowledge, when I have explained
myself more fully.

It is generally allowed, that in a new acquaintance, in the formation
of a new attachment, the lover gladly draws a veil over the past.
Growing affection troubles itself about no antecedents, and as it
springs up like genius with the rapidity of lightning, it knows nothing
either of past or future. It is true, my closer intimacy with Lili had
begun by her telling me the story of her early youth: how, from a child
up, she had excited in many both a liking and devotion to herself,
especially in strangers visiting her father's gay and lively house, and
how she had found her pleasure in all this, though it had been attended
with no further consequences and had lead to no permanent tie.

[Side-note: Lili's Old Lovers.]

True, lovers consider all that they have felt before only as
preparation for their present bliss, only as the foundation on which
the structure of their future life is to be reared. Past attachments
seem like spectres of the night, which glide away before the break of
day.

But what occurred! The fair came on, and with it appeared the whole
swarm of those spectres in their reality; all the mercantile friends
of the eminent house came one by one, and it was soon manifest
that not a man among them was willing or able wholly to give up a
certain claim to the lovely daughter. The younger ones, without being
obtrusive, still seemed to claim the rights of familiar friends; the
middle-aged, with a certain obliging dignity, like those who seek to
make themselves beloved, and who in all probability might come forward
with higher claims. There were fine men among them, with the additional
recommendation of a substantial fortune.

The older gentlemen, with their _uncle's_ ways and manners, were
altogether intolerable; they could not bridle their hands, and in the
midst of their disagreeable twaddle would demand a kiss, for which the
cheek was not refused. It was so natural to her, gracefully to satisfy
every one. The conversation, too, excited many a painful remembrance.
Allusion was constantly made to pleasure parties by water and by land,
to perils of all kinds with their happy escapes, to balls and evening
promenades, to the amusement afforded by ridiculous wooers, and to
whatever could excite an uncomfortable jealousy in the heart of an
inconsolable lover, who had, as it were, for a long time drawn to
himself the sum of so many years. But amid all this crowd and gaiety,
she did not push aside her friend, and when she turned to him, she
contrived, in a few words, to express all the tenderness which seemed
allowable to their present position.

But let us turn from this torture, of which the memory even is almost
intolerable, to poesy, which afforded, at least, an intellectual and
heartfelt alleviation of my sufferings.

"_Lili's Menagerie_" belongs somewhere to this period; I do not adduce
the poem here, because it does not reveal the softer sentiment, but
seeks only, with genial earnestness, to exaggerate the disagreeable,
and by comical, and provoking images, to change renunciation into
despair.

The _following song_ expresses rather the sweeter side of that misery,
and on that account is here inserted:

    Sweetest roses, ye are drooping,
      By my love ye were not worn;
    Bloom for one, who past all hoping,
      Feels his soul by sorrow torn.

    Oh, the days still live in thought, love,
      When to thee, my angel, bound;
    I my garden early sought, love,
      And for thee the young buds found.

    All the flowers and fruits I bore thee,
      And I cast them at thy feet;
    As I proudly stood before thee,
      Then my heart with hope would beat!

    Sweetest roses, ye are drooping,
      By my love ye were not worn;
    Bloom for one, who past all hoping,
      Feels his soul by sorrow torn.

The opera of "_Erwin and Elvira_" was suggested by the pretty
little romaunt or ballad introduced by Goldsmith in his "_Vicar of
Wakefield_," which had given us so much pleasure in our happiest days,
when we never dreamed that a similar fate awaited us.

I have already introduced some of the poetical productions of
this epoch, and I only wish they had all been preserved. A never
failing excitement in the happy season of love, heightened by the
beginning of care, gave birth to songs, which throughout expressed
no overstrained emotion, but always the sincere feeling of the
moment. From social songs for festivals, down to the most trifling of
presentation-verses--all was living and real and what a refined company
had sympathized in; first glad, then sorrowful, till finally there was
no height of bliss, no depth of woe, to which a strain was not devoted.

All these internal feelings and outward doings, so far as they were
likely to vex and pain my father, were by my mother's bustling prudence
skilfully kept from him. Although his hope of seeing me lead into
his house, that first one (who had so fully realised his ideas of a
daughter-in-law) had died away, still this "state-lady," as he used to
call her in his confidential conversations with ms wife, would never
suit him.

Nevertheless he let matters take their course, and diligently occupied
himself with his little Chancery. The young juristic friend, as well as
the dexterous amanuensis, gained continually more and more of influence
under his firm. As the absentee was now no longer missed there, they
let me take my own way, and sought to establish themselves firmly upon
a ground on which I was not destined to thrive.

Fortunately my own tendencies corresponded with the sentiments and
wishes of my father. He had so great an idea of my poetic talents, and
felt so personal a pleasure in the applause which my earliest efforts
had obtained, that he often talked to me on the subject of new and
further attempts. On the other hand, I did not venture to communicate
to him any of these social effusions and poems of passion.

[Side-note: Plan of Egmont.]

As, in _Götz von Berlichingen_, I had in my own way mirrored forth the
image of an important epoch of the world, I now again carefully looked
round for another crisis in political history of similar interest.
Accordingly the Revolt of the Netherlands attracted my attention. In
Götz, I had depicted a man of parts and energy, sinking under the
delusion that, in times of anarchy, ability and honesty of purpose must
have their weight and influence. The design of Egmont was to shew that
the most firmly established institutions cannot maintain themselves
against a powerful and shrewdly calculating Despotism. I had talked so
earnestly with my father about what the piece ought to be, and what I
wanted to do, that it inspired him with an invincible desire to see
the plan which I had already worked out in my head, fairly set down on
paper, in order to its being printed and admired.

In earlier times, while I still hoped to gain Lili's hand, I had
applied myself with the utmost diligence to the study and practice
of legal business, but now I sought to fill the fearful gulf which
separated me from her, with occupations of more intellect and soul. I
therefore set to work in earnest with the composition of Egmont. Unlike
the first _Götz von Berlichingen_, however, it was not written in
succession and in order; but immediately after the first introduction
I went at once to the main scenes without troubling myself about the
various connecting links. I made rapid progress, because my father,
knowing my fitful way of working, spurred me on (literally and without
exaggeration) day and night, and seemed to believe that the plan, so
easily conceived, might as easily be executed.




TWENTIETH BOOK.


And so I got on rapidly with my "_Egmont_;" and while I found in this
some alleviation of my wounded passion, the society of a clever artist
also helped me through many wearisome hours. And thus, as had often
before been the case, a vague desire of practical improvement brought
me a secret peace of mind, at a time when it could scarcely be hoped
for.

GEORGE MELCHIOR KRAUS, who had been born at Frankfort, but educated in
Paris, having just returned from a short tour to the north of Germany,
paid me a visit, and I immediately felt an impulse and a need to attach
myself to him. He was a cheerful merry fellow, whose light joyous
disposition had found its right sphere in Paris.

At that time Paris promised a pleasant welcome for Germans; PHILIP
HACKERT was residing there in credit and opulence; the true German
style in which, both in oil and water-colors, he faithfully executed
landscapes after nature, met with great favor, as contrasted with the
formal _mannerism_ into which the French had fallen. WILLE, in high
esteem as a copperplate engraver, supported and made German excellence
more widely known. GRIMM, already an artist of some influence, rejoiced
to help his countrymen. Pleasant excursions, in order to take original
sketches from nature were constantly undertaken, in which much of
undoubted excellence was either executed or designed.

BOUCHER and WATTEAU, both of them artists born, whose works, though
fluttering in the style and spirit of the time, were always highly
respectable, were favorably inclined to the new school, and even
took an active part in their excursions, though only for the sake of
amusement and experiment. GREUZE, living quietly by himself in his
family circle, and fond of representing such domestic scenes, seemed
delighted with his own works, held an honored and easy pencil.

All these several styles our townsman KRAUS was able to take up and
blend with his own particular talent; he formed himself in school
after school, and was skilful in his portrait-like delineations of
family and friendly gatherings; equally happy was he in his landscape
sketches, which cordially commended themselves to the eye by their
clear outlines, massive shadows, and agreeable coloring. The inward
sense was satisfied by a certain naïve truth, while the admirer of
artistic skill was especially pleased with the tact by which he
arranged and grouped into a picture what he had copied singly from
nature.

He was a most agreeable companion; a cheerful equanimity never failed
him; obliging without obsequiousness, reserved without pride, he was
everywhere at home, everywhere beloved, the most active, and, at the
same time, the most manageable of all mortals. With such talents and of
such a disposition, he soon won the favor of the higher circles; but he
was especially well received at the castle of the Baron von Stein, at
Nassau on the Lahn, whose accomplished and lovely daughter he assisted
in her artistic studies, and in many ways enlivened the whole circle.

Upon the marriage of this excellent lady to the Count von Werther,
the newly wedded couple took the artist with them to Thuringia, where
the Count possessed a large estate, and thus he got to Weimar. His
acquaintance was immediately sought, his talents were appreciated--and
a wish expressed that he would fix his permanent abode there.

Obliging as he was to everybody, upon his return at this time to
Frankfort, he stimulated my love of art, which had been contented with
merely collecting, and to making practical essays. The neighbourhood of
the artist is indispensable to the Dilettante, for the latter sees all
that is wanting in himself supplied by the former; the wishes of the
amateur are fulfilled in the artist.

By a certain natural talent, assisted by practice, I succeeded pretty
well in an outline, and I could give the shape of all that I saw before
me in nature; but I wanted the peculiar plastic power, the skilful
industry, which lends a body to the outline by well-graduated light and
shade. My copies were rather remote suggestions of the real form, and
my figures like those light airy beings in Dante's Purgatory, which,
casting no shadow themselves, fled affrighted at the shadows of actual
bodies.

Lavater's fishing for physiognomical treasures--for so we may well
designate the importunate urgency with which he called upon all men,
not only to observe physiognomies, but also practically to make, be it
artistic or most bungling attempts at copying faces, led me into the
habit of taking the portraits of all my friends on grey paper, with
black and white chalk. The likeness was not to be mistaken, but it
required the hand of my artistic friend to make them stand out from the
dark background.

[Side-note: Kraus the Artist.]

In turning over and looking through the rich portfolio of drawings
which the good Kraus had taken during his travels, we had most pleasant
talk together when he came to the sketches of scenes and persons in and
about Weimar. On such paintings I, too, was glad to dwell, and you may
imagine that it must have been flattering to the young man, to see in
so many pictures only the text which was to lead to a circumstantially
repeated exclamation: they would be glad to see _him_ there. With much
grace he would imitate the different persons whose portraits he had
taken and impersonate the greetings and invitations he had received.
One very successful oil-painting represented the musical director,
Wolf, at the piano, with his wife behind him preparing to sing; and
this gave the artist opportunity to assure me in earnest terms, of the
warm welcome this worthy pair would give me. Among his sketches were
several of the wood and mountain scenery around Bürgel. Here an honest
forester, more perhaps to please his pretty daughters than himself,
had by means of bridges, railings, and mossy paths, opened pleasant
and sociable walks through the rough masses of rocks, thickets, and
plantations. In one of these beautiful promenades he had painted
the fair damsels in white dresses, and not without their attendant
cavaliers. In one of these you immediately recognized Bertuch, whose
serious designs upon the oldest daughter were openly avowed; and Kraus
was not offended if you ventured to refer a second youth to himself,
and guessed his growing attachment to the sister.

BERTUCH, as the pupil of Wieland, had so distinguished himself in
science and in business, that already appointed private secretary
of the Duke, he had the best possible prospects before him. From
him we passed to Wieland and talked at length of his rectitude, and
cheerfulness, and kindly disposition; his fine literary and poetical
designs were dwelt upon, and allusions were made to the influence
of the _Merkur_ throughout Germany; many other names of literary,
political, or social distinction were also mentioned, and among them.
Musæus, Kirms, Berendis, and Ludecus. Of women, the wife of Wolf, and
a widow Kotzebue, with a lovely daughter and a bright boy, were, among
many others, characterized and extolled. Everything seemed to point to
a fresh and active life of literature and art.

And so, by degrees, were exhibited all the various elements upon
which the young Duke was, on his return, to work. His mother and
guardian had prepared this state of things, while, as regarded the
introduction of more important measures, all that, in accordance with
the duty of such provisional governments, was left to the judgment and
decision of the future sovereign. The sad ruin caused by the burning
of the palace was already looked upon as furnishing occasion for new
improvements. The mines at Ilmenau, which had stopped working, but
which, it was asserted, might again be made profitable by going to the
great expense of repairing the deep shaft;--the university at Jena,
which was somewhat behind the spirit of the age, and was consequently
threatened with the loss of some of its most able teachers,--and many
other matters, roused a noble common interest. Already were looks cast
around for persons, who, in the upward struggle of Germany, might be
qualified to further such various designs for good, and the prospect
seemed as fresh as the vivacity and energy of youth could desire.
And if it seemed sad to bring a young princess not to a home, of a
suitable princely dignity, but to a very ordinary dwelling built for
quite a different object; still such beautifully situated and well
contrived country-houses as Ettenburg, Belvedere, and other delightful
pleasure-seats, gave enjoyment for the present, and also a hope that
the life of nature thus rendered necessary, might lead to profitable
and agreeable occupations.

In the course of this biography, we have circumstantially exhibited the
child, the boy, the youth, seeking by different ways to approach to
the Suprasensible first, looking with strong inclination to a religion
of nature; then, clinging with love to a positive one; and, finally,
concentrating himself in the trial of his own powers, and joyfully
giving himself up to the general faith. Whilst he wandered to and fro,
space which lay intermediate between the sensible and suprasensible
regions, seeking and looking about him, much came in his way which did
not appear to belong to either, and he seemed to see, more and more
distinctly, that it is better to avoid all thought of the immense and
incomprehensible.

He thought he could detect in nature--both animate and inanimate,
with soul or without soul--something which manifests itself only in
contradictions, and which, therefore, could not be comprehended under
any idea, still less under one word. It was not godlike, for it seemed
unreasonable; not human, for it had no understanding; nor devilish,
for it was beneficent; nor angelic, for it often betrayed a malicious
pleasure. It resembled chance, for it evolved no consequences; it was
like Providence, for it hinted at connexion. All that limits us it
seemed to penetrate; it seemed to sport at will with the necessary
elements of our existence; it contracted time and expanded space. In
the impossible alone did it appear to find pleasure, while it rejected
the possible with contempt.

[Side-note: The Daemonic--Egmont.]

To this principle, which seemed to come in between all other principles
to separate them, and yet to link them together, I gave the name of
Daemonic, after the example of the ancients and of those who, at any
rate, had perceptions of the same kind. I sought to screen myself from
this fearful principle, by taking refuge, according to my usual habits,
in an imaginary creation.

Among the parts of history which I had particularly studied with some
care, were the events which have made the United Netherlands so famous.
I had diligently examined the original sources, and had endeavoured,
as far as possible, to get my facts at first hand, and to bring the
whole period vividly before my mind's eye. The situations it presented
appeared to me to be in the highest degree dramatic, while, for a
principal figure, around whom the others might be grouped with the
happiest effect, there was Count Egmont, whose greatness as a man and a
hero was most captivating.

But for my purpose it was necessary to convert him into a character
marked by such peculiarities as would grace a youth better than a man
in years, and an unmarried man better than the father of a family;
and one independent, rather than one, who, however freely disposed,
nevertheless restrained by the various relations of life.

Having thus, in my conception of Egmont's character, made him youthful,
and set him free from all domestic restraints, I ascribed to him
unlimited enjoyment of life and its pleasures, boundless self-reliance,
a gift of drawing all men to himself, and consequently also of winning
the favor of the people, and which, while it inspired a princess with a
silent, and a young child of nature with an avowed passion, won for him
the sympathy of a shrewd statesman, and even the loving admiration of
the son of his great adversary.

[Side-note: The Daemonic Influence in Life.]

The personal courage which distinguishes the hero is the foundation
upon which his whole character rests, the ground and soil from which
it sprung. He knows no danger, and willingly is blind to the greatest
when it is close at hand. Surrounded by enemies, we may, at any rate,
cut our way through them; the meshes of state policy are harder to
break through. The Daemonic element, which is in play on both sides,
and in conflict with which the lovely falls while the hated triumphs;
and, above all, the prospect that out of this conflict will spring a
third element, which will answer to the wishes of all men this perhaps
is what has gained for the piece (not, indeed, immediately on its first
appearance, but later and at the right time), the favor which it now
enjoys. Here, therefore, for the sake of many beloved readers, I will
anticipate myself, and as I know not whether I shall soon have another
opportunity, will express a conviction which, however, I did not form
till a considerable period subsequent to that of which I am now writing.

Although this Daemonic element can manifest itself in all corporeal
and incorporeal things, and even expresses itself most distinctly in
animals, yet, with man, especially does it stand in a most wonderful
connexion, forming in him a power which, if it be not opposed to the
moral order of the world, nevertheless does often so cross it that one
may be regarded as the warp, and the other as the woof.

For the phenomena which it gives rise to there are innumerable names:
for all philosophies and religions have sought in prose and poetry
to solve this enigma and to read once for all the riddle which,
nevertheless, remains still unriddled by them.

But the most fearful manifestation of the Daemonical, is when it is
seen predominating in some individual character. During my life I have
observed several instances of this, either more closely or remotely.
Such persons are not always the most eminent men, either morally or
intellectually, and it is seldom that they recommend themselves to
our affections by goodness of heart; a tremendous energy seems to be
seated in them, and they exercise a wonderful power over all creatures,
and even over the elements; and, indeed, who shall say how much
farther such influence may extend? All the moral powers combined are
of no avail against them; in vain does the more enlightened portion
of mankind attempt to throw suspicion upon them as deceived if not
deceivers--the mass is still drawn on by them. Seldom if ever do the
great men of an age find their equals among their contemporaries, and
they are to be overcome by nothing but by the universe itself; and it
is from observation of this fact that the strange, but most striking,
proverb must have risen: _Nemo contra Deum nisi Deus ipse._

From these lofty reflections I return to the littleness of my own
life, for which strange events, clothed at least with a daemonical
appearance, were in store. From the summit of Mont Gotthard, I had
turned my back upon Italy, and returned home, because I could not
make up my mind to go to a distance from Lili. An affection, which is
grounded on the hope of possessing for life one dearly beloved, in
an intimate and cordial union, does not die away all at once; on the
contrary, it is nourished by a consideration of the reasonable desires
and honest hopes we are conscious of cherishing.

It lies in the nature of the thing, that in such cases the maiden
should be consoled before the youth. To these beautiful children, as
descendants of Pandora, is granted the enviable gift to charm, attract,
and (more through nature and of half purpose, than through design or of
malice) to gather admirers around them; and thus, like the Magician's
Apprentice, they are often in danger of being frightened by the crowd
of their adorers. And then at last a choice must be made from among
them all; one must be exclusively preferred; one must lead home the
bride.

And how often does accident determine the choice and sway the mind
of her who has to make the selection! I had renounced Lili from
conviction, but love made me suspect my own reason. Lili had taken
leave of me with the same feelings, and I had set out on a beautiful
tour in order to distract my mind, but it had produced the opposite
effect.

As long as I was absent I believed in the separation, but did not
believe in the renunciation. Recollections, hopes and wishes, all had
free play. Now I came back, and as the re-union of those whose happy
love is unopposed, is a heaven so the meeting again of two lovers
who are kept apart by cold calculations of reason, is an intolerable
purgatory, a forecourt of hell. When I again entered the circle in
which Lili still moved, all the dissonances which tended to oppose
our union, seemed to have gained double force; when I stood once more
before her, the conviction that she was lost to me, fell heavy upon my
heart.

Accordingly I resolved at once on flight, and under this impression
there was nothing which I desired more, than that the young ducal
pair of Weimar should come from Carlsruhe to Frankfort, in order
that, complying with old and new imitations, I might follow them to
Weimar. Their Highnesses had always maintained towards me a gracious
and confidential manner, for which I on my part returned the warmest
thanks. My attachment to the Duke from the first moment I saw him;
my respect for the princess whom by reputation I had so long known;
a desire to render personally some friendly service to Wieland,
whose conduct had been so liberal, and to atone upon the spot for my
half-wilful, half-unintentional improprieties, were motives enough
to induce and even to force the assent of a youth, who now had no
attachment to detain him. Moreover, from Lili I must fly, whether to
the South, where my Father's enthusiasm was daily depicting to me a
most glorious heaven of Art and Nature, or to the North, whither so
distinguished a circle of eminent men invited me.

The young princely pair now reached Frankfort on their way home. The
Duke of Meiningen's suite was there at the same time, and by him, as
well as by the Privy Counsellor von Dürkheim, who accompanied the young
prince, I was received in the most friendly manner possible. But now,
to keep up the fashion of my youth, a strange incident was not wanting:
a little misunderstanding arose to throw me into an incredible but
rather laughable perplexity.

[Side-note: A Little Perplexity.]

Their Highnesses of Weimar and Meiningen were living in the same hotel.
I received one day an invitation to dinner. My mind was so preoccupied
with the Court of Weimar, that I did not think it necessary more
particularly to inform myself, especially as I had not the presumption
to imagine that any notice would be taken of me by the Duke of
Meiningen. Accordingly I go full dressed to the "Roman Emperors," and
making my way to the apartments of the Weimar family find them empty;
being informed that the Duke and his suite are with his Highness of
Meiningen, I betake myself thither, and am kindly received. Supposing
that this is only a morning visit, or that perhaps the two Dukes are to
dine together, I await the issue. Suddenly, however, the Weimar suite
sets itself in motion, and I of course follow; but instead of returning
to their own apartments they go straight down stairs and into their
chariots, and I am left alone in the street.

Now, instead of inquiring into the matter, and adroitly and prudently
seeking some solution of it, I, with my usual precipitancy, went
straight home, where I found my parents at supper. My father shook his
head, while my mother made every possible excuse for me. In the evening
she told me in confidence, that after I had left the table, my father
had said, that he wondered very much how I, generally acute enough,
could not see that in that quarter they only wished to make a fool of
me and to laugh at me. But this did not move me: for meanwhile I had
met with Herr von Dürkheim, who in his mild way brought me to book
with sundry graceful and humorous reproaches. I was now awakened from
my dream, and had an opportunity to express my most sincere thanks for
the favor intended me contrary to my hope and expectation, and to ask
forgiveness for my blunder.

After I had on good grounds determined to accept their friendly offers,
the following arrangement was made. A gentleman of the Duke's suite who
had stayed behind in Carlsruhe, to wait for a landau which was building
in Strasburg, was to be by a certain day in Frankfort, and I was to
hold myself in readiness to set off directly with him for Weimar. The
hearty and gracious farewell with which the young sovereigns took their
leave of me, the friendly behaviour of the courtiers, made me look
forward most anxiously to this journey, for which the road seemed so
pleasantly to smoothe itself.

But here, too, accidents came in to complicate so simple an
arrangement, which through my passionate impatience became still more
confused, and was almost quite frustrated. Having announced the day
of my departure, I had taken leave of everybody, and after packing
up in haste my chattels, not forgetting my unprinted manuscripts, I
waited anxiously for the hour which was to bring the aforesaid friend
in the new landau, and to carry me into a new country, and into new
circumstances. The hour passed, and the day also; and I since, to avoid
a second leave-taking and the being overrun with visits, I had given
out that I was to depart early in the morning, I was obliged to keep
close to the house, and to my own room, and had thus placed myself in a
peculiar situation.

But since solitude and a narrow space were always favorable to me,
and I was now compelled to find some employment for these hours, I
set to work on my "Egmont," and brought it almost to a close. I read
over what I wrote to my father who had acquired a peculiar interest
in this piece, and wished nothing more than to see it finished and
in print, since he hoped that it would add to his son's reputation.
He needed something of this sort to keep him quiet, and to make him
contented; for he was inclined to make very grave comments on the
non-arrival of the carriage. He maintained that the whole affair was
a mere fiction, would not believe in any new landau, and pronounced
the gentleman who stayed behind to be a phantom of the air. It was,
however, only indirectly that he gave me to understand all this; but
he only tormented himself and my mother the more openly; insisting
that the whole thing was a mere piece of court pleasantry, which they
had practised upon me in consequence of my former escapades, and in
order to sicken and to shame me, had put upon me a disgraceful mockery
instead of the expected honor.

As to myself, I held fast to my first faith, and congratulated myself
upon these solitary hours, disturbed by neither friends nor strangers,
nor by any sort of social distraction. I therefore wrote on vigorously
at "Egmont," though not without inward mortification. And this frame of
mind perhaps suited well with the piece itself, which, agitated by so
many passions, could not very well have been written by one entirely
passionless.

[Side-note: A Disappointment.]

Thus passed eight days, and I know not how many more, when such perfect
imprisonment began to prove irksome. Accustomed for many years to live
under the open sky, and to enter into society on the most frank and
familiar terms, in the neighbourhood too of one dearly beloved, from
whom indeed I had resolved to part, but from whom, so long as I was
within the circle of her attraction, I found it difficult to absent
myself--all this begun to make me so uneasy, that there was danger
lest the interest of my tragedy should suffer, and my inventive powers
be suspended through my impatience. Already for several evenings
I had found it impossible to remain at home. Disguised in a large
mantle, I crept round the city, passing the houses of my friends and
acquaintances, and not forbearing to walk up to Lili's window. Her
house was a corner one, and the room she usually spent her evenings
in was on the ground floor; the green shades were down, but I could
easily remark that the lights stood in their usual places. Soon I heard
her singing at the piano; it was the song, _Ah! why resistless dost
thou press me?_ which I had written for her hardly a year before. She
seemed to me to sing with more expression than ever; I could make out
every word distinctly; for I had placed my ear as close as the convex
lattice would permit. After she had sung it through, I saw by the
shadow which fell upon the curtain that she got up and walked backwards
and forwards, but I sought in vain to catch the outline of her lovely
person through the thick curtains. Nothing but the firm resolve to tear
myself away, and not to afflict her with my presence, but actually to
renounce her, and the thought of the strange impression which would be
made by my re-appearance, could have determined me to leave so dear a
neighbourhood.

Several more days passed away, and my father's suggestion seemed daily
to become more probable, since not even a letter arrived from Carlsruhe
to explain the reasons of the delay. I was unable to go on with my
poetic labors, and now, in the uneasiness with which I was internally
distracted, my father had the game to himself. He represented to me,
that it was now too late to change matters, that my trunk was packed,
and he would give me money and credit to go to Italy; but I must
decide quickly. In such a weighty affair, I naturally doubted and
hesitated. Finally, however, I agreed that if, by a certain hour,
neither carriage nor message came, I would set off, directing my steps
first of all to Heidelberg and from there over the Alps, not, however,
going through Switzerland again, but rather taking the route through
the Grisons, or the Tyrol.

Strange things indeed must happen, when a planless youth who of himself
is so easily misled, is also driven into a false step by a passionate
error of age. But so it is both with youth and the whole of life. It is
not till the campaign is over that we learn to see through its tactics.
In the ordinary course of things such an accident were easy enough
to be explained; but we are always too ready to conspire with error
against what is naturally probable, just as we shuffle the cards before
we deal them round, in order that chance may not be deprived of its
full share in the game. It is precisely thus that the element arises
in and upon which the Daemonical so loves to work; and it even sports
with us the more fearfully, the clearer are the inklings we have of its
approach.

The last day for my waiting had arrived, and the next morning was fixed
for my setting out on my travels; and now I felt extremely anxious to
see my friend Passavant again, who had just returned from Switzerland,
and who would really have had cause to be offended if, by keeping
my plans entirely to myself I had violated the intimate confidence
which subsisted between us. I therefore sent him an anonymous note,
requesting a meeting by night at a certain spot, where I was the
first to arrive enveloped in my mantle; but he was not long after me,
and if he wondered at the appointment, he must have been still more
surprised to meet the person he did. His joy, however, was equal to the
astonishment; conversation and counsel were not to be thought of, he
could only wish me well through my Italian journey, and so we parted.
The next day I saw myself by good time advancing along the mountain
road.

[Side-note: Heidelberg--Mademoiselle Delf.]

I had several reasons for going to Heidelberg; one was very sensible
and prudent, for I had heard that my missing Weimar friend must
pass through Heidelberg from Carlsruhe; and so, when we reached the
post-house, I left a note which was to be handed to a cavalier who
should pass through in the carriage described; the second reason was
one of passion, and bad reference to my late attachment to Lili. In
short. Mademoiselle Delf, who had been the confidante of our love, and
indeed the mediator with our respective parents for their approval of
our marriage, lived there; and I prized it as the greatest happiness to
be able, before I left Germany, to talk over those happy times with a
worthy, patient, and indulgent friend.

I was well received, and introduced into many families; among others,
the family of the high warden of the forests, Von W------, particularly
pleased me. The parents were dignified and easy in their manners, and
one of the daughters resembled Frederica. It was just the time of
vintage, the weather beautiful, and all my Alsacian feelings revived
in the beautiful valley of the Rhine. At this time, however, my
experience, both of myself and others seemed very strange; it was as
yet quite vague and undigested in my mind, no deliberate judgment upon
life had shaped itself before me, and whatever sense of the infinite
had been awakened within me served only to confuse and perplex me the
more. In society, nevertheless, I was as agreeable and entertaining as
ever, and possibly even still more so. Here, under this free air of
heaven, among joyous men, I sought again the old sports which never
lose their novelty and charm for youth. With an earlier and not yet
extinguished love in my heart, I excited sympathy without seeking it,
even though it sought no utterance of itself, and thus I soon became at
home in this circle, and indeed necessary to it, and I forgot that I
had resolved, after talking away a couple of evenings, to continue my
journey.

Mademoiselle Delf was one of those persons who, without exactly
intriguing, always like to have some business in hand, and to keep
others employed, and to carry through some object or other. She had
conceived a sincere friendship for me; and prevailed the more easily on
me to prolong my visit as I lived in her house, where she suggested all
manner of inducements for my stay, and raised all manner of obstacles
to my journey. When, however, I wanted to turn the conversation to
Lili, she was not so well pleased or so sympathizing as I had hoped.
On the contrary, she said that, under the circumstances, nothing could
be wiser than our resolution to part, and maintained that one must
submit to what is unavoidable, banish the impossible from the mind, and
look around for some new object of interest in life. Full of plans as
she always was, she had not intended to leave this matter to accident,
but had already formed a project for my future conduct, from which I
clearly saw that her recent invitation to Heidelberg had not been so
disinterested as it sounded.

She reminded me that the Electoral Prince, Charles Theodore, who had
done so much for the arts and sciences, resided still at Mannheim, and
that as the court was Roman Catholic while the country was Protestant
the latter party was extremely anxious to strengthen itself by
enlisting the services of able and hopeful men. I must now go, in God's
name, to Italy, and there mature my views of Art; meanwhile they would
work for me. It would, on my return, soon be seen whether the budding
affection of Fraülein von W------ had expanded or had been nipped, and
whether it would be politic, through an alliance with a respectable
family, to establish myself and my fortunes in a new home.

All these suggestions I did not, to be sure, reject; but my planless
nature could not wholly harmonize with the scheming spirit of my
friend; I was gratified, however, with the kind intentions of the
moment, while Lili's image floated before me, waking and dreaming, and
mingled with everything else which afforded me pleasure or distraction.
But now I summoned before my soul the serious import of my great
travelling plan, and I resolved to set myself free, gently and with
propriety, and in a few days to make known to her my determination of
taking leave of her, and to resume my route.

One night Mademoiselle Delf had gone on until late unfolding to me
her plans, and all that certain parties were disposed to do for me,
and I could not but feel grateful for such sentiments, although the
scheme of strengthening a certain circle, through me and my possible
influence at court, was manifest enough. It was about one o'clock when
we separated. I soon fell into a sound sleep, but before very long I
was awakened by the horn of a postilion who was stopping and blowing it
before the house. Very soon Mademoiselle Delf appeared with a light,
and a letter in her hands, and coming up to my bed-side, she exclaimed,
"Here's the letter; read and tell me what it says. Surely it comes from
the Weimar people. If it is an invitation do not follow it, but call
to mind our conversation." I asked her to give me a light and leave me
for a quarter of an hour to myself. She went away very reluctantly.
I remained thinking for some time without opening the letter. The
express then has come from Frankfort, I know both the seal and hand;
the friend then has arrived there; he is still true to his invitation,
and our own want of faith and incredulity had made us act prematurely.
Why could one not wait, in a quiet civilized place, for a man who had
been announced distinctly, but whose arrival might be delayed by so
many accidents? The scales fell from my eyes. All the kindness, the
graciousness, the confidence of the past came up livingly before me,
and I was almost ashamed of the strange wilful step I had taken. I
opened the letter, and found all that had happened explained naturally
enough. My missing guide had waited for the new landau which was to
come from Strasburg, day after day, hour after hour, as we had waited
for him; then for the sake of some business he had gone round by way
of Mannheim to Frankfort, and to his dismay had not found me there. He
sent the hasty letter by express, proposing that now the mistake was
explained I should instantly return, and save him the shame of going to
Weimar without me.

[Side-note: Departure for Weimar.]

Much as my understanding and my feeling inclined me to this side, there
was still no lack of weighty arguments in favour of my new route.
My father had laid out for me a fine plan of travel, and had given
me a little library, which might prepare me for the scenes I was to
visit, and also guide me on the spot. In my leisure hours I had had
no other entertainment than to reflect on it, and, indeed, during my
last short journey I had thought of nothing else in the coach. Those
glorious objects which, from my youth up, I had become acquainted with,
histories and all sorts of tales, gathered before my soul, and nothing
seemed to me so desirable as to visit them, while I was parting from
Lili for ever.

As these thoughts passed through my mind I had dressed myself and was
walking up and down my chamber. My anxious hostess entered. "What am
I to hope?" she cried. "Dearest madam," I answered;" say no more on
the subject; I have made up my mind to return: the grounds of that
conclusion I have well weighed, and to repeat them to you would be
wasting time. A resolution must be taken sooner or later, and who
should take it but the person whom it most concerns?"

I was moved, and so was she; and we had an excited scene, which I cut
short by ordering my servant to engage a post-coach. In vain I begged
my hostess to calm herself, and to turn the mock-departure which I
took of the company the evening before into a real one; to consider
that it was only a temporary visit, a postponement for a short time;
that my Italian journey was not given up, and my return that way was
not precluded. She would listen to nothing, and she disquieted her
friend, already deeply excited, still more. The coach was at the door;
everything was packed, and the postilion gave the usual signs of
impatience; I tore myself away; she would not let me go, and with so
much art brought up all the arguments of the present, that finally,
impassioned and inspired, I shouted out the words of Egmont:

"Child! child! no more! The coursers of time, lashed, as it were, by
invisible spirits, hurry on the light car of our destiny, and all that
we can do is in cool self-possession to hold the reins with a firm
hand, and to guide the wheels, now to the left, now to the right,
avoiding a stone here, or a precipice there. Whither it is hurrying
who can tell? and who, indeed, can remember the point from which it
started?"


END OF THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY.



List of illustrations


List of illustrations

Frontispiece: Johan Wolfgang von Goethe par Eugène Delacroix (Source:
Faust, tragédie de M. de Goethe, traduite en français par M. Albert
Stapfer. C. Motte (Paris) 1828, Gallica Bnf.) Pl. 1

Goethe umgeben von Illustrationen seiner Dramen (Franz Heister, nach
1840, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 2

Goethe und seine Muse. Titelvignette von Lovis Corinth (Frankfurter
Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 3

"Götz von Berlichingen mit der eisernen Hand". Brustbild des Götz von
Lovis Corinth (1920-1921, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 4

.... De temps en temps j'aime à voir le vieux Père, Et je me garde
bien de lui rompre en Misiere... par Eugène Delacroix (Source: Faust,
tragédie de M. de Goethe, traduite en français par M. Albert Stapfer.
C. Motte (Paris) 1828, Gallica Bnf.) Pl. 5

Pauvre crane vide, que me veux tu dire avec ton grincement hideux? par
Eugène Delacroix (Détail. Source: Faust, tragédie de M. de Goethe,
traduite en français par M. Albert Stapfer. C. Motte (Paris) 1828,
Gallica Bnf.) Pl. 6

Iphigenie am Wasser stehend, in nachdenklicher Pose vor dem
Sonnenuntergang. Im Hintergrund der Tempel Dianas auf einem Felsen.
Von Marie Rehsener (1913, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches
Hochstift.) Pl. 7

Vor dem Tempel der Diana links Thoas, ihm gegenüber Iphigenie und
Orest im Begriff sich zu verabschieden. Von Marie Rehsener (1913,
Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 8

Götz von Berlichingen

"Götz von Berlichingen bei den Zigeunern". Von Moritz von Beckerath
(1868, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 9

Die Gefangennahme des jungen Götz. Von Lovis Corinth (1919, Frankfurter
Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 10

Götz und Elisabeth. Von Lovis Corinth (1921, Frankfurter Goethehaus,
Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 11

Götz bei den Hauptleuten. Von Lovis Corinth (1919, Frankfurter
Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 12

Faust

Meph. Pourquoi tout ce vacarme? que demande Monsieur? qu'y a-t-il pour
son service? Par Eugène Delacroix. Pl. 13

Faust. Ma Belle Demoiselle, oseraisje vous offrir mon bras et vous
reconduire chez vous? Par Eugène Delacroix. Pl. 14

Meph. Laisse cet objet, on ne se trouve jamais bien de le regarder ...
tu as bien entendu raconter l'histoire de méduse? Faust. Assurément
ce sont là les yeux d'un mort qu'une main amie n'a point fermés. c'est
là le sein que Marguerite m'a livré, c'est le corps charmant que j'ai
possédé. Par Eugène Delacroix. Pl. 15

(Source: Faust, tragédie de M. de Goethe, traduite en français par
M. Albert Stapfer. C. Motte (Paris) 1828, Gallica Bnf.)

Méphistophélès et Siebel. Sorcellerie! tombez sur lui, le drôle est
condamné. Pl. 16

Faust. O prodige! elle grandit entre mes mains, elle s'enflamme,... Pl. 17

Source: Le Faust de Goethe, traduction revue et complète, précédée d'un essai
sur Goethe par M. Henri Blaze; édition illustrée par M. Tony Johannot,
Dutertre, Paris, 1847.)

Faust und Mephisto im Studierzimmer. Von Gabriel Cornelius von Max
(1880, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 18

Mephisto nach dem Pakt. Von Gabriel Cornelius von Max (1880,
Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 19

Werther

Werther arrive chez Charlotte, et la voit toute entourée d'enfants. Pl. 20

La mort de Werther. Pl. 21

Source: Werther par Goethe; traduction nouvelle, précédée de considérations sur
Werther et en général sur la poésie de notre époque, par Pierre Leroux;
accompagnée d'une préface par George Sand; dix eaux-fortes par Tony
Johannot, J. Hetzel, Paris, 1845.)

Braun der Bär fängt sich in Reinekes Falle. Von Lovis Corinth (1921,
Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 22

Isegrim der Wolf vor König Nobel und der Königin. Von Lovis Corinth
(1921, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 23

Goethe-Bildnis, von Fuchsen gerahmt. Von Lovis Corinth (1921,
Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 24


INDEX
(Not retained for the text file)
Autobiography of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Part 2
